Читать книгу Shannon McKenna Bundle: Ultimate Weapon, Extreme Danger, Behind Closed Doors, Hot Night, & Return to Me - Shannon McKenna - Страница 13

Val stepped into the building that housed Shibumi, an exclusive private dining club, and gave his name to the security personnel at the desk, secretly vibrating with unprofessional excitement while they called up to see if he was expected. They verified that he was and he proceeded up to the sixteenth floor. Shibumi was the meeting place stipulated by Tamara Steele on the computer bulletin board, the only way she would deign to communicate with him after her initial phone call the day before. She had posted the meeting location a half hour before. A cautious woman.

He still could not believe his luck.

He wrestled his mind back into matrix mode. Cool, detached, and watchful. He must not betray himself by demonstrating urgency or fear. He couldn’t even think about Imre, sitting slump-shouldered and alone in a dark, locked cell. Or about what could happen to the child in Novak’s hands. Or the fate that awaited Tam Steele if he carried out his mission. The things he’d seen, in Novak’s underground chamber.

Things that still haunted him.

Don’t. He pushed the memories aside. Tonight’s job was simplicity itself. Buy Imre more time until he could think of a fucking plan. That was all. Tonight, he was a rich Roman entrepreneur, on a mission for profit. A confirmed playboy who loved wine, women and money. All he had to do was charm her…and seduce her. On film. Hah. Easy.

He would deal with all the rest of it one fucking minute at a time.

He had identified a short list of priorities as a basic framework to work from. One, keep Imre in one piece. Two, keep the child far from the action. Three, spare the woman. Four, stay alive himself, if at all possible. If not, pazienza. He died. So what? He hadn’t really expected to live all that long anyway.

The elevator opened onto an elegant, tasteful room decorated with Japanese paneling and screens. He informed the impassive Asian man behind the desk of his appointment. The man picked up the phone, murmured into it in Japanese. Moments later, two tall, very broad men came out. One was fair and one was dark. He recognized them both from the surveillance cameras he had mounted outside the McClouds’ homes. The blond man was Davy McCloud, the dark one was Nick Ward.

Their muscular bodies were dressed in surprisingly good suits, discreetly tailored to make room for their shoulder holsters. They had the requisite flat, watchful look of security personnel on their faces.

“Mr. Janos?” said McCloud. “Come with us, please.”

McCloud led the way, while Ward fell into place behind him. Val had been surprised to hear the man pronounce his name correctly. Yah-nosh. They returned to the elevator, and proceeded to the next floor, which evidently housed the private dining rooms. A key card opened one of the doors. A small, paneled anteroom had a closet for his coat. The security men watched him while he hung it up.

“Ms. Steele does not want to meet with anyone carrying a weapon,” McCloud said.

Val thought about that for a moment. “Ironic,” he murmured.

The man’s expression did not change. He waited.

“Will she abide by the same terms?” Val asked.

The two men glanced at each other and shrugged. “Not our business,” said Ward. “Ask her yourself. See what she says.”

“You’re free to leave, if you don’t like it,” McCloud added.

He crouched and pulled the knife out of his ankle sheath. It was just as well that he’d left the pistol, considering it out of character for a wealthy businessman. He’d figured that the knife was an accessory that any man abroad in an unfamiliar foreign city might choose. He felt naked without it. But his hands and feet were weapons themselves after years of intensive training in various martial arts disciplines.

McCloud took his knife. Ward stepped up, gesturing for him to lift his arms. “Excuse me,” he said, sounding far from apologetic.

Val submitted to a thorough pat down. “Do you two work for the club or for Ms. Steele personally?”

“We do our job,” Ward said. “We don’t talk about it.”

Fair enough. McCloud opened a door to an adjoining room, and gestured for him to enter. It was large, candlelit, a table positioned next to a floor-to-ceiling window with a spectacular view of the evening cityscape and the expanse of Elliott Bay.

“Wait here,” Ward said. “Ms. Steele will be in when she’s ready.”

The door clicked shut behind him. Val looked around at the beautifully appointed room. On one side was a long conference table with chairs around it. Against the opposite wall was a lavishly stocked bar, a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice, a bowl of fruit, a crystal carafe of water, an assortment of glasses. The beige carpet woven of sand-grass had a suble, complex pattern and a sweet, earthy scent. Low, intimate chairs faced each other over the dining nook. It seemed a spot for a lovers’ tryst, not a business meeting.

He wondered at the choice of place. Probably for the privacy, the controlled atmosphere. Ease of monitoring entrances and exits.

He wondered if he was being watched, and sat on the urge to look around for the surveillance equipment. If these people were as professional as they appeared, he would not find it, and he would reveal too much about himself by searching. Val Janos, the pampered Roman uomo d’affare, was not paranoid. He had no reason not to simply pour himself a drink, sit down, and enjoy the view.

Val did exactly that, but he let his foot tap with the jittery impatience of a rich man not accustomed to being kept waiting. It was not good to seem overly controlled, either. That, too, was incongruous.

He stared out at the city lights and added data to the matrix. Watched it shift and turn as he prepared his mind to take in more. To observe all, forget nothing.

The door opened. The anteroom beyond was brighter than the room he was in, and Steele was poised in the door with her face in shadow, backlit for maximum effect. Her slender, gracefully curved body was clothed in black, sinuous as a cat. She held a large leather case. He’d asked her to bring a wide range of designs.

He rose to his feet as she walked in. She gave him a brief nod of greeting, turned to lay her case upon the large conference table, and crossed the room toward him with that loose, feline gait that had fascinated him on the video footage.

She stared into his face. The matrix flashed, sparked and melted in his mind into soup under her direct, unflinching gaze.

He kept a bland smile on his face as he regrouped. He hadn’t been prepared for the physical effect of her upon his senses.

The sheer, raw, electric force of her. He was buzzing, breathless.

Her costume was elegantly simple. Snug black trousers, gleaming, spike-heeled black boots and a tailored black silk blouse, to set off a dazzling array of collars, pendants, earrings. Her hands were loaded with rings, her wrists with bracelets. Her hair was slicked back with gel, plastered to her head and twisted into an intricate knot, which was stabbed through by cruelly sharp sticks, adorned with a snarl of silver and obsidian beadwork. The look was severe and striking.

Her gaze did not waver. His heart quickened. His cock stirred.

Don’t, he told himself. His dick had no say in this. Detach. Three steps back. Seduction yes, but controlled seduction.

Her face was both flawless and unique. Elegant bone structure, each feature bordering on perfection; her lips lush and full and yet delicate in a way that bee-stung silicone lips could never be. The jut of her cheekbone was echoed by the sweep of her eyebrows. Her piercing eyes were huge, tilted at the corners. Her lashes were long and curling.

Hazel green. Not her original color. His lust to know their real color startled him. She wore no makeup on her fine-grained, flawless skin, and needed none. Just a slick of colorless gloss on her lips.

“Mr. Janos.” She also pronounced his name correctly. Her voice was low, husky, but intensely feminine, full of rich colors, spices, smoky sweet overtones. It went straight to his groin, like a bold caress.

“Ms. Steele.” He held out his hand. She hesitated, just long enough to make him consider dropping it, but instinct prodded him to persevere.

She took it, finally. Her skin was soft and smooth. The chilly, textured hard metal of her jewelry was a sharp contrast. A shock of electric awareness shot up his arm from the physical contact, zinging through his nerves, making lights flash, bells ring inside him.

She felt it, too. He sensed her sudden stillness, the way her smile tightened. He released her hand reluctantly. The silence between them felt suddenly awkward, too long. Charged with meaning.

“Would you prefer to conduct our conversation in Italian, Signor Janos?” she asked him, in flawless Italian. “We could, if it would be more comfortable for you. It’s all the same to me.”

Interesting that she would let him choose the language. He could sense her mind-set shifting in a way that wasn’t American at all. Very civilized, very European. Concealing far more than she would ever reveal.

“I am tempted,” he replied in the same tongue. “Italian sounds beautiful on your lips. I usually prefer English for business. I appreciate its clarity. For pleasure, however, perhaps later…?” He let his voice trail off suggestively. Let his eyes gleam with discreet hunger.

“English, then,” she said crisply. “I see you have already made yourself comfortable.” Her eyes flicked to his whiskey glass.

He acknowledged the subtle slap-down with a rueful smile. “May I get you a drink?” he asked. “I chose the Macallan.”

“You are a connoisseur, then. The Macallan is a favorite of mine, too. Mr. Takuda put it out for me especially.”

He seized a tumbler. “Straight up?”

“Of course,” she murmured.

He was grateful to have a moment with his back turned, to collect himself. A few seconds of relative privacy to get the matrix reestablished, the data feed started back up. He had a method. A good one. Stick to it, testa di cazzo. Detach.

He handed her the glass. Candlelight sparkled on her rings and bracelets, off the cut crystal tumbler, the amber swirl of liquid, the bright awareness in her eyes. She lifted the glass to her lips.

He dragged his eyes away. He was sweating, for the love of God. His collar tight, his face hot. This was absurd.

He stared down at her hands and nodded at their glittering load. “A one-woman arsenal, I assume?”

Her lips curved. His lungs suddenly stopped working, his heart speeding up. Her smile was a weapon in itself, spiced with danger and challenge, hinting at unheard-of delights. “I enjoy the feeling of a secret advantage,” she said. “It is the spirit behind all of my designs.”

“They are beautiful,” he conceded. “Complimenti. Forgive me if this is an invasive question, but do you never create a beautiful thing just for beauty’s sake alone?”

She sipped, her eyelashes mysteriously lowered. “Never. And besides, dangerous secrets are beautiful. Don’t you think?”

He thought about that. “They can be, I suppose,” he said dubiously. “It depends on the secret. And your point of view.”

She smiled. “And what is your point of view, Mr. Janos?”

He lifted his glass to her in a silent toast. “That of a man whose lone secret weapon was confiscated by your security staff,” he said.

“Ah. That.” She tilted her head to the side, amusement gleaming in her eyes. “Did the boys alarm you? They are very protective. Touchingly so. But I hardly consider you defenseless.”

“No?” He swirled the liquor in his glass and inhaled the rich, complex smell of it. “With such deadly beauty, so many dangerous secrets massed against me?”

“No. The way you move says it all,” she said. “Shaking your hand confirmed it. The enlarged knuckle joints and the calluses on your first and second finger are those of an experienced judoka. And your hands are electric, Mr. Janos. You are accustomed to channeling vital energy with them. You are an experienced martial artist with a high level of interdisciplinary training.”

He was startled into a split second of blankness, but rallied quickly. “I do enjoy martial arts for exercise and recreation,” he said. “And I belong to a martial arts club near my home in Rome. But I would not presume to call myself a master. And I miss my knife.”

“Your knife, I think, is overkill.”

He injected a calculated hint of seduction into his smile. “I like overkill,” he said softly, letting let his gaze drop to the tangle of complicated jewelry at her cleavage. “And so do you, I think.”

She conceded this with a brief nod.

“I am tempted to procure some of your dangerous secrets for myself,” he said. “To combat my male insecurity.”

“Bullshit,” she said softly. “You do not have a single insecure bone in your body, Mr. Janos.”

He blinked. “Ah. Thank you…I think.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “It was not a compliment, just an observation. And in any case, I do not design jewelry for men. Ever. It is against all my principles.” Her smile turned predatory.

He knew when to back off. “Of course. I was surprised at your security procedures. Was all this elaborate choreography necessary?”

She lifted her shoulders. “Who knows? I never do. Hence my caution.” Her smile widened. “Welcome to my world.”

“I am honored, to have penetrated even the outermost defences.”

Her eyes flickered. “Che galantuomo,” she murmured. “Erin told me about your old world charm.”

“I try to please,” he said. “Are you immune to charm, Ms. Steele?”

Her smile tightened. “We shall see, hmm?”

He had evidently overstepped his bounds by flirting with her. Val Janos allowed himself to be cowed.

“Excuse me for getting straight to business, but would you show me the torque that you showed to Erin?” she asked. “Before we begin, it makes sense to verify that it really is one of my designs.”

“Of course.” He opened his case and lay the flat black leather case on the conference table. Steele flicked it open and gazed down at it.

Her head was inches beneath his face. The mingled scents of her perfume and her hair gel tickled his nose. The coils of her hair were gleaming and slick as varnished mahogany, gelled sternly into submission. No wisps allowed. Part of her armor.

But he had seen her without it. He had already seen the thick, disheveled braid swinging down her back as she played with the child. He had seen it wet and loose, clinging to her neck, to her slender, naked back and shoulders. The damage was done.

She looked up, rocking him with the sudden, blazing force of her eyes. “The provenance?”

He looked politely regretful. “As is often the case in my business, the piece came to me by unofficial channels. I bought it from a woman in Rome who had received it from a mysterious foreigner in Prague on a mad weekend love affair—after which she could never contact him again. He evidently gave her a false name and cell number. She sold the piece to me out of pique. The card was with it. I recognized your name, since I’ve dealt with some of your pieces before. I have received many offers already. The price rises daily, you will be gratified to know.”

“I see.” She stared down at the torque, a tiny dent marring the smooth skin between her perfect brows. “Were you aware that the last known owner of this piece died three weeks ago in Paris? She fell to her death from a penthouse terrace. Thirty-four stories.”

“I am shocked to hear it,” he said, his voice respectfully subdued. “Was it…?”

“Suicide?” Steele’s elegant shoulders lifted. “Murder? Who can say? Perhaps she saw or heard something she shouldn’t, perhaps she slept with the wrong person. I imagine it’s best for you that the story not be widely known. People might consider the piece cursed.”

Val made a noncommittal sound. “Forgive me if this sounds calculated, but considering the type of people who are most drawn to your work, it may enhance the torque’s value. Risk makes people feel alive. Danger is an indulgence for many of them.”

“Yes, of course. Carefully controlled danger. Like an amusement park ride.” Her tone was delicately contemptuous. “Do you like danger, Mr. Janos?”

“I am here, am I not?”

Her chilly smile pushed him away. She lifted a telephone set into the wall near the table. “Have you eaten? The food here is excellent.”

“I rarely eat in the evening,” he said. “But rules can be suspended. When temptation beckons, it is wasteful to resist.”

She ignored his flirting. “I had originally thought to invite you to a place that specializes in Italian food, in case you were homesick for ragú, or gnocchi,” she said. “Then I changed my mind, decided to range a little further afield.”

“You did well,” he said. “I seldom eat Italian food outside of Italy. No matter how talented the chef, la cucina italiana loses much of its magic out of context.”

“I agree,” she said. “Well, then. Your choices are the classic Japanese haute cuisine of Mr. Takuda, or that of his wife and associate, Mariko Takuda, who specializes in a more modern style of pan-Asian fusion dishes.”

“Choose for me,” he said gallantly. “I put myself in your hands.”

“Ah, you do enjoy risk.” She picked up the phone and spoke at some length in what sounded like fluent Japanese to whoever was on the other line.

“How many languages do you speak?” he asked.

Her gaze slid away. “Oh, I lost count long ago,” she evaded. “The question becomes irrelevant at a certain point. Shall I show you the pieces, while we wait for dinner?”

He assented. She turned on a light, and laid out her pieces.

Her work was stunning. The designs were bold and yet delicate, imbued with a sense of simmering danger, and the hidden weapons were as cunning and ingenious as they were effective. He understood why Steele’s work was becoming a hot investment. It was unique, timeless. The businessman inside him that desperately wanted to be let out was intrigued, already calculating the profits that could be had by organizing a private auction to select clients of Capriccio Consulting.

He tried not to dwell on how badly he wished his act was real.

A discreet knock indicated that their meal had arrived. Two attractive Asian women entered, clad in skintight, jewel-toned silk brocade dresses, pushing a rolling tray full of fragrant, steaming dishes.

Dinner was essentially a duel. He continued his attempt to flirt with her. She would lead him on for a few dance steps and then slam the door in his face. She ate little, despite the savory perfection of the food, and preferred the steaming green tea to the sake that accompanied the meal. He was pouring her another cup when her cell phone chimed.

She pulled it from some hidden pocket in her pants and glanced at the display, frowning. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

She retreated to the far corner of the room, and stood with her back to him, muttering in Portuguese, in a tone he wasn’t meant to overhear. “…yes, I told you she needs a bath…well? So? She always has a cold! If I only bathed her when she didn’t have a cold, she’d never be bathed at all…so heat the bathroom, and dry her hair…Cristo Santo, Rosalia, you’ll survive if she screams. I survive when she screams…no, not the yogurt. She’s constipated. Give her the fruit, and the bran cookies if she wants another snack…how should I know where the fuzzy pink blanket is? Look in the laundry room, or under the covers of my bed…”

The hot buzz that had been building up in his balls vanished.

The child. He’d been so titillated by his seductive role, he’d let his lies and his lust become almost real.

And this was his chance when she wasn’t looking. Her jewelry carrying case sat on the floor within arm’s reach. He had no idea if the room had hidden cameras. He weighed the risks and made his choice.

He poked the tiny, missile-shaped RF beacon needle tip right through the black leather of the case and insinuated it beneath. It left a tiny misshapen bulge, but by the time she noticed, it would no longer matter. It would only monitor her for maybe thirty-six hours, having so little battery power.

But Imre only had a couple of days, in any case.

“…so tell her I’ll be back soon. And only Elmo, or Pooh. The other ones give her nightmares. Yes. Just a couple of hours. ’Til then.”

She clicked the phone shut. He sensed rather than heard her sigh of frustration.

“You have a child?” he said quietly.

She whipped around, alarmed. “You speak Brazilian Portuguese?”

He shrugged. “Romance languages,” he said lightly. “Spanish, French, Italian, Romanian. You learn one, you learn them all.”

“Hmmph.” She gazed at him, eyes wide. He had scared her.

“Tell me about your daughter,” he urged.

Her haughty chin lifted. “I do not discuss my private life with strangers.”

He gave her a coaxing smile. “I am still a stranger?”

“Let’s focus on business,” she said crisply. “Why am I here, Mr. Janos? Talk. And be succinct, please.”

He displayed appropriate good-humored disappointment at being frozen out. “Very well. I am interested in organizing a private auction. Many of my clients are already eager to acquire your work. Once I put out the word, there will be a quiet stampede. And I have the perfect setting for it, too. A friend of mine owns a restored medieval masseria in San Sebastiano, near Naples, where we could organize a weekend event, and if you came—”

“Why the hell would I come?” Her voice was sharp.

“Your presence would be a huge draw,” he assured her. “Your mystery, your secrecy, your beauty.”

She gave him a disdainful look.

He persisted. “I am serious. Nothing stimulates people to spend money more than feeling part of an exclusive club. The commisions you will get for future pieces will keep you busy for years. You could earn hundreds of thousands, Ms. Steele. Perhaps seven figures.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and pondered him. “And you?” she asked. “What do you earn, Mr. Janos?”

He shrugged. “A modest percentage, of course.”

“Modest,” she purred. “A dangerous word. Very subjective, especially when it comes to money.”

“Never mind the money. We can hammer out the financial details later. For now, think about it. You come to San Sebastiano, enjoy a sensual, profitable weekend, and then disappear again to your secluded privacy with a sack of money. Why not?”

“It sounds dangerous,” she said.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “The place is private, the guests hand-picked, the security good, the time interval brief.”

“It’s dangerous because you are dangerous,” she said.

“You are more than what you seem. Or less. Shall I tell you why?”

Her words chilled him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Let me tell you all about yourself.” She gave him a coaxing, overly sweet smile. “Then tell me if I hit the mark. Think of it as a get-to-know-you game. Wasn’t that what you wanted? To know me better?”

He sensed a trap, but threw up his hands, galantuomo to the last gasp. “How can I refuse a lady?”