Dangerous Illusions (Code of Honor Book #1)

by Irene Hannon

  Because Mac was right.

  If all went well over the next few days, he didn’t intend to spend next Saturday evening alone.

  “I have a new piece of information that may prove useful.”

  Dmitri waved off a tall blonde approaching him with a drink in her hand and turned his back on the tiresome cocktail party, cell against his ear as he spoke to Oleg. “Tell me.”

  “There is a woman in the picture.”

  “In addition to the dead one? The manicurist?”

  “This one is very much alive. She and Parker met for coffee earlier today.”

  “You have done some research?”

  “Yes.”

  Dmitri wove through the Friday evening crowd toward the bar, signaling to the bartender for a refill of his vodka as he listened without interrupting until Oleg finished briefing him.

  “So she is a client.”

  “Perhaps more, based on their affectionate parting.”

  “Dig deeper.” Already the gears were spinning in his brain, searching for a way to turn this new information into a tactical advantage.

  “As you wish.”

  “Do you have the people you need for the next step we discussed in our last conversation?”

  “They are arriving. We will be ready to proceed by Sunday.”

  “It will be instructive to see his reaction.”

  “Da. Especially if we find what we expect.”

  “I will look forward to hearing your next report.”

  He ended the call and slipped the cell into the pocket of his suit jacket, scanning the noisy crowd with disinterest. Putting in an appearance at these sorts of parties might be necessary to court influentials, but events like this were a total bore.

  His gaze settled on the tall blonde, who continued to eye him. Or stalk might be a better word. He was known to be a generous . . . friend.

  Swirling the clear liquid in his glass, he considered her. Why not take advantage of her less-than-subtle interest? Elizaveta wouldn’t miss him at home. The passion had long ago evaporated from their marriage. She had her life; he had his.

  And tonight he was in the mood to be entertained.

  He smiled at the blonde and lifted his glass slightly toward her.

  Half a second later, she was weaving through the throng in his direction . . . as he’d expected.

  Perhaps this Friday night would be pleasurable after all. The unfinished business of the day could wait until tomorrow.

  Besides, now that they were closing in on Parker, he had much to celebrate—and how better to do that than with a beautiful woman?

  Michael Parker would understand that sentiment—though he had chosen his playmate unwisely.

  And if the man living in Matthew Parker’s house was his brother, he would pay for that mistake.

  Very soon.

  24

  Michael flipped on his blinker as he approached the gravel driveway that led to Matt’s house, yanking off the tie he’d loosened as soon as he’d left church. What a waste that boring hour and a half had been—as usual.

  But until he had the money from Trish’s foundation, he couldn’t raise any red flags. To the eyes of the world, he was Matt—and he needed to keep up the pretense for now.

  Even if not everyone was buying his story 100 percent.

  He scanned the empty road behind him for the tail that had never been far behind since Oleg and his goon had visited.

  Why wasn’t the Kia there today?

  Was Dmitri’s lieutenant finally convinced he was Matt?

  As he rolled up the drive, tires crunching on the loose rock, he rotated the kinks out of his shoulders. Getting the Russian Mafia off his back would be a huge relief—but even if they were gone, he was bowing out of here tomorrow. The instant he confirmed the checks he’d overnighted yesterday were deposited at Providence House Ministries, he’d funnel the funds to the secondary pseudo charity accounts, and from there transfer them offshore with a few keystrokes. Then, new ID in hand, he’d disappear to Mexico until he could make some discreet travel arrangements to the new home he’d establish in the Cayman Islands or Panama.

  All he had to do was hang in for another eighteen hours and—

  He jammed the brake to the floor, uttering a profanity as the car skidded on the loose gravel.

  Oleg’s Cadillac was parked near the detached garage, along with a Suburban and the Kia.

  His stomach knotted.

  No one from the Mafia had been following him because they were all here.

  Why?

  And how many thugs were waiting on his doorstep?

  He sat unmoving for a full minute, fingers gripping the wheel, every instinct in his body screaming Run!

  But he couldn’t do that.

  The papers he needed for his new identity were stashed in the house. His computer was inside too. Not that there was much chance Dmitri’s people would be able to get into his hack-proof, encrypted documents . . . but why take the risk?

  Plus, running away would undermine all the groundwork he’d laid to convince them he was Matt.

  Only guilty people ran.

  He sucked in a lungful of air as the left side of his brain began to hum. He needed to do what his brother would do in this situation—act outraged by the continued invasion of his privacy . . . and hope Oleg bought the act rather than resort to the kinds of interrogation techniques he was rumored to use.

  Psyching himself up for the encounter and tamping down his fear as best he could, he continued toward the house.

  Rather than pull into the garage, he stopped beside the Cadillac, set the brake, and slid out of the car.

  The engine on the luxury car was idling, but the dark windows hid the occupants.

  Was it possible Dmitri himself might have come to call?

  No.

  Dealing directly with a potential traitor would be beneath him. That dirty work was delegated to underlings.

  It was Oleg.

  Seconds later, his conclusion was confirmed. The familiar bodyguard slid out from behind the wheel, stood, and grasped the handle on the back door. After a quick sweep of the surroundings, he swung it open.

  Oleg stepped out. Today the man was dressed in more casual—but no less expensive—attire. Dolce & Gabbana jeans, Gucci loafers, Armani shirt. Some of the brands he himself had favored in his more flush days.

  Why had Oleg ditched his customary suit and tie?

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Parker. I trust your trip to church was edifying?”

  So someone had been watching him after all.

  Matt, however, would be taken aback to discover he’d been tailed.

  “How do you know where I was?”

  “We have eyes everywhere.”

  Michael lifted his chin and pretended to bristle. “Why are you harassing me? And who are all these people?” He swept a hand over the other two empty vehicles.

  “They are . . . associates.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Exploring your property. They like the outdoors, and you have a very secluded place here.”

  Oleg’s men were traipsing around Matt’s land?

  That was bad news.

  The graves were well disguised, but he’d expected Mother Nature to apply the finishing touches of camouflage long before anyone might think to search for them. It was possible there were markers, if someone was searching for them.

  “This is trespassing.”

  “Yes, it is. Perhaps you would like to call the police?”

  Checkmate.

  And Oleg knew it, based on his smug expression.

  But he needed to keep up the indignant charade.

  “If you leave, I won’t have to resort to that and create problems for you.”

  “I do not think it is our problems that concern you.”

  Had they already found something—or was the man bluffing? Was Oleg hoping he’d crack and save them the effort of further searching?

  Not going to happen.
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br />   He straightened up, maintaining his irate demeanor. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ll give you fifteen minutes to vacate my property.”

  Without waiting for the man to respond, he spun on his heel and stalked to the door.

  Once inside, however, his angry façade evaporated and he slumped against the wall.

  Oleg wasn’t going to leave.

  The idle threat he’d issued to the Russian had been no more than an exit line, and the man no doubt knew that.

  He didn’t want the police invading his property any more than he wanted Oleg’s goons poking around.

  But maybe, if he was lucky, the Russians scouring his property wouldn’t find anything.

  Yet as Michael pushed off from the wall and raked shaky fingers through his hair, he doubted that was how this was going to play out.

  Luck wasn’t in his corner these days.

  All he could do was be prepared with a credible story if Oleg knocked on his door with news of a grisly discovery.

  Painting scenery was not his forte.

  Nor was it how he wanted to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon better suited to a brisk run or a long swim or a game of one-on-one basketball.

  Sighing, Colin dipped his brush back into the can of gray paint. He shouldn’t have let Rick guilt him into volunteering yesterday at breakfast.

  But with Kristin’s show three weeks away, half the scenery crew on vacation, and nothing urgent on his Sunday afternoon schedule, how could he say no?

  He aimed a disgusted look at his so-called buddy, who was instructing another new recruit on the fine points of adding texture to a tree trunk.

  As if sensing his scrutiny, Rick glanced toward him, said a few more words to the hapless volunteer who seemed as lost as Colin felt, and walked across the church hall to join him. “How’s it going?”

  “How do you think it’s going?” Colin gave the simulated stones he was painting on the castle wall a disgusted perusal. “This is not my shtick.”

  “Yeah. I can see that.” Rick withdrew a few paces to examine the expanse. “But from the audience, it’ll read as stone. Sort of. If they use their imagination.”

  “Why don’t you let me work on that plain wall instead?” He waved toward a guy who was slapping a coat of yellow paint on a large flat.

  “He’s less talented than you are at this kind of stuff.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Very possible. Remember that weeping willow on the backdrop last year?”

  “You mean the weird-shaped tree that would have been better suited to a horror movie? Yeah.”

  “He painted it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Stick with the stone wall, okay?”

  “I’m not making any promises. You may have to have someone touch it . . .” His phone began to vibrate, and he pulled it off his belt. Trish. “I need to take this.”

  “Go for it. You’re not on the clock here.” Rick moved on to assess the progress of another piece of scenery.

  “Hi.” Colin set his brush down and angled away from the assembled group. “What’s up?”

  “I heard from Phoenix. Cal says Parker has visitors again. Three carloads full.”

  Colin frowned. Not the kind of news he wanted to hear.

  “Can he see what’s going on?”

  “No. He did call in reinforcements, and they’re moving in as close as they can get on public land. But there are quite a few people there, and they’ve spread out over Matt’s place, which is heavily wooded.”

  Doing the same thing he and Mac wanted to do, he suspected.

  Combing the property for bodies.

  Not only was the Russian Mafia on a parallel track with County, they were one step ahead—because they didn’t have to wait for a warrant.

  Best case, tomorrow afternoon was the earliest he’d get legal access to the land.

  He blew out a frustrated breath. “Let me know if Cal calls back with anything else.”

  “I will.”

  After confirming over his shoulder that no one was close, he lowered his voice. “Listen . . . assuming this case wraps up in the next few days, I was wondering if you might like to have dinner with me next Saturday.”

  “Yes.”

  At her instant assent, one side of his mouth quirked up. “I like a decisive woman.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He grinned. Getting to know Trish Bailey was going to be a lot of fun.

  “Why don’t I come by for you at six? And dress up. We’re going to launch this new chapter together in style.” Some banging started up behind him, and he cupped his hand around the phone. “Sorry about that.”

  “You sound like you’re in a construction zone.”

  “Close. I got roped into helping with the sets for Kristin’s show.”

  “If Kristin and I hit it off tomorrow, maybe I’ll pitch in too.”

  “She’ll be your friend forever if you do. In the meantime, I’ll be counting the days until Saturday.” The banging got louder. “That’s my cue to hang up. Keep me in the loop with Phoenix.”

  “Will do. Have fun with the sets.”

  “Right.” Still smiling, he pocketed the phone and pivoted back toward the room.

  Rick was standing six feet away.

  “Why are you anxious for Saturday to get here?”

  “Were you eavesdropping?”

  “Nope. I came over to help with the castle”—he waved a paintbrush at the flat—“and found you’d abandoned your post. That was Trish, wasn’t it?”

  “Let’s paint.” Colin brushed past him.

  “Now you want to paint.” Rick trailed behind him. “Must mean that was her. You finally set up a date?”

  “You know I don’t mix work and play.”

  “The work will end one of these days.” He dipped his brush into a can of paint. “If I know you . . . and I do . . . you made a date for Saturday. Where are you taking her?”

  Colin kept painting.

  “First dates are important.” Rick stroked some paint on the backdrop, continuing as if he hadn’t noticed his friend’s lack of response. “Dinner is always appropriate—but pick an upscale place. Not over the top, but impressive. Quiet is also a must. You want to be able to talk to each other without raising your voices.”

  “Since when have you become an expert on how to woo a woman?” Colin slapped on a streak of dark gray to simulate a weathered stone. Or so the theory went.

  “Hey. I’ve been to my share of chick flicks. And when do I get to meet her? Kristin said the two of them are having dinner Monday. Do I have to ask her out for a meal myself to get an introduction?”

  Colin gave him a narrow-eyed glower. No way did he want Rick anywhere near Trish until he had at least a first date under his belt. His buddy had the looks to turn a woman’s head—and he was too available.

  “I’ll invite her to one of our Saturday breakfasts soon.”

  “You mean after you’ve staked your claim.”

  “This isn’t the gold rush.”

  “A good woman is worth her weight in gold.” Rick dipped his brush in a can of paint. “But women can also mess with a man’s head.”

  “She’s not messing with my head. She’s messing with my heart. But whatever happens between us, you and Kristin will always be family.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Rick kept painting. “I’ll email you a few restaurant suggestions for that date you made.”

  “Thanks.” Might as well ditch the evasion tactics. His friends already knew Trish had gotten under his skin, that he was determined to get to know her better.

  And if all went as he expected, come Saturday night he’d make that official.

  The fifteen-minute warning he’d given Oleg had expired an hour ago.

  Yet the man was still here—along with his minions.

  Michael eased the front blinds a scant half inch further from the window and inspected the front yard. No sign of anyone from the other vehicles. Oleg
was ensconced in the air-conditioned comfort of the Cadillac while his bodyguard stood watch by the door, arms folded, feet planted wide.

  He let the blinds drop and moved to the sliding glass doors in the kitchen that offered a panoramic view of the backyard and surrounding woods.

  Again, no sign of anyone.

  But Oleg’s men were out there, combing through the woods. And if they were thorough . . . if they poked into every corner and examined every area that showed any sign of disturbance . . . they were going to . . .

  A sharp rap sounded on the front door, and Michael’s pulse lost its rhythm.

  Stay calm. The story you cobbled together over the past hour is ready. You can pull this off.

  He forced his stiff legs to carry him toward the summons, trying not to hyperventilate as he grasped the knob and twisted it.

  Oleg stood on the other side.

  “I told you to leave.” The knob was slippery beneath his sweaty palm.

  “And I told you to call the police. But you did not do that. Now I understand why. One of my men has made an interesting find. Shall we take a walk to see it . . . or is that necessary?”

  Michael’s gut clenched.

  Was the man bluffing? Hoping the mere suggestion of a discovery would elicit a confession?

  Or had they actually found a body?

  No way to know.

  Keep playing dumb, Parker.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Oleg gave him the kind of chiding look usually reserved for small, misbehaving children. “Must this game continue?”

  Yes . . . it must. He had to make certain they weren’t trying to fake him out—even if walking into a dense, isolated woodland with Russian Mafia members all around wasn’t how he’d expected to spend this Sunday afternoon.

  Instead of responding, he exited the house, locked the door behind him, and waited.

  “So . . . you insist on this hike?”

  Again, he remained silent.

  “Very well.” Oleg brushed an imaginary speck off his slacks. “Clothes are replaceable—and worth the sacrifice for a just cause.” He signaled to his bodyguard, who fell in behind them as Oleg led the way around the house.

  At the edge of the woods, across the overgrown backyard, another burly man with aloof eyes waited.