Becoming Rain (11 page)

Chapter 15

■ ■ ■

LUKE

“I take it you like boats.” I scan the framed photos of various ships that fill an entire wall in Aref's office.

“I do. They're all mine. My family owns a shipping company. We have a cruise line, tankers, freight . . .”

I watch him pour a golden drink from a fancy glass bottle into two fat-bottomed glasses. “So, a lot of ships.” There must be twenty pictured. And they're all big enough to cross the ocean, no doubt. Rust said that Aref handled the shipping. I didn't think that meant he
owned
the bloody ships.

He flashes a white-toothed smile. “A lot of ships. And some planes, too. And transport trucks.” He hands me the glass. “That's how I met your uncle. We were buying trucks through RTM. I liked him the minute I met him. He's a smart businessman.”

“He is.” My eyes wander over all the custom woodwork and ornate carvings in this expansive office located at the back of the house—past a locked door and down a long hallway, as if designed specifically to avoid prying ears.

“What do you think?” He nods toward my glass.

“Whisky?” Rust took me to a whisky bar and taught me how to drink it.
A skill every refined, intelligent man should have, he said. Of course, the night ended with us trying to carry each other home and painting the sidewalk with our puke.

“A Macallan single-malt
scotch
, actually. Special edition, from 1946.”

I take a small sip, swirling the pungent flavor around my mouth. It's like nothing I've ever had before.

“I bought it at an auction several years ago for four hundred and sixty thousand dollars.”

I struggle not to choke as I swallow. “You're telling me this right here is, like . . .” I do some quick, rough math in my head. “Twenty grand?”

He smiles, clinks my glass in answer, and takes a small sip of his own. Clearly amused. Either he's trying to impress me or show me up. He's succeeded at both.

Aref isn't just rich.

He's filthy rich.

“So tell me more about this opportunity that Rust mentioned to me.”

Leave it to Rust to call it an “opportunity” rather than what it is—us needing help to offload this car. I give Aref the rundown. “So, would you know anyone who may want it?”

He stares at his glass, as if in thought. “Yes, I believe that I do.”

“It's as custom as custom gets,” I warn him.

I get a dismissive wave in response. “That won't mean anything to a buyer in Dubai. When would you need it moved by?”

“As soon as possible.” Apparently, Nikolai is a few blood pressure points away from a heart attack with that thing sitting in his garage. Getting caught in possession of a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar car at your own home earns instant jail time and a reputation for being an idiot.

Aref pulls a phone out of his desk drawer and punches in a few numbers. Someone answers and he goes off in a language I can't even begin to understand. So I busy myself with savoring the most expensive drink I'll ever have in my life and listening quietly until he drops the phone into his pocket. “I'll have a definite answer shortly, but it shouldn't be a problem.”

He seems so relaxed by the entire thing. “You sound like you've done this before.”

He shrugs. “I've helped out a few friends.”

“And what's this going to cost us?” I hold my breath, waiting for it. The ridiculous terms he's going to lay out to do this favor for us, his “friends.” At least maybe
he'll
be willing to negotiate.

Dark, calculating eyes settle on me. “It was Viktor who approached me years ago to see if I'd be interested in shipping merchandise overseas. Cars weren't part of my . . .” He pauses, searching for words. “ . . . portfolio. At first I said no, simply because I didn't trust the man. But then I met Rust and I liked Rust. So I agreed to move their cargo for them. They pay me a rate per car and I make sure all the paperwork is legit and no customs officers stick their noses in where they don't belong. It's easy money.

“But I've figured out that there's a lot more money to be had in selling the cars than simply shipping them. And I also know that Rust has a solid organization.” He pauses. “I'm a good person to know, Luke. I have buyers in other parts of the world. We could make each other a lot more money if Rust would ever consider selling directly with me.”

“What are you suggesting? That we stop doing business with Vlad and Andrei?” I'd be game for that, to be honest.

But Aref's head is already shaking. “No. You keep that arrangement, and I'll keep taking my minuscule fees for shipping. But why not start something new with me in a new market? I can ship and take care of the buyers on the other side.”

At what terms? Is he thinking about a partnership? Going halves? Would he try to rip us off like Vlad and his father do? Impossible to say, and I want to talk to Rust before I make myself sound too interested. For now, we have an immediate problem to handle. “How much is
this
deal going to cost us?” I push.

“I'll tell you what—I'll take a cut for red-tape cost and I'll pass on the rest to you. Just this once, though, as a token of my appreciation for your trust, and a gesture of goodwill. If you are happy, then we can talk about a partnership. Fifty/fifty. You and Rust get me the cars and I'll ship and sell them.” He's smooth in the way he speaks. Obviously well educated. Definitely more pleasant to deal with than Vlad. “How does that sound?”

Too easy. But if Rust trusts him . . . “I think we can live with those terms.” I wasn't supposed to commit to anything, but how can I not commit to that?

His laughter immediately relaxes me. “You remind me of Rust. I'm very glad we met.”

So am I. Walking into Aref's office and asking for help face-to-face has been a million times easier than picking up the phone to call Vlad.

“I need to get back to my guests, and I believe you have a lovely lady to entertain out there.” He fills my glass with more scotch. That's forty grand, by my calculations. Enough to buy a decent car. I've drunk a car tonight. “I'll find you as soon as I hear something.”

“Thanks, Aref.”

The second we part ways, I dial Rust. “I'm waiting, but it looks like it's a go. At cost.”

I hold my breath and wait for him to berate me, but he only says, “Good.” I can hear him sipping a drink on the other end. Likely vodka. He'd bathe in it if he could.

I drop my voice to a hiss. “Fuck Andrei. Why aren't we working with Aref?”

“Come find me at The Cellar when you have an answer.” The phone call ends, leaving my frustration skyrocketing. Why the hell is Rust even talking to those other idiots when Aref's sitting here, practically begging?

Chapter 16

■ ■ ■

CLARA

“You have a beautiful home.” I follow Elmira down the path, lit by flaming torches that dance under the slightest breeze.

She smiles. “Thank you. It's my favorite out of all of them, I think.”

She says it casually, but I roll my eyes nonetheless. Maybe it's her prim Londoner accent that makes her sound so snooty. We sweep around a small pocket of guests and reach the dock. She glances down at my shoes. “You should remove those. I've broken plenty of heels over the years.”

Over the years? I'm still wondering if she's even considered a legal adult. Regardless, I listen and slip my shoes off to save myself the embarrassment of hobbling home.

Elmira leads me down, down . . . down . . . past the speedboats, along an impossibly long dock that branches off, and toward the rope and a sign that reads, “Thank you for not boarding.”

“I didn't think you could dock a boat like this privately,” I murmur, taking in Elmira's name scrolled across the side.

“Enough money buys
anything
.” I follow her as she ducks under the rope. “This is Aref's pride and joy. He bought it for me for my eighteenth birthday.”

“Nice birthday gift,” I offer, silently thinking back to my eighteenth birthday and the six-pack of woolen socks and case of Budweiser that my boyfriend at the time bought me. I didn't like beer then, either.

“Aref can be a very generous man.” Something about the way she says that sounds off. Before I can ponder too much, she leads me through a narrow door and into an interior painted with money, in the form of shiny chrome and crystals and lacquered mahogany walls. The metallic ceiling reflects, and the sleek lighting illuminates, cocooning us in luxury.

It's easy to forget why I'm here as I trail Elmira down marble winding staircases and narrow hallways, weaving in and out of small but lavish cabins, through three floors of sleek living spaces and open decks of white leather banquettes and wet bars.

“Do you spend a lot of time on here?” I ask as we end the tour on the top floor, a deck next to the captain's command room. Elmira punches a code into a panel and the ceiling begins sliding open, revealing the yacht's sunroof, now blanketed by an expanse of stars over the Columbia River.

“We usually spend our winters in the Cayman Islands. It's quite comfortable on here, even though it's a boat.”

“That sounds nice.” And unfortunate, given that I'd consider squatting if they happened to store this boat in a marina over the winter.

“We also sail along the Pacific seaboard every summer. It's my favorite thing to do.” Elmira disappears behind a small bar to produce a bottle of Champagne and another glass. She delivers one to me without asking, even though I'm still nursing the full glass of wine in my hand. Normally I'd just dump a little at a time while no one was looking, but a place like this must be laced with surveillance video. Getting caught doing that would raise questions I don't want asked. “Have you ever been on a cruise?”

I don't even pretend. “No.”

“Well, we are here for a few more months. Perhaps we can host you and Luke one day soon.”

I'm sure it's an empty offer, but I say, “I would love that.” If I can get enough dirt on Luke to convince a judge that this is worthwhile, maybe I'll be around until then. But that's a long time to string him along, hiding behind the guise of a physically abused woman still learning to trust men again.

“How long have you two been dating?”

I open my mouth to object to the term but catch myself. “Not long.”

“He's very handsome. And young, too, right?” she says casually, sipping on her drink, curiosity dancing within her eyes, along with other thoughts that I can't get a handle on.

“Yes, he is.” It's all superficial conversation but I need to keep it going, regardless. “What about you and Aref?”

“I met Aref when I was sixteen. He was twenty-nine. Our parents arranged our marriage a year later.” When she sees my expression, a soft laugh escapes her lips that makes her suddenly sound much older. “He's handsome, and extremely wealthy, so I didn't object. That's the only element of my culture I accepted, though. Otherwise I've fully embraced the Western way of thinking, much to my parents' dismay.” She holds up her glass of Champagne, now almost empty, to prove a point, and fills it up again. A tiny body like hers can't possibly handle that much alcohol, that fast.

“And Aref? Has he embraced the Western way of thinking?”

She shrugs noncommittally. “Mostly.”

Mostly. As in Elmira's not 100 percent entirely satisfied, perhaps? It's crazy, the things that people will admit to complete strangers when they're unhappy. And drunk. Elmira's shoulders are slouching just enough to tell me she's probably tipsy by now. Plus, she sounds lonely. Lonely people are all too willing to answer questions.

I'd love to come right out and ask her what she means, but if I bide my time, I'll get it out of her. “What do you do when you're not on this yacht?”

She shrugs. “Organize parties. Volunteer at charities. I keep myself busy. Aref wants me to keep busy. He works a lot and I don't know many people in Portland. Those I do know, I don't particularly like. Mostly Aref's business partners and their wives.”

Well, that was brutally honest. “So, what does Aref do?” This is beginning to sound like an interrogation—I'm half-expecting my phone to go off and Warner to hiss at me on the other end of the line—but I can't help myself.

She doesn't seem at all bothered, scanning her perfectly manicured nails. “He owns a transportation company.”

“Transportation,” I repeat.

“Ships. Lots and lots of
big
ships, that bring all kinds of things overseas, like clothing, packaged foods, cars . . .”

Bingo.
Excitement bubbles up inside me as the pieces are clicking together. I'm a cat, cornering its mouse. “Cars?”

“There you are . . .”

Luke's voice is like a long, thin needle jabbing into the bubble. It takes all my effort to keep my face neutral as I glance over to see him climbing the steps. His dazzling smile dulls the disappointment quickly, though.

“If you'll excuse me, I should check on my husband. It was lovely talking to you, Rain.” Elmira sweeps past me.

“Thanks for the tour. I hope I see you again.” I truly do. Unhappy, young wife with loose lips when she's drinking? Definite informant potential.

She pauses and looks over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing slightly at me. Just enough to create a twinge of insecurity on my part. “Yes. I'd like that.”

She's cunning, that one. I had better be careful how I handle her.

“This place is ridiculous, huh?” Luke strolls over to the glass panel dividing us from the control room, pulling a cigarette out of his pack.

“You know, they say smoking will kill you.”

“Yeah, I think I've heard that.” He holds the lighter to the tip, but then pauses. “Does it bother you?”

“No, not really. I guess I'm used to it. My dad was a heavy smoker for years. He just quit a few years back, after my grandfather died of lung cancer.” I worry that it wasn't soon enough.

And I just told my target a personal truth about me. Clara, not Rain. I make a mental note to add that to the file, to keep everything in check. But I've coupled it with a strategic lie about my grandfather, who's still alive and well in Palermo, bless his soul.

“Huh . . . Mine died of lung cancer, too. So did my grandmother.” When Luke pauses on me for a long moment, then glances down at the cigarette in his hand, as if reconsidering, I know I've struck the chord I was aiming for. Finding a way to relate to your target is critical. “I've been thinking about quitting.” With a sigh, he lights up. “Maybe after things calm down.”

“Are things stressful for you right now?” I keep my voice airy, curious.

“Just work shit.”

“That big, angry guy in your office the other day?”

Luke dips his head to the side to show me his wide, genuine smile, making my stomach flip. “Who, Miller?”

“Is that the one who hates your guts?”

He laughs, taking another drag. “So, you noticed that.”

“Kind of hard not to. Why does he hate you so much?”

“Fuck, who knows. Bitter, I think. I was supposed to take over running the garage. But that's been delayed indefinitely, so his job is safe. I thought he'd stop being such an ass.”

“Are you going to do something else instead?”

He doesn't answer at first, just smoking his cigarette and peering out at the water through the windows. For a moment, I'm afraid I've gone too far.

“Nah, I'll stay in the garage. Rust is giving it to me eventually. But my uncle's got me doing some other stuff for him. He has a few businesses on the go.”

I love how criminals call their illicit activities “business.” Like it's a legitimate thing that they get registered and that they pay taxes to the government for income reported. “That sounds . . . exciting?” I'd love to probe more about these “businesses,” but I have to slip in my questions strategically.

“Yeah . . . I don't know yet. It's still new.”

“You and your uncle seem like you're close.”

“We are. He basically raised me. My dickhead dad skipped out on us when I was six. My mom's always been a bit flaky and unstable, and when he left, she went offside. Depression and all that. She lost her job and we moved in with my grandparents.” He pauses, as if thinking back to his childhood. “Rust was only twenty-­eight years old. The last thing he wanted to do was inherit two little kids, but he really stepped up. He paid for
everything.
Made sure I was signed up for soccer and baseball—all those kid things that my mom was too out of it to pay attention to and my grandparents really didn't understand. They were old-school Russian, you know? Having clothes on your back and food on the table was all they ever focused on.”
Yeah, I understand that.
He butts his cigarette into a fancy ashtray stand and strolls over, my nose catching a mixture of cologne and tobacco as he slides into the seat next to me. Normally I can't stand the smell of cigarette smoke, and yet for some reason it doesn't bother me on Luke. “Rust paid for private school, for college, for my mechanic's program. He used to take me to sports games. Spoiled me rotten, basically. Still does.” Luke chuckles. “All my friends were jealous. He paid more attention to me than any of their real dads did to them.” His voice has grown husky. “I owe Rust everything that I have.”

Enough to not give him up if you're looking at jail time?
The soft look in Luke's eyes as he talks about his uncle makes me question whether Sinclair's right with this plan. Would our primary target break if a figurative gun were put to his head?

I'm not so sure.

“You seem to be doing well for yourself,” I agree. “I mean, your condo, your car . . .” I don't mean to let my eyes rake over him so overtly as I add, “ . . . you.”

He smirks, his thigh nudging up against mine as he stretches his legs out. No concern for my personal space. And I don't mind at all. Maybe that Champagne put me over the edge. Holding up the glass of golden liquid that he brought onboard, he says, “This is a twenty-thousand-dollar glass of scotch. My second, tonight.”

I know my eyebrows are jumping halfway up my forehead but I can't help myself. More than a third of my annual salary about to go down his throat. I hate rich people. “So, what does a twenty-­thousand-dollar glass of scotch taste like?”

He offers it to me and I take it, our fingers grazing, the simple touch causing ripples through my body that I wish I didn't feel. I should say no to hard liquor, but when am I ever going to get a chance like this again? “How am I supposed to drink this?”

Shifting even closer to me, until every part of my right side from my shoulder down to my knees is pressed against that hard body of his, he ropes an arm around my shoulders. “First, you let it coat the glass. Like this.” Covering my hand with his, I watch the liquid swirl around the glass, his fingers filling the spaces between mine. “Then you inhale.” He holds the glass up to my nose.

“Smells . . . smoky?”

With his free hand, he tucks a strand of my hair back behind my ear in a slow, almost cautious movement, before lifting the glass to my mouth. “Just a tiny sip. Just enough to taste it.” His eyes drop to my mouth as I follow instruction.

And struggle not to grimace from the potent flavor.

He grins, not offended in the slightest. “Not a fan?”

“Here.” I push it forward until it's fully within his grasp and my hand is free. Because I'm enjoying the feel of him too much. “You drink your twenty-thousand-dollar-a-shot manly scotch and I'll stick with this girly Champagne.” I mocked it earlier, but it's actually quite good.

He chuckles, falling back into the couch, his eyes roaming over the interior of the yacht. Another sip. Maybe two glasses of that will loosen his tongue enough for me to pry answers from him. “I think I need to start hanging out with Aref more. I could get used to this.”

So could I, under different circumstances. “He seems nice. How do you know him?”

“I just met him tonight, actually. But I already like him.” A flash of doubt crosses his face.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing, just . . .” He frowns, pausing as if to decide something. “I work for my uncle and, as much as I love him, he leaves me in the dark a lot of the time. It can get frustrating.”

His gaze wanders off over the water, seemingly deep in thought. I nudge his leg with mine. “You know, I've been told I'm a great listener.”

“I can believe it.” His hand falls to my back and rests there, the heat from it searing my bare flesh above my dress line. And then he heaves a sigh. “It's nothing. Just . . . Aref wants to play a bigger role in Rust's business and I'm trying to figure out why Rust hasn't agreed. He'd be way better to deal with than the assholes we work with right now.”