An Uncommon Honeymoon Page 25

  “Affirmative. I’m in the room directly across from where Borovsky’s set up camp.”

  “Copy,” James replied.

  “Sydney, how’s my feed?” Quinn touched the necklace with a tiny camera secreted in one of the stones resting on her chest.

  “Better than cable.”

  “Roger that.” She slipped her hand into the crook of James’s arm and held on as they climbed the steps. At the top, they passed through one of the arched doorways. With the interior’s intricate designs and lush, golden opulence surrounding them, she felt like she’d instantly been transported back in time one hundred fifty years.

  They traversed the black and white marble tiled floor and entered an atrium lined with light brown marble columns. Quinn’s eyes were drawn upward to the wrought iron and frosted-glass skylight. It was simply breathtaking.

  Her focus was pulled away from the décor when they turned left and stopped at one of the podiums at the entrance to the gaming rooms. “Bonsoir. Bienvenue au Casino de Monte-Carlo,” said the tuxedoed man staffing it.

  “Merci,” Quinn said, making eye contact. “And now I’ve pretty much exhausted my French.”

  “Not to worry,” he replied. She detected a slight sniff in his tone. “May I see your passport please?”

  She retrieved it from her clutch and passed it over.

  He glanced at the booklet and in a flash, his mild boredom evaporated. Now solicitous, he handed her passport back and said, “Mademoiselle Chamberlain, Monsieur Borovsky has been eagerly awaiting your arrival.” He raised a hand and waved over a steward. “Claude will show you to Monsieur Borovsky’s table.”

  Quinn stepped to the side and indicated James with a hand. “My associate will be accompanying me,” she stated.

  The man’s façade faltered. She read real fear in his eyes, as if he were terrified of the consequences of allowing James to go with her when he shouldn’t.

  She gave the man a disarming smile. “I’m sure Mr. Borovsky won’t mind. If he does, his issue will be with me.”

  He seemed to relax at her willingness to take any heat, although the dots of perspiration that had sprung up above his upper lip remained. “Of course.”

  James handed him his passport. After a cursory glance, he returned it and said, “Thank you, Monsieur Burton.”

  Claude gave them a stiff bow from the waist. “Follow me, please.”

  Quinn fell in step behind Claude, with James by her side. Under normal circumstances, she would have slipped her hand into his, or taken his arm. But their covers wouldn’t allow it, so she grudgingly kept her hands to herself.

  They walked through a room filled with video slot machines. Their bright, flashing garishness was a jarring juxtaposition to the crystal chandeliers, gilded décor, and large paintings depicting eighteenth-century aristocratic life.

  They left the pings and chimes of the slots behind and continued into a room dominated by gold and red. Scores of gamers played at blackjack and craps tables, their chips clattering as they made their bets.

  A wide wooden desk loomed ahead with patrons queued up at it. A quick glance at a sign informed Quinn admission had to be paid to enter through the golden door. Following Claude, she and James didn’t stop and sailed through. Apparently being a guest of Konstantin Borovsky had its perks.

  The lounge they entered had Quinn stopping dead in her tracks. Her breath caught as she beheld the rich blue and gold hues of the stained-glass panel in the ceiling above.

  “Exquisite, is it not?” Claude said, speaking for the first time.

  “Absolutely stunning,” she breathed. For a moment, she completely lost herself in the paintings, reliefs, mirrors, and cartouches decorating the room.

  James touched her elbow. “Miss Chamberlain?”

  She blinked and gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I got a little swept up.”

  “Perfectly understandable,” Claude said. He gestured toward the middle of three sets of double doors to their left. “We have arrived.”

  Her mind snapped into focus when she recognized the two bulky, stone-faced men standing guard. Dmitri and Yuri. She slipped a twenty-euro note from her clutch and handed it to Claude. “Merci.”

  “À votre service,” he said with a smart bow. “Bon chance.” He turned on his heel and retraced their steps.

  Before approaching Dmitri and Yuri, Quinn made a show of once again looking up, down, and all around the room. It was during that inspection she spotted Darius playing poker at a table in a nearby room.

  She sauntered over to the two sentries. “Hello, again. How are you feeling, Dmitri? No ill effects from yesterday, I hope.”

  He blinked, as if startled that she would ask about his health. “I am well. Thank you.” His accent was heavy, but she understood every word.

  “Good.” She dipped her chin and gave him a sly smile. Getting on the good side of big men with guns was never a bad thing. “Did Mr. Ovechkin do what he was told?”

  He grinned, something she had the feeling didn’t happen very often. “Da. We ate and drank much.”

  “Perfect,” she cooed. She turned and shot Yuri a wink. “Sorry again about that incident yesterday. I hope there are no hard feelings.” When his cheeks pinked and a tiny smile played on his lips, she knew she had him—both of them—wrapped around her little finger.

  She waited for them to move out of the way so she could enter the room. When they didn’t, she asked, “Is there a problem?”

  Dmitri licked his lips. “Mr. Borovsky say no cell phones.”

  Her exasperated huff wasn’t only for show. “Very well.” She took her phone from her purse and handed it over. Turning to James, she said, “Cade, hand Dmitri your phone.”

  The big man looked suddenly contrite and slightly constipated. “He may not go in room.”

  Her eyes flashed. “What? Why?”

  “Mr. Borovsky say no one but you.”

  It was all part of Borovsky’s constant game to gain and keep the upper hand. He may have thought he was making her feel weak and vulnerable. In truth, it just pissed her off.

  James gave her a tight nod. “I’ll be right here.”

  “Thank you, Cade.” She turned back to Dmitri, who tugged at the collar of his shirt with a finger. Narrowing her eyes at him, she asked, “Now what?”

  “I must search purse.”

  She rolled her eyes and opened the bag. Dmitri peered down into it, but didn’t touch any of the contents. She snapped it shut and held out her arms. “Are you going to frisk me, too?” She rotated three hundred sixty degrees. “Like I could hide a gun under a dress this tight.”

  In fact, she was hiding a gun under that tight dress. But by making a preemptive stink about it, she hoped it would prevent them from actually searching her. And with James being excluded from the room, she needed the Baby Glock secured to her inner thigh more than ever.

  The pink in Yuri’s cheeks deepened to crimson and engulfed his entire head. She found his bashfulness rather endearing.

  “You go in.” Dmitri put a massive hand on the doorknob and pushed open the door.

  “Thank you, Dmitri.” She shot James a here-goes-nothing look. “Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need it,” James said. The electricity arcing between them was palpable. “You’ll be great.”

  The urge to crush him in a fierce hug almost propelled her into his arms. The promise of falling asleep in them later would have to satisfy her for now.

  She strolled under swags of gold-trimmed maroon velvet hanging above the doorway and entered the room.

  A sixty-ish-year-old man leapt from his chair and hurried to greet her. “Miss Chamberlain. Welcome. I am Konstantin Borovsky.” He took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed the back of it.

  She had been expecting to see a ponderous, balding man with sagging jowls and massive eyebrows. The man before her was nothing like that. His gray hair was short but thick. The light eyebrows above blue, wide-set eyes indicated that in hi
s youth, his hair had likely been blond.

  Surprisingly trim, his tuxedo fit him perfectly. In fact, all of the five men milling about the room were dressed for a night at the opera. There wasn’t a tracksuit or tacky gold chain to be found.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Borovsky,” Quinn said. “Thank you for inviting me to play poker with you and your colleagues.” She glanced at the men in the room and swallowed her snarky “This is quite the sausage fest” comment before it could escape. Instead, she said, “I hope my skills aren’t too much of a disappointment.”

  He continued to clasp her hand in both of his. “Not at all. It will be a fair game since your dazzling beauty and charm have dulled our wits.” From the way his face shone as his gaze traveled over her, he was pleased with what he saw.

  He released her hand and turned toward the men milling about. “These are my associates.”

  She had the feeling that if she were to look, she would find a tattoo of Perun’s thunder mark under each tuxedo sleeve.

  “You know Ivan.”

  “Yes, of course. Nice to see you again, Mr. Ovechkin.” They shook hands, although his pinched expression made it clear he didn’t feel the same. He was probably still sore about what had happened the day before, not that she blamed him. She understood how having a gun fired at your chest at point-blank range could to leave one grumpy and holding a grudge.

  “This is Nikolai, Pasha, Mikhail, and Steve,” Borovsky said, introducing the rest of his guests.

  “Steve?” she asked with a bemused smile.

  “My mother was big Steve McQueen fan,” Steve said.

  “Ah. Of course,” Quinn said.

  Sydney said in Quinn’s ear, “Hold as still as you can when you shake their hands. I want to get pictures to put faces and names together.” This was the first time an outsider had infiltrated this deeply into Borovsky’s organization. They had to make the most of the opportunity.

  “Come. You will sit next to me so we can chat.”

  Borovsky held her chair as she took her seat at the semicircular table covered in burnt-orange felt. As she did, she scanned the room and located the two sets of doors on either side of the one she just entered through. There were also two windows that led to the outside. Whether they could be used for escape was unclear—it was likely a nasty drop.

  “Thank you.” She eyed the colorful chips stacked at her station. “I hope I don’t go bust in the first ten minutes.”

  “If you do, then I will obtain more chips for you,” Borovsky said. He lifted a finger. At his signal, the croupier began distributing the cards. “Unlike the rest of the tables in the casino, we will not be playing against the dealer. The management has approved, and has been compensated handsomely, I might add, for us to play a friendly game amongst ourselves.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she said, and tossed her ante into the pot. “Your English is impeccable, by the way, Mr. Borovsky.”

  “Thank you. I owe it to my three decades in international business.”

  A young woman slipped into the room to take drink orders. She looked at Quinn expectantly.

  “I’d like an unopened bottle of still water and a glass, please,” Quinn said.

  “Unopened,” Borovsky said, sounding amused. “You are afraid something nefarious might befall your drink?”

  She shrugged and shot him a disarming smile. “Just being cautious.”

  “Perhaps I should be offended that you do not trust me.”

  “You did plant a bug in my hotel suite.”

  He chuckled and ordered a bottle of champagne, the cost of which probably equaled her annual salary when she worked at the Westside Library. “One must do what is necessary to gain an advantage in any negotiation,” he said without a hint of regret.

  “Hence my caution.” She peeked at her hole cards—the two of diamonds and the five of hearts—and folded.

  “Excellent point. However, had I been able to find out more about you, Miss Chamberlain, I would not have had to rely on subterfuge. Why is there so little information about you available?”

  “I could ask the same question about you.” To her surprise, Borovsky folded his hand without a glance at his cards. The action made it abundantly clear she was his primary interest that evening, not poker.

  “Touché.” He angled himself toward her and rested an elbow on the table. “Tell me how you came to be a part of such an unseemly business as selling a mind-control drug.”

  “Nothing is free, Mr. Borovsky.” She dropped her chin and said in a husky tone, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

  His smile turned wolfish. “I do not usually engage in quid pro quo. But since you intrigue me so, I will play. You answer my question, and I will answer yours.”

  “Fair enough.” She launched into her story, keeping in mind that the best course of action was to remain as close to the truth as possible. “I was working as a reference librarian in California when a handsome patron came in looking to learn more about certain pieces of an art collection. He told me he worked for the insurance company covering the items and needed to get valuations.”

  “You are a librarian?”

  “I used to be.”

  “I cannot wait to hear how a librarian became a thief.”

  “As we researched the pieces together, I started to grow suspicious. I had the feeling he didn’t work for an insurance company, but was actually getting ready to steal the pieces we were researching. When I confronted him, he admitted I was right.”

  “But you did not turn him over to the authorities.”

  “No. He asked me to help him for a cut of the take.”

  “And you did this?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Librarians don’t get paid very well. It was my chance to pay off my student loans and have some left over.”

  “You stole the pieces and sold them?”

  “We did. It was quite the rush. We then successfully pulled off a number of similar jobs.”

  “This man. Is he the one with you now?”

  She pulled a face and shook her head. “Oh no. I had to split from him. He’d fallen in love with me,” she said with a sigh. “It got way too complicated and I don’t like entanglements. Plus, I was tired of splitting the money when I was doing most of the work. I invented Victoria Chamberlain, hired my own crew, and struck out on my own.”

  “Victoria Chamberlain is not your real name?”

  “No.”

  “Then you are not entangled with Cade, was it?”

  “No, although he’s an excellent stress reliever.” With a flirty wink, she added, “If you know what I mean.”

  James’s response in her ear was a gruff, “I’ll show you stress relief.”

  Quinn guessed the uncomfortable choke was Sydney’s while the deep chuckle came from Darius. She schooled her features and didn’t react to the goings-on in her ear. “Okay, Mr. Borovsky, your turn. How did you get your start?”

  “I began my career as a fartsovshchik.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with that term.”

  “As a young man in the 1970s and 80s, I sold goods from the West to my fellow Soviets yearning to be fashionable and trendy.”

  “You mean like Levi jeans?”

  “Yes. Levi’s, Lee, Wrangler. Young Soviets craved anything from the West: leather jackets, boots, Marlboro cigarettes, Japanese radios, tape players. I once sold a recording of Pink Floyd’s The Wall for twenty rubles. That does not sound like much now, but for a common Soviet, it was almost a week’s salary. It was very lucrative.”

  “And then everything changed when the Iron Curtain fell and the Soviet Union dissolved.”

  “Yes. My business model changed. I diversified. Now I own many legitimate businesses.”

  And a bunch that aren’t, she thought.

  The server returned with their drink orders and set a bottle and empty glass on the table. As requested, Quinn’s bottle was unopened.

  Borovsky poured champagne i
nto the two flutes the server set out. It didn’t escape her notice that they would be drinking from the same bottle, so the idea that it was somehow spiked was debunked. Regardless, she needed her head clear and her mind sharp. The glass would remain untouched.

  That didn’t go unnoticed. “You can soothe my disappointment at not drinking my champagne by telling me how you came to be in possession of an illicit mind-control drug.”

  “I suppose I could—”

  “Dammit,” James spat, stopping her cold. “We might have a problem. Viktor’s here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Quinn coughed into her hand to disguise her sudden midsentence stoppage.

  “Are you unwell?” Borovsky asked with concern.

  She needed a few seconds to sort out the jumbled thoughts triggered by James’s warning her of Viktor’s presence. She unscrewed the top of her water bottle and took a sip.

  “He’s coming this way,” James said barely above a whisper. “We don’t know if he’ll recognize you or not. Excuse yourself and hide out in the ladies’ room until it’s clear.”

  The memory of Anatoly pointing a gun at her through the car window flashed in her mind. From her reckoning, Viktor had only seen her back, not her face. And she’d been a redhead with glasses when she almost shot him with a tranquilizer dart at the drug flat in Saint Petersburg.

  She couldn’t bolt. How long would Viktor stay? She couldn’t hole up in the bathroom forever. She’d have to take her chances.

  “Dammit, Quinn,” James hissed. “Get out of there.”

  “I’m fine,” she croaked. Her response was as much to James as it was to Borovsky. She made a show of patting her chest and gave the Russian an embarrassed smile. “Frog in my throat.”

  “Viktor is talking to Yuri and Dmitri,” James said.

  Borovsky rested a hand on her arm. “Are you in need of assistance?”

  She stopped herself from slapping his hand away. “No, thank you.”

  “Here he comes,” James said.

  Viktor stepped into the room.

  Quinn lowered her chin and slowly poured her water into the empty glass, keeping her head down.

  Viktor passed behind her.

  James’s voice teetered on the edge of desperation. “You can still bail if you need to.”