Relatively Risky (3 page)

Too late to change course, she pressed on, debating which side of the bench to pass on. He didn't seem to have seen her yet. If she went behind, there was the bodyguard creating a different kind of menace. Her fingers twitched, and she was glad her portfolio was under her arm and somewhat out of reach. Her stomach rumbled and her mental clock ticked against the insistence of the muse, helping to boost her resolve not to piss off the scary guys.

The old man didn't move or look at her, as she closed on him. She pretended to look at the river as she drew level, sensed the moment the bodyguard noticed her. Felt the chill from his gaze riding beads of sweat down her back. She angled her head a bit more, her sight and sound heightening, as she drew level with the pair. There was a scraping sound against the path's surface and then her shins connected with something hard and narrow. No time to wonder how anything came to be in her way. She was going down again.

Portfolio flew one way.

Her feet went the other.

Her tush made painful contact with turf for second time in not enough hours. Should have been a Monday. Some stars did a little dance before eyes before fading out of view.

“I am sorry.”

He didn't sound sorry, and how had his cane—only hard, narrow thing around—got in her way? Chill of eyes extended to his voice. Cliché, bad guy voice. He could have air conditioned a room just by talking. She accidentally looked up, met the gaze. Oh yeah, he was worse up close. Felt her eyeballs dry as they did deer-in-headlights. It had never been a good look for her.

“Are you all right?”

He almost sounded anxious. Or like someone trying to sound anxious. He needed more practice, but she gave him a point for trying, then took it back for sucking at it.

“I'm fine.”

A large, beautifully manicured hand entered her sightline. A big, gold ring winked at her, but she didn't follow it up to the face. Bodyguard gave off a worse vibe than the old man—

Bodyguard must have lost patience. The big hand grabbed hers and she was yanked upright hard enough to almost send her staggering into a powerful chest wrapped in cliché black on black. Cloying scent made her eyes water. Would have slammed into his chest if he hadn't been strong enough to halt the collision he'd almost caused. In the yin-yang moment, she accidentally caught a glimpse of his hard face. Probably be some nightmares in her future. If they didn't kill her for tripping over the cane and forcing the creep to help her up. His grip eased when she steadied, though her heart thumped like she'd been chest to chest with a killer.

“I am sorry.”

Old guy still didn't sound sorry. Repeating the words didn't make them so.

“I'm the one who is sorry.” Boy, was she sorry. “I should have watched where I was going.” She opened up some distance between her and the bodyguard, still not quite making eye contact with either of them. His cane was pulled back where it had been when she first saw them. Had he, could he have tripped her on purpose? Couldn't think of any reason he would have, but she also couldn't figure out how it got in her way.

“You should wear a hat.” His aged hand flicked his nose.

Nell's immediately glowed like Rudolf's. She touched the end, felt the heat, though it might be from panic. “You're right. I'll get right on that.” She glanced toward Jackson Square. It, and the throng of people there, seemed too far away. She'd lost her mind and something else—

Old guy held out her portfolio. Kind of surprised he'd managed to pick it up. Or moved so fast without her noticing. He had to be over eighty. She took the portfolio, with another, quickly averted, glance. “Thank you.” That felt weird and wrong, even if it was polite. Like she was thanking him for tripping her.

“Are you sure you are all right?”

Something in his tone caught her attention and she looked at him, full on looked at him. There was something about his eyes…

Bodyguard grunted.

She jumped. “I'm fine. Great. Hardly felt a thing.” She backed away, almost fell down the stairs. Grabbing the hand-rail, she tossed an uneasy smile toward them both, then turned and headed down, resisting the impulse to scamper as she felt a bullet-sized hole bore into the center of her back. The feeling followed her down the suddenly long staircase, across the tracks and back up again, stayed with her until she could drop out of sight on Decatur Street. As if she'd been temporarily rendered deaf, the comforting sounds of the Quarter washed over her again. Someone calling them to repentance because this year, for sure, the world would end. A little rap music, a little rock n'roll, some jazz, and just a touch of Zydeco.

She felt better, though the hand she raised to push damp strands off her forehead trembled. She caught sight of her watch. Well, bang went her lunch, not that her appetite had survived the encounter. She just had time to get back and cover the phone so Sarah could make her appointment.

She headed for her bike, couldn't stop herself taking a quick look toward the ramp. There was no sign of either of them, which shouldn't be a shock. So why did she feel watched? She did a quick survey—biggest waste of a minute ever. The Quarter was already crowded with people. So she had an overactive imagination which she should keep focused on her books. It wasn't as if tripping was a killing offense or she'd already be dead.

N
ot much got
in Dimitri Afoniki's way. There were good reasons he was called the Russian Tiger. When something or someone was stupid enough to get in his way, he had people to remove it, people who acted without having to be told once, let alone twice. If they forgot that, they got removed and new people took their place. There were those rare times when removal wasn't possible. The world didn't revolve around him. Yet.

He stared out the tinted window of his limousine, one long finger tapping the arm rest, frowning as he considered the problem that had taken him from his office and loaded schedule. He'd demurred, tried to delegate. His great uncle had accused him of being spoiled. Acted as if he should be embarrassed about it. Naturally he was spoiled. Why should he not be? He had money. Power. Good looks—looks that had gotten him out of trouble more than once when he was young. He had charm, too, when he cared to use it. He only did when absolutely necessary. Using it tended to create other complications.

And if all that failed to impress, which it rarely did, there was his name. His great uncle might be three thousand years old, might not have left his house for a decade, but the smart people still feared him. The stupid people, well, the world was better off without stupid people, wasn't it? Everyone but his great uncle rushed to make him happy. Age, his uncle asserted with tedious regularity, had its privileges. How fortunate it also made the old man tired. His demands were less frequent with each year that passed. That they were less frequent did not make them less inconvenient or annoying.

This particular task was both. He frowned. Dimitri's growing dominance over the family empire might have made him a bit, he considered a variety of words before settling on, complacent that there would be few bumps—

The vehicle chose that moment to go through one of New Orleans' many potholes. Almost he chuckled. He had a sense of humor. It was part of his charm. He could even appreciate irony. It eased his boredom. Not that boredom was his current problem. It wasn't even that someone had failed to do exactly as he wished. It happened. Rarely, but it happened.

No, it was not the what in his way, but the who. The she. Had he ever been troubled by a she? He considered the question, but could not recall any woman making more than a mild ripple in his life. Women had one purpose, then were…nudged on. Attempts to linger were dealt with by his people.

The finger tapping tempo increased. What did the old man expect to come of this meeting? What outcome did he desire? The nature of the task was too ambiguous, too lacking in direction.

“Find out why she is here,” his uncle had ordered.

With an irritated shift, Dimitri pulled the folder close and opened it, staring at the face of the woman. Bland, beyond ordinary, a librarian from Wyoming? No one that mattered came from Wyoming. What interest could she hold for the old man? Why did he care to know why she was here? It wasn't the usual interest. She wasn't young or pretty enough for that. His uncle had tried to hide it, of course, but he was very interested. Unnaturally interested. Sadly, that meant Dimitri must pretend she interested him.

“She shouldn't be hard to charm into talking,” the old man had said, as if Dimitri's charm were tonic easily and carelessly dispensed. “No competition noted.”

Of course no competition had been noted. She was an ordinary woman in her
thirties
. The trick wouldn't be charming her into talking, but getting her to shut up. He frowned down at the photograph. What could she possibly know? The report was so bland, it had bored him to read it.

Was the old man finally losing it? He'd thought so, had delegated the job until, well, the old bear still had some teeth. Uneasy, and not sure why, he'd crafted a plan, certain the problem would be ticked off his to-do list with only a small disruption to his schedule. The woman would be charmed to meet him and spill her secrets with no muss or fuss. Women always were easy. She worked for a catering company. He often needed a caterer. So he arranged to need one. She was the personal assistant. In his experience, the assistant was the first person one met, not the last.

Two weeks later, he still had not made contact with the most impersonal personal assistant he'd ever
not
met. If not for the photographic evidence that she did indeed exist, he'd have begun to wonder if he was the one losing it. The impasse might have continued if not for two events.

His uncle had demanded an update, with a look in his eyes that boded trouble for Dimitri, the kind his people couldn't manage. It was not a good moment to realize that not only was the old man spoiled, too, he had also been spoiled longer. And there were many others waiting in the wings for their shot at being the right-hand man to a dying old man.

Even that might not have mattered if not for the clincher in the latest report from the investigator, a report that included a photograph of St. Cyr giving the woman his crocodile smile. This sent her to the top of his to-do list. If St. Cyr was interested, so was he. It was time to force an “accidental” meeting with this oddly elusive quarry.

He'd waited until the Burland woman was too far away to get back and then called and asked for an urgent meeting. And he'd agreed—after a short pause—to make do with her assistant. There was no other personal assistant on record, so he was reasonably confident this time—though not confident enough to update his uncle just yet.

Now his limousine drifted to a smooth halt in front of the stately residence that housed Blue Bayou Catering and, he hoped, his soon-to-be-solved problem. His driver ignored the traffic that quickly piled up behind them while Vlad slid out of the front seat to open the rear door for Dimitri.

Indifferent to the cacophony of honking horns or the waiting Vlad, Dimitri studied the house through half lowered lids. If he owned such prime real estate, he'd bring in a bulldozer. He understood there were rules, but he'd been driving over them for most of his life. Forgiveness was much easier to buy than permission. And he was weary of the old, most especially weary of catering to an old man clinging with claw-like hands to his power.

Was this the chink in his aging armor? A way to finally bring the old buzzard down? What was it about this woman that brought an avid gleam to the rheumy old eyes of both men? It certainly wasn't the usual reason. Neither man had ever dallied with a female over twenty-five. Sadly, there was only one way to find out. He must be brave and gaze upon ordinary and pretend to like it. Possibly even charm it.

Dimitri stepped out into the annoying humidity, giving a slight shrug to rearrange the line of his suit. He was Russian by blood, if not by birth. A creature of the cold, he wondered, not for the first time, why the old man chose to headquarter his empire in a humid swamp when he had most of the world to choose from.

He trod the short, curving path to imposing doors, and Vlad stepped up to press the bell, then shifted to the side, his stance alert as his driver put the car—and traffic—in motion once more. The door swung wide, the shadowy interior somewhat impeding his view of what he presumed was the source of his great uncle's—and very much his own—discontent.

“Mr. Afoniki?”

At least her voice did not grate. He nodded a greeting, stepping into the cool hallway without waiting for permission. Out of the bright sun, his eyes adjusted, allowing him an opportunity to assess his quarry.

“I'm Nell Whitby. Sarah's been delayed, but she should be here soon.”

Not too soon, he hoped, producing a practiced smile for this easy prey. With a small measure of curiosity, he compared reality with the photographs. Like a properly demure personal assistant, she wore a slim black skirt, white blouse and low heeled shoes. There were signs she'd tried to tame her hair, though it wisped a bit around her face, because of the humidity he presumed, having endured countless complaints from various women on the subject. Her voice was pitched low and was a bit on the cool side. He couldn't mind. At least she didn't gush.