“Did my father say when he would be home?” Brooke interjected as soon as there was a lull in Constanta's enthusiastic grand tour. She noticed out of her peripheral vision that Petre and Serghei were carrying her luggage up the stairs to what she assumed would be her room.
“Shouldn't be too much longer. He called around an hour ago saying he had to take a last-minute conference call, and that it shouldn't take long.” She started to walk toward the stairs. “Come, I'll show you your room.”
Brooke followed Constanta up the stairs, and down the hall to a guest room. The men had just deposited her luggage, and were leaving the room as they walked in. It was a beautiful room with a queen-sized four-poster bed in a dark cherry wood with white linens. She couldn't wait to burrow down under the thick down comforter. Wide windows made up nearly an entire wall with gauzy white curtains and adjustable blinds.
“Now then, you must be starved and tired after traveling. Would you like for me to make you a sandwich?”
As if on cue, Brooke's stomach growled in protest of its emptiness. She had been too nervous during the flight to think about food. “Yes, please,” she nodded politely.
Holy cheese and rice...The kitchen in this house was something out of Martha Stewart Living. Granite counter tops lined practically every wall in the room, with a huge island in the middle and cream-colored cabinets. Her father could have dinner for a hundred people prepared in here with no problem.
She sat down at the island while Constanta pulled several items from the refrigerator, and got to work preparing a snack. A moment later, she placed a plate with a turkey sandwich in front of her, and a frosty can of Pepsi. Ah, her father remembered. She cracked open the can and took a long drink of the cold, sweet cola.
A few bites into her sandwich, she heard the front door open. “Brooke?” Her father's deep, baritone voice echoed through the house.
“In here,” she called back.
Her father, Richard Kennedy, rounded the corner into the kitchen with a wide smile plastered across his aging face. He looked a little different since the last time she'd seen him; older, his hair had thinned and was grayer than before, he wore his facial hair trimmed into a neat goatee, and he looked thinner.
With his arms outstretched, he barreled toward her. “You're finally here, Button!” She didn't realize how much she had missed hearing her nickname. Her grandfather started calling her that as a baby, and her father picked it up as well.
Brooke stepped into her father's embrace and hugged him tightly in return. “Yeah, Dad, I'm here.”
He pulled away, keeping his hands on her upper arms. “How was your flight? I hate that you got stuck at Heathrow for so long.”
She gave a noncommittal shrug. “It wasn't so bad; I got to study for a while.” The truth was, it was one of the worst experiences of her life. She'd rather take the MCAT ten more times than deal with a transatlantic flight.
Her father studied her for a moment, his eyes passing over her in that annoying critiquing way he favored. “You've gotten thinner. Have you been eating?”
Brooke fought the urge to roll her eyes at him. Of course, she ate; she ate plenty. Her tiny frame and high metabolism were to blame for her willowy build. Even at five-foot-seven, her weight never went over one-thirty.
“Yes, Dad, I've been eating. Just been busy this year, that’s all.”
He nodded his head, seemingly placated by her answer. “Well, I'm sure you're tired, so I won't keep you up any longer to catch up. Go get some sleep, and I'll see you tomorrow.” He took her small face in his hands, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I've missed you so much, Button.”
Brooke smiled. “I've missed you too, Dad.”
CHAPTER TWO
Dorin hated being back in Romania, and he especially hated Bucharest. Whether this was his birthplace or not made no difference. It brought back too many shitty memories. Twenty-five years was a long time, but too much still looked the same. He'd been back here dozens of times, and it was a kick to the balls every time.
Of course, when you were born in Romania, and Romanian was your first language, the Agency felt it appropriate to send you back for ops in this damn corner of the globe on a regular basis.
After being plucked from these very streets at seven years old, Dorin was shipped across the ocean to the United States, where he was placed in a foster family. Of course, having a roof over his head, food on the table, and people who took care of him came with a price. Little did he know at the time, his salvation would be repaid by serving the very country that saved his life. Not that it was entirely a bad thing, his time in the Marines had pretty fucking awesome, and he’d managed to earn a college degree around three overseas tours to Iraq and Afghanistan. Then the CIA sank their greedy claws into him, as they had been planning since Miles spotted him as a ratty street kid. It turned out, his ‘parents’ had been married retired field agents, and their assignment was to raise a spy.
Even through all of that, though, he still respected the hell out of his recruiter, Miles Jones. Whether that was even his real name was anyone's guess, but Dorin liked him. He’d kept tabs on Dorin while he was growing up, going through high school, the Marines, college, and helped him with the transition into the CIA. Some of his best memories when he was younger were of Miles picking him up on Saturday afternoons for burgers and ice cream. He was like a grandfather to Dorin, and he missed the hell out of him. Looking back now, it was obvious just how much the old man truly loved him. Hearing that Miles had dropped dead of a sudden heart attack last year was one of the worst days of his life.
But here, in Romania, none of that mattered. Here, he was Alexandru Cuza, and he had a job to do.
He could smell the cigar smoke before he even reached the door of the club, and his mouth watered for his next taste of nicotine. Christ, he really needed to quit smoking. Which reminded him—he patted the pocket of his suit jacket—yep, his cigarettes were there.
He walked in, the melodic sound of the female singer over the sound system floating through the smoky air. The place didn't look like much on the outside, and that was the point. The unmarked doors and blacked-out windows held a lavish gentleman's club. It wasn't too busy this time of day; most of the clientele that frequented the establishment were busy pretending to lead law-abiding lives.
And, as usual, his Intel from Tanner was right. Anton Vasile, his mark, sat in the back with his entourage. At least, he’d pinpointed the source of the cigar smoke. The smug sonofabitch sitting among his crew was one of the most ruthless and depraved traffickers in Europe. And nothing would give Dorin greater pleasure than taking the bastard down.
Showtime. He adjusted his suit jacket and strode to the back of the bar.
As he approached the table, Anton stood up. “Ah, you must be Mr. Cuza.”
Two of Anton's guards rose from the table, surrounded him, and began to pat him down without even an explanation. Ah, of course, they were looking for weapons.
“Here.” Dorin pulled his SIG from the back waistband of his pants. “I'll save you the trouble.” He pulled out the magazine and handed both to the guard. “And I'd better get that back, it's my favorite.”
Dorin shook Anton's hand, and he fought the urge to vomit and run for the hand sanitizer. “I’m glad our mutual friend told you I was coming.”
Anton started to sit back down at his table. “Please, have a seat.”
Dorin sat down across the table from him, and on cue, a lingerie-clad waitress appeared with a tray.
“You should try the plum brandy here, it's house-made.” Anton gestured toward the pretty waitress.
With a smile, Dorin nodded his head, and the waitress placed a small brandy snifter in front of him. He took a whiff of the strong, and probably sickeningly sweet, brandy. Okay, it didn't smell too bad. He took a drink; his apprehensions were correct. Fucking nasty. Now he remembered why he hated brandy. He could tell he’d spent most of his life in the U.S. because he was sure craving a Bud Light ri
ght about now. People could say what they wanted, the Americans nailed beer.
He suffered through another long drink out of courtesy.
“So, Cezar didn't go into much detail about what it is you do; only that it was in my best interest to meet you.”
Dorin sat his glass down, pulled his cigarettes out, and lit one. “I serve a very exclusive group of clients. I guess the best way to put it is that I'm a personal shopper. Many of my clients can't risk being seen shopping for their merchandise, so they tell me what they want, and I find it. They're happy to pay me a handsome fee for my discretion.”
Anton took a drag from his cigar, studying Dorin for a moment. “And are you out shopping right now?”
Dorin nodded as he exhaled. “I have a client lined up. I told him I'd be taking a shopping trip soon. I arrange for transport of the purchases myself, so you don't have to worry about that. I've heard you have the best selection in Europe; I've wanted to do business with you for some time now.”
“Well then, I'm flattered.” Anton took a drink from his brandy. “We're having an auction right here in this very club two nights from now. Friday. Be here by nine in the evening and hopefully you can find some product that you like.”
He fought a shudder. The ‘product’ Anton was so callously referring to was women. Girls. Sex slaves. Poor innocent young women kidnapped and sold to sadists who got off on abusing them.
Dorin was a product of this world. It was how his mother got pregnant with him. Even though she’d escaped, it ended up destroying her. He'd made it his personal mission in life to catch or kill as many of those fuckers as possible. He hoped his efforts prevented even a small handful of children from having to suffer the consequences of this world.
He lifted his brandy glass. “I look forward to it.”
Anton toasted Dorin's glass.
CHAPTER THREE
Brooke managed to dodge the jet lag bullet. Maybe it was because the bed rivaled a five-star hotel. She woke up to the warm, early April sun streaming in through the partially opened blinds and stretched. It took a moment to shake the disorienting feeling of waking up in an unfamiliar place. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and glanced at the clock on her cell phone. It had updated to the current time, and she was surprised to find that she had slept in until nine.
She got out of bed, threw on her blue waffle-knit robe over her pajamas, and trudged downstairs. Hopefully Constanta had already made coffee.
She could hear someone moving around in the kitchen, and pushed the swinging door in to enter. Constanta stood at the sink loading the dishwasher. She turned when she heard Brooke come in.
“Good morning, Miss Kennedy!” She greeted her cheerfully. How this woman was so cheerful in the morning was mind-boggling.
“Good morning. Is my dad here?” She rubbed her sleepy eyes again.
“No, dragă, he had to go in to work for a few hours. He said he plans to be home around lunchtime.” She dried her hands on a kitchen towel, and draped it over her shoulder. “Would you like coffee or some pancakes? Your father said you love them.”
Asking Brooke if she wanted pancakes was like asking the Pope if he was Catholic. Her mouth watered at the thought of maple syrup. Constanta was officially her favorite person now.
“Yes, I would love both, actually.” She stepped closer to the island, and accepted a steaming mug of black coffee. “Thank you,” she took a sip. Holy crap, it was perfect. “And please, call me Brooke.”
With a full stomach and sufficient caffeine, Brooke headed back upstairs for a shower. Her hair was in desperate need of a wash, and the circulating air on the planes wreaked havoc on her skin. After her shower, she slathered on as much moisturizer as humanly possible, and made quick work of covering the threatening blemishes from the dry airplane air.
After spending years living her life at a dead run, Brooke wasn't sure how to handle having downtime. She could afford to keep the textbooks packed away for a couple of days, and just relax, but she couldn't shut her brain off long enough to kick back and watch TV. Not that she could understand what was on anyway. So helping Constanta around the house was the next best thing. She finally convinced her after an hour of pleading to give her a dust rag and a list of chores. Her father would probably be pissed, but at least she had something to do.
By lunchtime, she had finished her tasks, and helped Constanta prepare lunch. They agreed that her house help was their little secret. Constanta was probably the sweetest person Brooke had ever met. The lack of a language barrier allowed them to chat the entire morning, talking about med school, her mother and stepfather, and Constanta's late husband and her five children. God bless, that was a lot of kids.
Just as they finished preparing the salad with grilled chicken, Brooke's father returned home. However, something was off; he looked tired, pale, worried. She hoped he wasn't getting sick.
“Dad, are you okay?” Brooke asked as she shoved a mouthful of salad in her mouth.
“Of course I am, Button. Just a little stressed from work.” He took a bite of his salad. “I have some phone calls to make for work, but we'll go out to dinner tonight. There's a great restaurant a few blocks from here with menus in English.”
Brooke couldn't stay away from the books; it was almost a compulsion. She was in the TV room studying when her father poked his head in, letting her know that they were leaving for dinner in an hour.
She changed into a kelly green cashmere sweater, jeans, and brown riding boots, and pulled her long hair into a messy bun on the top of her head. A quick touch-up of her makeup and she was ready long before the hour was up.
The restaurant wasn't very busy, and they were seated immediately. Petre and Serghei accompanied them inside, and placed themselves discreetly elsewhere in the room. She realized that they were more than her father’s drivers—they were also his protective detail. Her father now spoke fluent Romanian, and she assumed that he had told the hostess to give them menus in English. It was a nice restaurant; dim lighting and soft music gave a soothing, but classy ambiance. Brooke almost felt under dressed.
“The wine here is wonderful, Romania is a hidden gem of the wine world,” her father explained as he accepted a wine list from their server. “You drink white wine, right?”
Brooke shook her head. “No, Dad, I drink red. Sweet red.”
“Oh, right.” He smiled. “Sorry.” He placed their drink order.
Her suspicions that something wasn't right hadn't gone away. Her father hadn't looked her in the eye all day, and his attempts at making small talk were even more awkward. He fidgeted at the table, and she swore she saw his forehead beaded with sweat, even with the cooler temperature outside and inside the restaurant.
“Dad, are you sure you're okay? You've seemed odd all day.”
“Yes, Brooke. I told you, I'm fine. Just work stuff is all,” he replied with a slight trace of irritation in his voice.
Brooke, not Button. Something was definitely wrong. “Nothing you can talk to me about?”
“No, nothing I can talk about.” He sat his menu down. “So tell me, how's school going?”
She took a sip of her water. “Fine, this year has been pretty rough, but I'm over halfway done.”
“How much longer do you have in this year?”
Brooke mentally calculated where she was in the year. “About twenty more weeks. I started my clerkship this year, and that's what's wearing me out.”
Her father smiled. “And just think, you only have one more year. Then you'll be Brooke Kennedy, M.D.” He shifted in his seat, smoothing his tie nervously. “Have you thought about what your specialty will be?”
Brooke nodded. “I have it narrowed down to Pediatrics or OB/GYN. But, I—” She was distracted by a clattering noise near the table, and looked up to see the server struggle to regain his grip on the tray without spilling the drinks. Someone had bumped into the server, murmuring what she assumed was an apology in Romanian as he walked away. It was a big guy, dressed in jeans a
nd a casual sport coat. It was a miracle he hadn’t knocked the young, thin server over.
“Nice save.” Brooke smiled at the server as he placed her glass of wine in front of her.
The server returned her smile. “Sorry, there's not much room to move around in here.” He replied in heavily accented English as he placed her father's tumbler of scotch in front of him.
She took a sip of her wine. Mmmm... smooth, sweet with a little tang. Not bitter at all.
“How's your mom?” He asked after taking a long drink from his scotch. Brooke thought she heard his voice shake.
With a raised eyebrow, Brooke took another sip of her wine. “She's fine, she and Steven just got back from Hawaii.”
“Steven still treating her well?” She would give credit where credit was due, even though her parents had divorced years ago, her father still cared deeply for her mother.
“Of course he is.” Her mother wouldn't accept anything less. “Steven just made partner at his law firm, so—” A sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. “—they went to Maui to celebrate.” She exhaled a long breath, shaking her head to clear the fuzzy feeling.
“Button? Are you all right?” She could hear her father talking to her, but it sounded muted, muffled. “You look a little flushed.”
Was she all right? She sure didn't feel all right. She felt sick, hot, and lightheaded. Maybe her blood sugar was dropping.
She pushed herself up from the table. “I'll be right back, I'm going to the ladies' room.” Maybe getting up, moving around, and splashing cold water on her face would help.
“Do you need me to walk you?” Her father started to stand.
Brooke waved a hand in dismissal. “No, Dad. I'm fine. Just a little dizzy is all.”
She staggered toward the hallway marked “Restrooms” in both Romanian and English. It was a long hallway with an exit at the end. She looked for a door with the universal sign for the ladies' room. As she got closer, the door swung open, and a man filled the narrow hallway in front of her. She stared up at him, blinking to clear her vision. The same man who bumped into the server just a moment ago stood there, but why was he in the ladies' room?
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