by Donna Young
“Understood. I will personally guarantee your privacy,” Bernard promised. “May I inform Mr. Davidenko of your arrival? He likes to know about his more…significant guests.”
“By all means,” Lara answered appreciatively.
“One last favor.” Ian set his leather briefcase on the counter. “I have something for your hotel safe. If you have the space.”
Bernard laughed. “Oh, we have space, Mr. MacAlister. We have plenty of space.”
WITH PATIENCE CAME POWER. And Mikhail Davidenko was a very patient man.
He leaned back in his leather chair, observed the bank of monitors and considered the events of the last forty-eight hours.
The missing Katts Smeart, the munitions and million dollars were obvious losses, but none he couldn’t recoup. Even if the Katts Smeart hit the population, the demonstration of its potential power would boost the agent’s market price.
And when Anton replaced the military cache and money, Mikhail’s loss would be minimal.
No, there were other concerns. The first, retrieving the missing Katts Smeart files.
And of course, Anton’s failure. Disappointing after twenty-five years.
And now, according to his hotel manager, Ian MacAlister and Lara Mercer had shown up at his doorstep—on a whim.
The first two might be a coincidence. But the last?
Mikhail had never dealt personally with the MacAlisters—had known about Quentin and his wife, Christel, by reputation only. Same with Vice President Jonathon Mercer.
Mikhail harbored no illusion as to why.
The MacAlisters and Mercers were formidable apart. But together they were impenetrable.
His business worked better with those he could manipulate through vices—preferably drugs, sex, greed or revenge. Neither they, nor their offspring, weakened to vices. They harbored no skeletons. They stood by their principles, held no patience with compromises—political or otherwise. And had a tight, influential circle of associates and friends to back them up.
Until today. When a whim placed two members within his reach. Mikhail let out a small, derisive laugh. Not likely.
On the monitors, he could see the couple being escorted into their room. Their arms looped around each other, the familiarity of Ian’s hand on the woman’s back, the smile of adoration from her—all reinforced an appearance of intimacy, maybe even love.
Mikhail never based any opinion on appearance alone.
A lesson he’d learned years ago.
In his youth, Mikhail had observed his father, a Russian Mafia leader, during a weekly poker game. The elder Davidenko was passionate about the game.
On this particular night, his father had folded, conceded the hand—and the large pot of money—to his top enforcer, Marco.
Smiling, Marco raked in his winnings, but not before he boasted to his Mafia boss that he’d bluffed him with a seven-four off suit.
Mikhail’s father laughed, then slapped Marco good-naturedly on the back. After all, the two men had been comrades for over ten years.
Moments later, Mikhail’s father had pulled out his pistol, stuck the barrel in Marco’s gut and pulled the trigger.
The enforcer fell to the floor, dead.
Later, when Mikhail asked his father why he killed the man, his father smiled and said, “The poker table is business—not games. You want a man’s secrets? Play poker with him.”
“And Marco?” Mikhail had asked.
“He lied too well.”
It was a lesson Mikhail had never forgotten.
Suddenly, his private line buzzed, forcing his thoughts back to the present. “Yes, what is it, Joseph?”
“I have the information on this morning’s mishap, Mr. Davidenko.”
“You mean the camera system,” Mikhail affirmed, mentally adding the glitch to his list.
Joseph entered the office and closed the door. He approached Davidenko’s desk. “An outside source interfered with the camera link.”
“Have you found this source?”
“No. But we will. It’s just a matter of time,” Joseph answered. “The device used had to be sophisticated enough to bypass our security traps. Only an expert on securities could’ve pulled it off, Mr. Davidenko.”
“I agree. Our system is too advanced for an amateur.” Davidenko folded his hands, then tapped his lips with his finger. He glanced at the couple on the monitor. It was a well-known fact that Cain, the oldest MacAlister brother, ran an international security company and had developed most of the government’s security programs. Another coincidence?
Mikhail rose from his chair. “Joseph, I need you to arrange an extra seat at the poker table tomorrow.” Mikhail walked over to the five-hundred-gallon fish tank. Gently he tapped the glass, amused when his beauties scattered. Some hid in an assortment of plants, while most darted behind various pieces of driftwood and rocks strewn on the bottom. “I want to invite a very important guest.” With a turn of a knob, he dimmed the tank’s light. Several came out of hiding, their red bellies sleek, almost incandescent.
“Yes, sir.” But the surprise was there, deep in the gray eyes. Ever since Anton had become Davidenko’s man, he’d arranged the weekly poker nights.
The man had been Mikhail’s enforcer too long to question his orders. Mikhail reached under the counter and brought out a container of raw meat. He picked out a piece, feeling the stickiness of its still-fresh blood, catching the thick metallic scent of death in the air. “Did Alexei dispose of Miss Franco’s remains?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
“Is that all, Mr. Davidenko?”
During his service, Joseph had declined several offers to become more involved in Davidenko’s many interests, claimed he enjoyed his position and had no desire to change it.
Mikhail smiled, but his eyes remained on the piranha. “No, I need you to do me one more favor.”
Joseph simply stood and waited. Mikhail stirred the water with practiced ease, getting his pets’ attention. Methodically he dropped in the chunks of flesh and meat.
“I want you to keep a personal eye on Anton for the next few days. Without his knowing, of course. Alexei can fill in for you here,” Mikhail ordered.
Always sensing the distrust between Joseph and Anton, Mikhail had never pushed the issue—simply because he enjoyed keeping both men where they served him best. Now, he suspected, circumstances had changed.
“Check in with me every hour, Joseph. Anton might be flexing his muscles, wanting a little independence.” Mikhail tossed in the last of the piranhas’ dinner. “If he is, I want to know if I should be…concerned.”
Chapter Nine
Lara ran a hand over one of the twin Louis XV chairs, admiring the silver-white brocade, the heavily carved walnut frame.
Davidenko spared no expense on the decor.
The grand salon boasted of coffered ceilings with custom-made rock crystal chandeliers and an 180 degree view of Las Vegas. Each window stretched from floor to ceiling, their large frames swathed in plum silk drapes. Dark walnut furnishings, with cornflower-blue and eggshell brocade, appeared evenly balanced throughout the living area—all complementing the floor’s checkered granite, sporadic tapestry hangings and a carved walnut fireplace.
The French certainly had a way of making one feel like royalty, she mused. “This is marvelous, darling.”
Every room was monitored by camera and mike. Only the patio and the steam shower were clear.
Lara’s heart sank. She’d have to keep up the charade indefinitely.
Ian stepped behind her and drew her against his chest. “You’re welcome.”
She leaned back, settled her head against his shoulder, heard his heart pounding beneath her ear. Without thinking, she let the comforting rhythm soothe her nerves.
Ian slipped his hand over her belly.
Her breath caught, hallowing the curve beneath his fingers. “Don’t,” she rasped. Forcing a smile, she stepped away.
“Loo
k at the view.” She opened the patio door.
When he followed her out, she turned on him. “Don’t do that again, Ian,” she snapped.
Ian grabbed her arm, pulled her against him. “It was either that or reach for your breast. Which would you prefer?”
“Neither.”
“Lara, are you sure you’re up for this?”
“Yes,” Lara answered, her voice low. She decided not to yank away from his hold. “Just because I don’t want to be groped—”
“It’s all part of the illusion,” Ian warned. “If Davidenko even suspects we’re here for anything but a little gambling and some privacy, we’re dead.”
“The money helped.” Lara rubbed her temple, trying to ease the tension. Lord, she was tired.
“Putting a million dollars into the safe might get his attention, but it won’t get us where we need to be.”
“Which is a private invite,” Lara agreed. “And that still won’t guarantee Novak.”
“You realize if your priest is here, he’s aware you and I are together.”
“Either way, we’re going to have to risk it,” Lara said. “We’re down to twenty-four hours, Ian. We can’t—”
A knock at the door stopped Lara’s reply. Ian loosened his hold and they both reentered the suite. With a simple nod in her direction, Ian opened the door.
A hotel employee stood in the doorway with a cart in front of him. “I have champagne and caviar. Compliments of Mr. Davidenko. May I come in, sir?”
“By all means.” Ian’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
The servant placed the tray and bucket on the nearby coffee table. “Mr. Davidenko is hosting a small cocktail party tonight in his suite. If possible, he would like you and Miss Mercer to come.” The man opened the champagne. A pop exploded in the room. “Eight o’clock.”
“Tell him we would be delighted,” Lara said with a smile. “Won’t we, darling?”
“Absolutely,” Ian agreed.
“Very good, madam, monsieur.” The man nodded. “My name is François. Should you need anything during your stay, just press the number one on your telephone. That is my direct line.”
Lara picked up a flute of champagne in a subtle salute. “Merci, François.”
“Vous êtes bienvenue. You are welcome, mademoiselle.”
Lara took a small taste of champagne fizz while Ian closed the door behind François.
“Well, what a nice surprise,” Lara purred and glanced at the bottle’s label. “I like a man who has excellent taste in champagne.”
Ian plucked the glass from her hand.
“What did you do that for?”
“No alcohol. You know how it upsets your stomach, honey.”
“I wasn’t drinking it, I was just holding it.” Lara’s chin tilted up, but she forced herself to laugh. “I love that you’re so protective, but really, one sip wouldn’t have hurt.”
“You never know.”
Lara bit back her scream of frustration. “So what should we do first?”
“Eat.”
Lara grabbed the tray of beluga caviar and crackers. “Let’s go out to the living room and enjoy the view.”
Ian glanced at the terrace and frowned. But since she’d already started toward the room, she’d left him little choice but to follow.
Once they settled next to each other on the couch, Lara fed Ian a cracker with caviar on it.
After watching him chew for a moment, she helped herself to one. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d eaten. Still, the caviar could’ve been sand, for all it appealed to her.
“Darling, why don’t you turn on the television? I want to see what my father’s been up to lately.”
Ian took the remote from the coffee table, turned to the local news and then he increased the volume, giving them a little privacy.
Ian tugged Lara toward him until she sat on his lap. Gently, he eased her head onto his shoulder, then settled back into the couch.
“Is this all necessary?” she whispered. “I figure an hour max and we can leave.”
“If we’re going to do this, I want to be comfortable,” he murmured, enjoying the fact that she wasn’t sniping. His fingers massaged the back of her neck. “Rest. Give your body a chance to recover. You’ve been up thirty-six hours, it’s okay to take a catnap.”
The exhaustion crept up on her, taking advantage of her relaxing muscles. “We should be downstairs tailing Novak,” she grumbled halfheartedly and rubbed the grit from her eyes.
“Not for a while. They’ll become suspicious if we keep disappearing on them. I’ve got the monitor here. I can keep an eye on Novak, Davidenko and their goons. After we’ve given Davidenko time to size us up, we’ll slip out to the casino. I want to get a read on Novak, follow him a bit. If we’re going to deliver him to the priest, we need to know the best way to get past his security.”
Muscles loosened beneath his touch. Lara kicked off her shoes, brought her knees up until she curled in his lap.
“Ian?” She yawned against his neck. He smiled against her temple, fascinated by this softer Lara. “You never once asked me to prove the baby is yours.”
“I know the baby is mine.”
“How?”
Ian paused, deciding she deserved honesty. “Because what happened between us, wasn’t ordinary, Red. It’s taken me two months to come to terms with it. And I know you still haven’t. But you will. You’re a lot of things—stubborn Irish, for one—but you’re not casual.”
“You believe that?”
“Yes, I do.” Something in his voice—the hard edge, the depth of conviction—must have convinced her that he was telling her the truth.
“I don’t know what to say. I never—” She stopped when Ian heard the tears back up in her throat.
Slowly, she took his hand, then placed it on her stomach. “I guess we’ll figure this one out together. Right, Dad?”
“Right.” Emotions, too many to identify, rolled through Ian, caused his fingers to flex in response. With his free hand, he caressed Lara’s hair, stroking the waves that spilled over his chest. He felt her eyes flutter shut, and within a few minutes, her breathing dipped into a soft cadence.
Come hell or Irish temper, he would protect his family.
THE SUN BEAT DOWN on the Hummer, its wrath unmerciful as it drove the temperature inside well over a hundred degrees.
Running the air conditioner was out of the question. Drew too much attention. Ian settled for the tufts of breeze and exhaust fumes that crossed through the open windows of the Hummer.
He’d opted for the outside using Davidenko’s cameras, rather than firsthand contact. If Novak made a move, it would be off-site, away from Davidenko’s spies.
Ian wanted a car ready and waiting.
His eyes slid to the dashboard clock, noted that Lara had been sleeping more than three hours. Out cold, she hadn’t even twitched when he’d moved her from the couch to the bed.
At the time, he’d thought briefly about arranging a wake-up call, then immediately dismissed the idea. Tailing a suspect didn’t take two people.
He glanced at the handheld computer, saw Novak hadn’t left his desk. Ian’s lips tilted with irony. Arms dealing generated a lot of paperwork.
Of course, he’d deal with Lara’s fury later and deep down he looked forward to it. Damned if Lara wasn’t at her best in the midst of a temper tantrum.
That one time in the VI room, he’d harnessed all that flash and sass under him—and she launched him to the stars. Left him craving a lifetime of more.
But first, Ian thought, he’d take care of her problem. He shifted, swallowed some tepid water—used both to ease the desire. Novak left his office.
While he watched, Novak took the private elevator to the first floor, got off and crossed to the lobby.
“This is it,” Ian said to himself. Straightening, he started the car and waited. It didn’t take long.
He picked up Novak just as the arms deal
er slid into a dark green Mercedes.
Ian shoved the Hummer into drive and followed the Mercedes down the drive and out onto the main strip.
Without warning, another Mercedes, a tan sedan, cut Ian off and jockeyed for a position behind Novak. Well, well. Another tail?
Ian dropped a car or two behind, making sure he kept both Mercedes sedans in view.
Another player? A partner maybe. Ian shifted in his seat, irritated. What the hell had Lara gotten herself into?
Both cars braked for a red light. Ian followed suit, his fingers tapping out his frustration on the wheel. If he got them out of this alive, he’d wring her stubborn neck.
Lara had been wrong, accusing him of putting duty above all else. Hell, she couldn’t have been more wrong. It hadn’t been duty that had kept Ian by her side during her father’s shooting, it had been personal.
Ian tapped the brake, allowed a sporty, red convertible to ease in front of him. It hadn’t been the call of duty that motivated his retirement from the SEALs or his contract with Labyrinth. It had been personal. Lara had been personal. Once she joined the agency, there’d been no choice.
By the time Novak pulled up to a church, Ian had recognized the street. His little voice started working overtime.
“I’ll be damned.” He glanced at the sign. St. Stanislaus Catholic Church. Hell, it’s just getting better and better, now isn’t it?
He parked a half block from the tan sedan, keeping it between the Hummer and Novak. Content, he shut off the engine and waited—allowing the story to unfold.
A man, dressed in a black suit, got out of the tan Mercedes and moved to the sidewalk.
Davidenko’s man.
While Ian watched, the suit leaned a hip against the car, crossed his arms and waited—making no secret of the fact he was watching the church.
Impatience itched at Ian’s spine, but he knew better than to give in to it. Time slowed to a turtle’s pace. Ten, then fifteen minutes passed.
Ian ground a cuss word between his back teeth. Novak returned with Father Xavier by his side. Somehow the arms dealer must have found out about the priest.
Instinctively, Ian reached for his gun and the car handle, then froze midmotion.