by Lyra Byrnes
Fuck it. Mentally she tossed a grenade over her shoulder and waded into battle.
“The gentleman is buying,” she said loudly, with a nod at the cozy inglenook where a startled Alexi looked up from his paper, slashed eye sparkling in the firelight.
Their eyes locked. The bar went quiet. She held his gaze defiantly, noting how those sensuous lips curved slightly upward as he acknowledged that she had won this round. Quite literally, because he made the universal “two more” sign at the bartender then crooked a finger at her.
She slung her purse over her shoulder and approached the table. The closer she got, the larger he looked. Even sitting down, the man was a tower of muscle. Coco caught herself hesitating then slumped into a seat and glared at him.
“A gin and tonic for the lady, but what I am buying for myself, a dose of chloral hydrate, perhaps?”
He had a low, rumbling voice that she could feel in her belly, and there was something strange about his eyes—they were a mix of brown and almost metallic-gold, like a magical speckled egg from a fairy tale.
“You spotted me,” she said coolly. “So let’s not play games.”
“But I like to play games.” An unexpected smile lit up his face, showing teeth that looked too white and even for a thug. “Is that not why we are in this business, krahsniy?”
“That’s not my name.”
“No, means red.” He sat back on the padded bench and regarded her through slit eyes. “I am Alexi. How you know I spot you? I never looked up.”
At this, Coco smirked.
“Ah, clever girl. The diva sees only the one person in the audience who does not applaud.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “By the way, is water.”
“Of course it is.” Dammit, he wasn’t as dumb as she’d hoped. Water would not disguise the taste of the chloral hydrate, even if she did have a chance to slip it into his glass. And if she did, how to haul his hulking, slumped body out of a public place and onto the streets? She would have to keep a tail on him. “And we’re not in the same business.”
One black eyebrow went up. “We are not? You come here with drugs in that bag, maybe gun, yes? Tell me again how Amerikanski is good guys.”
“Tell me how bombing churches and shooting innocent people on trains is ‘good guys’,” she snapped.
“You do not know me, or what I do.”
“I know enough.”
He laughed softly. “Enough to kill a man, a stranger? For this, American government pay for soft leather bag? For silk T-shirt, nice and tight, so those beautiful tits look bigger? Every man in the room will stare at those tits, licking his lips. All but one.” He shook his head with mock dismay. “What is it they say in your country—your tax dollars at work?”
Indignation rose inside her. She had never met anyone as maddening and, yes, intriguing as the vicious warlord who sat before her, relaxed and casual in a cozy pub.
“I’m not going to seduce you,” she blurted.
“I should be happy or disappointed?”
“I mean, to seduce anyone, and I’m not going to kill you. We don’t do that.” Much. If she had to kill him, she would. But negotiation, not assassination, was her strength, and this was an interrogation mission. Western Ops would have words for her—or worse—if she offed such a precious informant. “How did you know I was after you?”
“Many are,” he said mildly, winking at the barmaid, who reddened prettily.
Coco felt an unwelcome stab of jealousy. “You’re actually enjoying this.”
“I enjoy myself, yes,” he stood. “A man is busy, works hard. He must play games as well. Already, you make first move in our game, obey Rule Number One. I like a girl who obeys.”
“What’s Rule Number One?” So he had rules as well. She supposed he’d have to, considering half the world wanted him dead and the other half, if the blonde barmaid was any measure, wanted to sleep with him.
He smiled again and there was nothing pleasant in it this time. “Make them come to you.”
She shuddered.
He slid the newspaper in front of her and tapped it with a strong finger. “We will see each other again, little red bird.”
Coco snatched up her things off the table and dashed to the pavement outside, but there was no sign of him. In ten minutes she had found and lost her target, and in an unfamiliar city, no less. Silently cursing Templeton and Western Ops, she retreated under a shop awning as a light rain began to fall.
The newspaper had been folded open to a small item in the international section—“In a baroque and brutal setback for the negotiation of a peace settlement between Russia and the breakaway Chechen territories, FSB commissionaire Ivan Kaminsky was assassinated Monday night with a device out of a James Bond novel—a poison-tipped umbrella. The Mirror has learned that Kaminsky, in London for a top-secret meeting with a Russian diplomat, was stabbed in the throat with this unusual weapon and died not of the shallow wound but from an unnamed poison. The assailant himself remains unnamed, but in an official statement, Interpol vowed¼”
Blah, blah, blah. Coco fumed. Another body on Maksimov’s hands, another trickle into the bloody river of death that followed in his wake. And he was boasting about it, throwing it in her face. An umbrella, how uncanny. Did he know her story? Was he mocking her injury by killing a man in this way?
America does not go down so easily, you monster, she thought, digging out her cell.
“Seems I’m a day late and dollar short,” she snapped when Rod picked up the phone.
He sighed as if she was the biggest pain in the ass in the world. “We couldn’t have foreseen this assassination, Coco. Just get the drug in the bad guy and the bad guy in the van. The checkpoint is One Markham Place—they tell me it’s nice and secluded—but you’ll have to do the driving.”
“That’s another thing. Why don’t I have any backup? This dude is, like, two-hundred-some pounds of solid muscle.”
“Who’s whining about lame assignments now?” he jeered.
“Dammit, Rod! I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with him once I get him to the safe house.”
“You will receive a text with a list of questions. How you get the information out of him is your call. Did you try that Indian place in the West End? Schneider said it’s the bomb.”
She fought to hang on to the phone as her high-heeled boots slipped on the sidewalk. It was raining in earnest now. The crowd around her thickened, dashing for drier havens.
“At least give me the name of the diplomat whom this,” she unrolled the newspaper and squinted at the article as fat raindrops blurred the type, “Ivan Kaminsky was going to meet. And if you tell me to call Interpol, I’m hanging up.”
Rod’s voice was rich with amusement. “You’re the one who called me, sweetheart. And that information is classified.”
She hung up.
Chapter Three
Food sounded like a great idea—she realized she hadn’t eaten since the day before, and a bottle of wine and two gin and tonics hadn’t improved the sour state of her stomach. Back at the hotel, she changed into a dark-blue slip dress and black spike heels. Tossing on a trench coat, she left the hotel in search of the nearest place with a stove and an Open sign.
On the corner, a young black man stood behind a card table, draped in a cheap clear poncho. “Brollys! Brollys for the wet masses! You need a bumbershoot, m’lady, to keep that titian mane dry.”
She brushed by him. No more umbrellas for Coco Fiori.
The scent of garlic and rosemary wafted into her nostrils. She paused then looked over her shoulder. Mama Irene’s would be just the thing on a rainy spring night.
The host ushered her into a red booth and placed a bottle of Chianti before her. The restaurant was almost deserted, but for a smattering of couples and a dark-haired woman alone at the bar. Tension eased from her as she tucked into a plate of gnocchi, relishing every fragrant bite. It was good to eat normal food again. Even the mission before her seemed less impossible
.
After half a bottle of Chianti, she found herself wondering about Alexsandr Maksimov. A ruthless killer and warlord by reputation, but in person, he was something more—a real man, with amusements, passions, a sense of humor and worse, self-control. And he wasn’t stupid, a fact that pained her. Could he really have committed all those crimes and still be relaxed over a glass of water in a local pub? Or was he just a sociopath, with no conscience whatsoever?
“I like to play games¼” It had sounded so dirty when he said it. She took another swallow of wine and let the vision enter her head—tied by the wrists to a bedpost, Alexi behind her with his cock in his hand, his husky voice in her ear. “You’re such a good slut, krahsniy. You deserve to be fucked in the ass.”
“No, god, no,” she murmured aloud.
“No?” A dark-haired woman turned with a glance, letting a smile play over her face. More handsome than pretty, she had a presence that was hard to ignore. “I may not sit down?”
“Oh go ahead. I was distracted.”
The woman crossed her arms on the table. “I know that kind of distraction. I’m Amanda, by the way. American?”
“Yes.” It had been years since she was surprised by how rarely people noticed that she didn’t give her name. She dragged up her backstory in bits and pieces. “Art student. Study program.”
“Lovely to meet you. I believe we’re neighbors, of a sort. Sorry for the row last night. The Fordham has thin walls for a four-star hotel.”
So this was the woman who had been in the next room, getting what sounded like a world-class rogering while Coco pleasured herself to the sounds. Envy mingled with caution—small world or a trap?
“Sounded like fun,” she offered.
Amanda laughed, a rich, throaty laugh. She was not young, but there was something sensually appealing about her. “It was fun. Don’t worry, you’ll get a better night’s sleep tonight. It’s my job, you see.”
“It sounded more like the world’s oldest profession.” She took another sip of Chianti.
“You’re not far off. I run a brothel, quite frankly, but occasionally take on private clients. I have certain tastes and talents that not all the girls share.”
“I see.” She did not see.
“If you’re at loose ends, come by. We put on shows nightly, and only the most discerning male guests are invited.”
“You’ve got the wrong girl. I’m not a—”
Amanda put a reassuring hand on Coco’s arm. “No, no. Of course not. I wasn’t trying to recruit you, dear. But between visiting museums and daubing or whatever it is you do, the Palace offers a lovely break in the routine. No charge for pretty girls, no need to do anything but enjoy a glass of champagne and watch.” She slipped a business card into Coco’s purse. “I think you’ll particularly enjoy tonight’s performance.”
“I told you, I’m not a whore.”
“But you would like to be treated as one, sometimes, no?”
Coco licked her lips.
“It’s all right, dear. The walls at the Fordham, as I said, are shockingly thin. My client and I—lovely man from Warwickshire, a solicitor, but you can’t have everything—we matched our show to your movie. I do try to make everyone happy, even strangers.”
“Two shows for the price of one.”
“Exactly. And I sensed it was more than just a movie to you, something closer to a fantasy, perhaps.” The woman cocked her head, her kind eyes crinkling in a smile. “But I’m being intrusive. Do drop by. I’m always looking for more ornaments for my parlor.” With a wink, she was out the door.
The Palace: Erotic Entertainment, read the card. On the back was a phone number, no address.
In your face, Rod Templeton, she thought. After a day of kicking international ass, a girl just wanted to wind down with some erotic entertainment, not a mewling boy who never made a sound in bed and passed out right after, socks on and snore deafening. She would be an “ornament” for Madam Amanda’s sex parlor, and maybe pick up some tips in the process.
Although it occurred to her, as she pressed the numbers into her hotel phone, that she hadn’t kicked much ass at all on her first day in London. In fact, Alexi Maksimov had made it clear that her ass was his anytime he wanted it.
*
It turned out that the number went to a cab company, and the cab knew its destination—a beautiful white mansion somewhere in West London. Coco lost her bearings as the car with the silent, unseen driver turned and turned again, but she caught a sign here and there reading “SW1”.
The driver waved away her offer to pay but would not help her out of the cab, so she made her tentative way to the door, careful of the cobblestones beneath her high-heeled pumps. She had not bothered to dress up, just blown out her hair and found some fresh panties. She wasn’t about to run to some costume shop and dress up in a cheap vinyl miniskirt in order to pass for a sex-club veteran. In her time with OSO, she’d run enough undercover operations to know that amateurs who try to fit in are the first to be unmasked as infiltrators.
Amanda looked delighted to see her.
“My dear! You look positively edible. Welcome to my humble abode.”
Humble it was not. Between the soaring ceilings, lavish chandeliers and lush velvet furnishings, it looked like a Victorian mansion cleared of clutter, every surface sparkling. Dim lights cast a golden glow in various corners of the parlor, and Coco could make out only tantalizing glimpses—an ivory leg entwined with a chocolate-colored one, a bare breast caressed by a hand, a head thrown back in ecstasy. The sound of moans and panting made a soft susurration in the air.
“Some guests like to play in the parlor. I just can’t say no,” sighed Amanda. “Generosity is my downfall.”
She was wearing a simple black gown slit up both sides, her dark hair tumbling across her shoulders. Coco felt relieved that she had chosen the blue silk dress—ordinary, but one she knew showed off her spectacular curves.
“You’re just in time. Take a seat in the arena. Ace will be along shortly with champagne.”
The arena was a small theater, its stage still curtained. Instead of theater seats, couches, chaises longues and velvet-covered chairs had been arranged in rows. Most of the seats were already filled, and couples and groups were chatting cozily together. Feeling awkward, she perched on an empty chaise far in the back, completely in shadow. A waiter shimmered to her side, his features lost in the gloom, although the glow picked out the curves of his muscled arms and chest and made his butterscotch hair shine.
He handed her a glass of champagne with a smile.
“I am Ace. Here to serve your every whim,” he said.
“I’m just here for the show, Ace.”
He smiled wider. Good lord, he had cheekbones like knife blades. Who said it was hard to find good help nowadays? “Madam Amanda apprised me of your desires. Start with the champagne and summon me should you require further service.”
He melted into the gloom. Coco tried not to feel regret as he left. What kind of “service” was he talking about, and what had the madam told her servant about Coco’s deepest, darkest sexual needs? All she had done was watch a movie, for crying out loud.
There was no time to ponder that now. She was anonymous, ensconced in the dark, as the curtains opened and a spotlight came up on a naked blonde splayed upon a wide chaise longue, her white skin gleaming against the black fabric.
The audience seemed to hold its collective breath. Light samba music emanated from some unseen source as the blonde languidly traced a hand down her neck, lightly brushed her nipples and caressed her belly.
From one wing, a powerfully built man entered, as naked as the woman and visibly aroused. He approached her from behind the chaise and, without preamble, yanked her head back by the hair and thrust his cock in her mouth. The girl seemed to choke at first, and soft noises spread through the audience, sighs and the sound of rustling clothing.
The sight of the thick cock pumping in and out of the blonde’s mouth as
she squirmed made Coco both aroused and uncomfortable. Here she was, watching again, alone and untouched amid a sea of fumbling, panting people. Six long, sexless months in a hospital bed, and even after emerging more or less healthy, she still wasn’t getting any. Not that she wanted any. She would be tied up babysitting Alexi for who knows how long, anyway, and she certainly wasn’t going to get anything like this from that ruffian.
Take, she thought firmly. I mean take, not get.
In her haze, she hadn’t noticed that two more men had taken the stage. The blonde was now surrounded by a chocolate-box assortment of studs—cocoa-skinned, caramel and Nordic pale. One knelt between her legs, another caressed her breasts. The blonde writhed but kept her head still while the dark-skinned man rhythmically fucked her mouth. They looked like an erotic machine, pumping, hands swirling on her creamy body. Moans and the slapping of flesh on flesh rose throughout the theater. Coco’s pussy gushed and her clit began to throb. Breathlessly, without thinking, her hands floated to her breasts, reaching inside the deep, draped neckline to palm her aching breasts.
Ace shimmered into her view with not only another glass of champagne but two men in tow. Her own candy box of masculine treats. He sat on the edge of the chaise and lifted the glass to her lips. Behind her, one of the men had begun to stroke her hair, winding it between his fingers.
Ace favored her with a wicked smile. “If you are wet and ready, my lady, Jean-Luc and Marcello are here to service you.” They nodded in turn. “Unless you would prefer to service us.”
The thought of being ravished by three hot men made her breath hitch. Yes, she desperately wanted someone to use her body as his personal sexual amusement park, to take orders, to fight back against him and be overpowered, but not here. Not with strangers and with witnesses around. Her long-unfulfilled desire was too precious a secret to divulge like this.