Vision Impossible (15 page)

He scowled at me but made no further argument, taking my phone and motioning for me to get back into the car and go through the gate.

Once I was safely tucked back in my car, I used the rearview mirror to put the clip back into place, pulling a section of my hair back but leaving the sides long to cover my ears. Once I’d secured the clip, which hid a tiny camera and microphone and which Frost had insisted I wear, I clicked the teeny button on the side and felt it vibrate slightly. “How’s the angle?” I whispered.

In my ear I heard Frost say, “It’s fine. What took so long?”

I nodded to the guard as I passed by him through the gates. “I got the pat down,” I said. “And he took my cell.”

“Shit!” Frost said. “You let him have your cell? What numbers are on there, Cooper?”

I smiled. “None. I took the SIM card and locked the phone.”

There was a pause, then, “Good thinking,” which I thought might be the highest form of praise from Agent Frostbite.

I parked the car and took a small moment to collect myself. I knew the odds of coming out of here with Dutch were very, very low, and I had no idea if he was alive or dead, or even what condition he was in, but I knew that the most important thing for me to do was to remain calm, cool, and collected. I couldn’t react to anything that I saw or heard, because that could tip our hand, which would ensure our swift and immediate demise.

Frost had also warned me (at length) not to mention the drone or the code we were trying to shop. “If he knows you’ve got something as valuable as Intuit’s code, he’ll keep Rivers hostage until you cough up the disk—then we’ll be totally screwed.”

So, I was left with nothing but my own wits and my sixth sense to see me through the night. I knew that in order to utilize both to the fullest, I needed to collect myself and gather my courage. While I took a quiet moment in the car, I did what I usually do before I see my clients. I tucked all my emotions, feelings, judgments, and ego into a secure place in my brain, before stepping fully into the character of Abigail Carter, badass business partner to Rick Des Vries.

I then got out of the car and approached the house, carrying my purse and the small attaché. I raised my hand to use the knocker, but the door opened before I even had a chance. “Good evening,” said a man well into his sixties and sporting a British accent and a walking stick. “Ms. Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Very good to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “I am William Eddington, Mr. Grinkov’s butler.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“If you’ll follow me to the dining room?” he said with a slight bow before turning and moving through the large foyer, his walking stick clicking on the marble floor as we went.

The interior of the house wasn’t that surprising. I’d expected expensive, and that’s what I saw. Mostly brownish tones with olive green and gold accents and walls decorated with a great deal of expensive-looking art in gilded frames. By the looks of it, Grinkov favored the Impressionist era, but I found the overall effect of the house’s color and decorating style to be heavy and too serious for me.

We entered a large dining room with a cherrywood table polished to a bright sheen. Chairs that looked like thrones were positioned just so around the table, and two place settings had been arranged—one at the head of the table and one just to the left.

William indicated the seat on the left and pulled my chair out for me. I sat and folded my hands in my lap. “Would you care for a cocktail?” William asked me.

“No, thank you, William. Will Mr. Grinkov be long?”

“Good evening,” said a voice to my right. I swiveled slightly and into the room walked one of the sexiest men I’d ever seen. . . . (Uh . . . next to my fiancé of course . . . cough, cough.)

I stood as he approached, and switched my radar on to its highest setting. Maksim Grinkov was slightly shorter than Dutch, but I’d still put him close to six feet. He had a body that he took very good care of and he walked with the grace and power of an athlete. He had a broad chest, well-set shoulders, and a trim stomach. I had little doubt underneath his dress shirt he was sportin’ a six-pack.

He strolled into the room confidently, wearing black silk slacks and a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned muscular arms.

His face was square and roguish, his lips full and inviting, and his hazel eyes locked with mine, causing my pulse to quicken even despite the knowledge of who this man was and what he’d done to my fiancé.

In that moment I could tell he also liked what he saw. I felt my stomach muscles clench, and I wondered if I’d just done something incredibly stupid, like entering the den of a lion while wearing eau de antelope.

“Ms. Carter,” he said smoothly, stopping in front of me to take my hand and kiss it formally.

“Mr. Grinkov,” I answered, quickly quelling the burble of nervous tension in the pit of my stomach.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, standing tall again to pin me with those deadly, sexy eyes.

“Likewise. And thank you for inviting me to dine with you.” I worked on making my words formal and clear, hoping my manner and tone showed that I was all business.

Grinkov motioned for me to take my seat again, and I did. William, who’d been standing beside us the whole time, assisted me with my chair before moving off again, the sound of his walking stick fading into the distance.

“My chef has prepared a wonderful meal for us tonight,” Grinkov said, unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap. “I hope that you stay long enough to enjoy it.”

I nearly sucked in a breath at the implied threat, but managed to keep my mounting fear in check. Forcing myself to laugh lightly, I said, “As I do enjoy a nice meal, Mr. Grinkov, I hope so too.”

Grinkov raised his eyes to meet mine again. “Please, call me Maks.”

I nodded slightly and placed my hand over my heart. “Abigail.”

William returned at that moment, pushing a cart loaded with a rocks glass loaded with ice and vodka for his boss, and I was given a tall glass of bubbling water with a wedge of lime on the rim.

“You will not be having a cocktail?” Grinkov asked me.

“No,” I said, staring right at him. “I believe that business matters should be discussed with a clear head.”

The corner of Grinkov’s mouth quirked, but he made no further comment about my sobriety. Instead he raised his glass to me before taking a long sip. “So, tell me, Abigail, how did you and Richard become business partners?”

Grinkov’s eyes roved my face and chest again, and it was very obvious this particular lion loved the scent of antelope. I wondered if I might use his obvious attraction to me to my advantage like I’d done with Kozahkov, and decided to go with it. “The usual way,” I said coyly, lifting my own napkin to unfold it and place it in my lap.

“What usual way is that, exactly?”

“We had some great sex over a three-day holiday, and in the few times we came up for air, we discovered that we had similar . . . uh,
financial
interests.”

Grinkov tilted his head back and laughed. I could tell that whatever he’d expected me to say, it hadn’t been that. He sobered quickly, or shall I say, he smoldered quickly. The man was oozing virility, and in the very back of my head I was at least relieved he didn’t physically repulse me like Viktor. “And do you still share his bed?” he asked.

“Des Vries?”

“Yes,” he said, eyeing me intently, looking for any hint of dishonesty.

“No. I do not share my bed with Rick Des Vries. Our arrangement now is strictly business.”

Grinkov sat back in his chair when William came back into the room, pushing his cart again, but this time it was loaded with a tray of toasted bread and three small dishes mounded with a black substance. Setting down the contents of the tray in front of us, he pointed to each individual dish and said, “Imperial Iranian osetra, Russian osetra, and Siberian osetra. Please alert me, sir, if you require more toast.”

William then departed and I was left to consider the idea of eating caviar.
Fish eggs, blach!

Grinkov motioned for me to go first. Luckily, I’ve been to enough of my sister’s big Christmas shindigs to know the proper way to eat the slimy stuff.

I worked my way through a sample of each of the dishes and smiled and made little
mmm-mmm
sounds.

Grinkov continued to watch me closely, but he also continued to sip at his vodka, and it wasn’t long before he was given a refill.

Once the caviar was removed and replaced with a potato-leek soup, which was heavenly, Grinkov said, “Tell me about your business dealings with Des Vries.”

I wiped demurely at my mouth with my napkin before answering him. “No.”

Grinkov’s spoon stopped midway to his mouth. “You refuse me?” he asked, a dangerous undertone in his voice.

“Yes,” I said, without flinching.

Grinkov set down his spoon and his hands rested beside his soup, clenching and unclenching. I knew he was waiting for me to elaborate, but I wasn’t about to, especially given Frost’s warning. I also knew that I couldn’t make something else up because I knew that Grinkov would check it out and then Dutch and I would be toast.

My host inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly and said, “You must give me a detail to confirm that you and Richard are partners.”

“Fine,” I said, reaching down to pick up my attaché. Being careful not to bump my soup, I opened it and took out ten packs of Canadian one-hundred-dollar bills. “There’s the hundred grand I promised you as a down payment for Mr. Des Vries’s debts,” I said. “That should be proof enough.”

Grinkov did not even look at the money; instead he continued to eye me in frustration. “Very well,” he said at last, his tone a bit icy now. “But we must discuss the arrangement of the other four hundred and fifty thousand.”

This time I couldn’t help it—I let out a gasp. “He only owes you four hundred thousand more, Mr. Grinkov.”

Grinkov smiled. He liked that he’d finally pushed one of my buttons. “Interest,” he said by way of explanation. “And please, call me Maks.”

Again I had to work hard to rein in my emotions, but I managed. “I would like to see Rick to make sure he’s all right.”

William appeared at my side to take my soup bowl, and Grinkov waited until his butler had replaced the dish with pan-braised trout and succulent-looking vegetables before he said, “We will eat a little first.”

I had no choice; I had to sit there and pick at my food, waiting for Grinkov to give the okay to let me see Dutch. It wasn’t until William came in again to refill his rocks glass that Maks finally made a small hand gesture to his butler, who nodded and left us alone.

As Grinkov was finishing his final bite of trout, the butler returned with a computer tablet. Grinkov took it from him and flipped the screen on, swiveling it around to show me. The image on the monitor revealed Dutch, sitting down and leaning heavily against the wall in a small room with no furniture. His shirt was torn and stained at the collar with blood, and I could see he’d been badly beaten.

I forced myself to take a slow steady breath, pushing down the fury the image inspired. “How do I know he’s alive?” I asked.

Grinkov calmly removed his cell from his pocket and made a call. He spoke in Russian and while I watched, someone entered the room, causing Dutch to pick his head up slightly. The man looked up at the monitor with a sick smile and kicked Dutch, who reacted by lunging at the assailant and wrapping his arms around the thug’s leg, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Another man ran in and shoved Dutch off his partner’s leg, punching my fiancé in the head for good measure before both thugs departed.

It took everything I had, and I do mean
everything
, not to burst into tears and stab Grinkov with my fork. But none of those actions would help Dutch, so I dipped my chin and took a deep breath once. Twice. Three times, waiting for the panic, fear, rage, and gut-wrenching heartache to pass. It didn’t, but I managed to get beyond it—at least temporarily.

“Motherfuckers,” I heard in my ear. Frost had seen the image on the monitor and it was the first time I’d heard from him since I’d entered the home. His voice in my ear reminded me that I wasn’t completely alone in all this. That, more than anything, helped me focus and come up with a plan.

“You’ve beaten him,” I said, my voice hollow and cold.

Grinkov was again watching me intently. “Richard knew there would be consequences for nonpayment.”

“Easy, Cooper,” Frost whispered.

“He requires medical attention,” I said.

“You may take him to the hospital the moment I receive all that is owed to me,” Grinkov said in a tone that didn’t allow for argument. “Besides,” he added, his mouth turned down in disgust, “Richard has given far worse beatings to his women—or hadn’t you heard about that?”

I swallowed hard again. “I’ve heard.”

Grinkov eyed me with steely eyes. “And yet you and he are friends.”

The statement was more a question and I knew I had to offer up some sort of explanation, so I said, “Richard is not my friend; he is my business partner. Even though we connected under intimate circumstances, we no longer have that kind of relationship, and Richard knows that if he ever laid a hand on me, I’d kill him dead.”

Grinkov appeared to take that in. “Well, at least you have some sense,” he said to me. “But you will forgive me if I do not pity Richard’s little accident today. I saw a girl he’d gotten cross with once, and I can assure you, her physical condition was
much
worse.”

I tried to remember that Grinkov fully believed Dutch was Richard Des Vries, and that it was obvious the former mobster didn’t especially advocate violence against women, and he’d maybe ordered his boys to be a little rougher with Dutch because of it, but now I knew what was in store for my fiancé if I didn’t get him out of there tonight, and it chilled me to the bone. My ankle tapped against the attaché at my feet, where I’d replaced the money before we’d been served our final courses. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Grinkov—”