Pretty impressive, if I said so myself.
Tiny, white lights twinkled in the trees and shrubs lining Romanov’s castle and property. Like a fairy tale, only my prince was a creepy, old guy.
One big goon opened our limo’s door, and we all piled out. I squinted against the icy-cold air and pulled my white, faux fur coat around me. The goon escorted us up the castle’s front steps. Not the same entrance TL and I had used yesterday. We’d entered through the side.
Two large wooden doors I estimated at twenty feet tall opened, gushing out warmth, light, and music. We stepped in and the doors closed behind us. Standing on a marble landing, we gazed down at the festivities in the enormous ballroom. Gorgeous women, hot guys, and old men. Dressed in gowns, tuxedos, suits, and even jeans. Drinking, dancing, and talking.
We were right on time, but the number of partygoers already here implied our tardiness. Guess people didn’t mess with fashionably late when Romanov was involved.
“Mizz January. Velcome.”
I didn’t have to look to know who that voice belonged to. Inwardly I groaned, but outwardly I plastered on a smile and turned. “Romanov!”
He held his hands out and I took them. He wasn’t wearing his oxygen tube, but his yellow skin looked even more jaundiced under these lights.
With wet lips, he kissed both my cheeks in greeting and then introduced himself to David and Jonathan.
Romanov turned me around and slipped my coat off, skimming his chilly fingers down my arms as he went. I fought the urge to gag. “You are very enticing this evening.” He held his arm out. “Shall vee?”
I chanced a quick glance at David. He quickly snapped his attention to the party. With a slap on the back to TL and a quick nod to Jonathan, he made his way down the steps. I shouldn’t have peeked at him. I could blow my cover doing something so stupid.
Romanov silently indicated a spot against the back wall where other bodyguards were standing. TL nodded and headed off in that direction. Jonathan trailed behind him. I experienced a flash of panic at being left alone, but immediately squashed it down. My teammates knew exactly where I was.
Sliding my hand into the crook of Romanov’s arm, I followed him down the marble stairs and along the perimeter of the ballroom. More than one set of eyes turned curiously in our direction.
Smile. Suck in stomach. Shoulders back. Smile. Suck in stomach. Shoulders back.
I chanted Audrey’s commands so my brain wouldn’t focus on my flip-flopping stomach. Being escorted by Romanov was a privilege. I met the other models’ jealous stares with a Jade January, he-likes-me-better-than-you preen, when all I really wanted to do was hand him over with a here, take him.
We stopped at one of the many bars positioned around the room. “What would you like?”
“Seltzer with a twist of lime, please.”
“Good girl. Alcohol haz too many calories.”
Good girl? What was I, his pet?
A young, bald guy approached from the right. He gave me a cursory glance as he spoke to Romanov in Ushbanian. At least I assumed it was Ushbanian. The bartender set my glass down, and I took a tiny sip.
Romanov lifted my hand and placed a damp kiss on my knuckles. “Pleaze excuse me. I’ll only be a few minutes.”
He and the bald guy rounded the bar and disappeared through a door. Hmm, wonder where they’re going? To do some bad-guy thing for sure. I’d seen enough movies: bad-guy leader excuses himself from joyful get-together. Shows up in basement where other bad guys are waiting. Good guy is chained to chair, bloody and beaten. Won’t give bad guys information. Bad-guy leader orders torture until good guy gives in.
I focused on the pink marble floor beneath my stilettos. If only I possessed laser vision and could see the basement and tell whether or not a good guy was chained there.
A pair of shiny black shoes stepped into my line of sight. I looked up at a gorgeous guy. Blond. Green eyes. Impeccably dressed in a light gray suit. He bowed. “Mizter Schalmosky asked me to dance vith you. He vill be longer than expected.”
I nodded, said thank you, and slipped my arm through his. “I’m Jade January. What’s your name?”
“Mizz January, you may call me Petrov.”
“Petrov.” I tried his name, staring at his scrumptious face. Too bad he was a bad guy.
We made our way onto the packed dance floor and through the gyrating bodies. He stopped somewhere in the middle and began dancing. Quickly, I recalled my lessons from last week and moved my shoulders and feet to the beat. I scanned the ballroom for my teammates (being tall has its advantages), turned a slow-hipped circle, and stopped.
There danced David with one, two, three, four beautiful, perfect, exotic, seductive, gorgeous models. They sandwiched him, two in front, two in back, doing a grind move straight off MTV. He lifted his arms, laughing, getting quite the groove on.
He winked at me. I snapped out of my momentary trance and kept right on dancing. Okay, David’s role is to be a flirtatious, single photographer, logic reminded me. But he acted the role a little too well, if you asked me.
“You should see the statue in the ladies’ room,” I heard a woman yell over the music.
Statue. I signaled Petrov, and he leaned in. “I need to go to the restroom. I’ll be back.”
He shook his head. “I vill valk vith you.”
Pouting flirtatiously, I touched his arm. “I’d like privacy, please. I’ll meet you at the bar in ten minutes.” I pivoted and strode off, not giving him a chance to argue.
Please don’t follow me. Pleasepleaseplease don’t follow me.
Passing David and his models, I scratched the back of my head with my left hand. Our statue signal.
I did the same as I crossed in front of TL, who stood with the other bodyguards along the back wall. Like soldiers, lined up, a few feet of space between them. All without expressions.
Jonathan sat on a stool at one of the bars. He sipped an umbrella drink while carrying on a loud conversation with another beautiful model.
Statue-signaling him, I meandered past the bar. Good. All my teammates knew now. I pushed open the bathroom door and found myself bringing up the rear of a long line. Figured. Taking my place, I surreptitiously peered around the lounge area that preceded the sinks. Straight-backed couches, fancy wood end tables, delicate wrought-iron stools, makeup mirrors, but no statue.
One woman came out, and another went in. The line inched forward.
A wall divided the lounge area from the sinks. From where I stood, a mirror gave me a clear shot. No statue in there, either.
Maybe this wasn’t the only bathroom. A big place like this had to offer more than one, especially with all the females. “Excuse me.”
The short, elderly lady beside me arched a penciled-in eyebrow as a response.
“Is this the only bathroom?”
“No. Zere is one across zee ballroom.”
“Thanks.” Probably the one with the statue.
One woman came out, and another went in. The line inched forward. A couple more models came in and took their place behind me.
Jeez, how many toilets were there? One? Never understood why it took girls so long in the bathroom. You got in, did your business, and got out. What’s the big deal?
Clearly, this had to be the wrong bathroom. Okay, I’d make some spoiled, rich model comment about the wait and hoof it across the ballroom.
A tall redhead passed me on the way out. “I have to take a picture of that statue.”
Statue? I perked up.
“I know,” her tall blond friend agreed. “It’s the funniest thing. Wonder who made it?”
One woman came out, and another went in. The line inched forward.
Just the short old lady now and then I could get in. The statue must be in the toilet area. I tapped my stiletto and peeked at my silver watch. Eighteen minutes. Petrov expected me in ten. Ugh.
One woman came out, and the old lady went in. I inched forward, glanced across the sink room t
o the toilets. Sure enough, one door. What had Romanov been thinking? You can’t have one toilet in a ballroom bathroom.
The old lady came out. “Toilet’s clogged.”
The models behind me sighed and strode from the bathroom.
I crossed the tile floor, went in, and closed the door. I stood, taking in all the art decorating the huge room. Portraits and landscapes hung from the pink walls. Figurines stood on dozens of small wood shelves. In the corner sat the clogged toilet and beside it the statue.
It stood at least six feet tall and depicted a naked Romanov surrounded by four of his models, each wearing a robe. Luckily, one of the models’ legs covered his privates. Funny, I would have expected the opposite. Romanov in the robe and the models naked.
Quickly, I put my middle finger on the statue. No heat. Both relief and disappointment hit me. Relief that I’d have more time to prepare for the microsnipet extraction. Disappointment that I’d have to go through all this again.
I opened the door, raced across the tile, rounded the wall into the lounge area, and ran smack into David.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
“You’ve been in here forever,” he hissed back. “We got worried.”
“Petrov, what is it?” I heard a woman ask from outside the bathroom.
David and I both froze.
“Mizz January has been in zere far too long. Mizter Schalmosky iz waiting for her.”
“Well, I heard the bathroom’s out of order, but I’ll check and see.” The door creaked open.
Before I could panic, David quickly spun me around and yanked down my jumpsuit zipper.
[10]
Nalani pushed into the bathroom and came to an abrupt stop. Her eyes widened as the door swung shut behind her. “Oh.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I didn’t realize . . .”
“Looks like what this isn’t.” I shook my head. “I mean, this isn’t what it looks like.”
“Of course, this isn’t what it looks like.” David maintained a solid grip on the unzipped, very open back of my jumpsuit, prohibiting me from stepping away. “Stupid thing,” he mumbled, and I realized he was pretending my zipper was stuck.
“As you can see”—I elaborated on his ruse, avoiding eye contact with Nalani—“the clogged toilet ran everybody off. I, um, accidentally dropped something down my jumpsuit. And then I, uh, came in here to get it out, and now I can’t seem to get this darn—”
David’s fingers and warm breath brushed my lower back. My brain went blank. I stood there, aware I should be saying something, but for the life of me couldn’t recall what. He gave my fastener a firm tug, and I snapped back to the moment.
“I can’t get this darn zipper up. I stuck my head out the door, and he”—I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder—“was the only person within yelling distance.” I sighed, all bothered and impatient.
“There.” David dragged the zipper up the length of my spine, under my hair to my neck, leaving a shiver prickling my skin. He turned to Nalani. “You’re Mr. Schalmosky’s assistant, right?”
She inclined her head. “Yes.”
“I heard there’s a garden of statues. I’d like to take pictures of Jade out there. It’ll round out her portfolio.”
“Certainly. I’ll escort you and then let Mr. Schalmosky know where you’ll be.” Nalani peeked at her slim diamond watch and motioned for us to follow.
With legs I hoped appeared steadier than they felt, I crossed to the door and followed her out. We’d almost gotten busted. If not for David’s quick thinking, there was no telling what might have happened. Clearly, I was not cut out to go on missions. I did much better behind closed doors, safely sitting at a computer. Lots of time to think and formulate plans.
But coming up with a story like his stuck-zipper idea had been pretty darn ingenious. Gave me a little excited rev once I got focused. Once I ignored the fact that he’d seen my entire bare, braless back.
Fifteen minutes later, I leaned against the black iron rail as David snapped pictures.
Clickclick. Clickclick.
Behind me spread a conservatory with statues nestled among the greenery. Above, the transparent ceiling of the greenhouse showed the night sky, stars, and snow floating down. To my right, French doors led back into the ballroom. Petrov stood there, watching us. Obviously, Romanov didn’t trust David and me out here alone. Smart man. Bad guys didn’t become bad guys by trusting people.
“Good.” Clickclick. Clickclick. “Now arch your back.”
Arch my back? I wanted to narrow my eyes at David, but refrained. After all, Petrov loomed nearby. I arched my back, or in other words stuck out my boobs, and smiled for the camera.
“No smile. I need pout. Sexy. Full lips.” Clickclick. Clickclick.
Pout? Sexy? Okay, David was taking it too far.
“Pout for me, baby.” Clickclick. Clickclick.
Baby?
“Perfect!” Clickclick. Clickclick. “Break.” David slipped the camera strap over his head and crossed the brick patio to where I stood.
He rearranged a few pieces of my hair while I quietly inhaled his cologne. “You’ve got to relax,” he mumbled. “You don’t seem like you know what you’re doing. Petrov’s going to pick up on your inexperience if you don’t focus. Think Jade January, the sexy, spoiled model. Not GiGi, the gorgeous, shy genius.”
Gorgeous? My stomach flip-flopped.
David brushed an imaginary something from my shoulder. “Remember, I’m focusing on the statues behind you. I’ve taken six of the eleven. Move to the left so I can get the remaining five.”
With his index finger, he smoothed my eyebrows up, keeping his gaze level with mine. “Think Jade January, not GiGi.” He winked, then turned and strolled back to his spot, his backside looking as yummy as ever.
Clickclick. Clickclick.
David waved me to the left, and I moved. He only said the gorgeous thing to keep my mind occupied.
“Right hand on rail. Arch. Left hand in hair.” Clickclick. Clickclick.
I maneuvered my body into place. And the fiddling with my hair, brushing shoulder, smoothing eyebrows. All meant to keep me sidetracked.
“Chin up. Moisten lips.” Clickclick. Clickclick.
Chin. Moisten. And the meaningful gaze-deeply-into-my-eyes. Again, meant to keep my thoughts from veering. Oh, he was good. He was real good. Manipulating my brain . . . and my body, too, I slowly realized. Standing here all arched with my hand in my hair and moistened lips.
Clickclick. Clickclick.
Time to reverse things. Show him a little manipulation game. Played my way.
I spread my legs in a power, Wonder Woman stance. The silver stilettos made me tower over six feet tall. Leveling sultry eyes on the camera, I stared straight into the lens. Straight into his dark brown eyes.
I ran my tongue slowly from one corner of my top lip to the other. Closing my eyes, I tilted my head and arched my back. I skimmed both hands up the front of my skintight jumpsuit, over my cheeks, and into my hair.
Then all my senses returned in a pop, and my heart skipped a beat as my eyes snapped open. No clickclick, clickclick. Only silence.
I looked at Petrov first, who stared, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. He obviously didn’t think I was an amateur model now. And then to David, standing frozen, camera poised in the air.
“Uh…” He fumbled with the protective lens cap. “Th-that’s a wrap.”
Inwardly, I smiled. Clearly, I’d won the manipulation game. I refrained from doing a victory dance, clapping my hands, chanting, I won! I won! I set him off balance more than he set me.
Girl power, schmirl power. I possessed full-blown woman power.
David closed the distance between us, stopping at my side, putting his back to Petrov. “You . . . wow. Not bad.”
Curving my lips sensually—at least I hoped it appeared sensual—I arched a brow. “Get all the pictures you needed?” I could not believe myself, all confident and self-assured. And enjoying it.
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David studied me for long seconds. He shook his head with a chuckle. “Yeah, I got the pics. Now we need to figure out how to touch the statues.”
We stared at each other, puzzling, and then it hit me. “Petrov, my night wouldn’t be complete without a stroll in the garden. Will you escort me, please?”
“Certainly Mizz January.”
I gave David a little pinch on his bristly cheek, which by the spark in his eyes, infuriated him. After I’d accepted Petrov’s arm, he unlatched the wrought-iron gate, and we stepped onto a cobblestone walkway.
“I vill do the honors, Petrov.” Romanov emerged from the shadows.
Immediately I smiled to cover my frantic thoughts. Oh, dear God, how long had he been standing there? I should’ve known. TL had trained me better than that. David should’ve known. He’d been in this business longer than me. Maybe he’d known and it was all part of the act.
I glanced his way. He tapped his collarbone in the same location as my tracking freckle. I’ll—I mean, we’ll know where you are. Breathing easier with the silent reminder, I followed Romanov into the garden as David and Petrov disappeared into the ballroom.
Had Romanov heard David’s and my mumblings from his hidden spot? No, not possible, too far away. He’d seen the photography session, though. How could he have missed it? Maybe he missed it. Please, God, make him have missed it.
“I saw your session just now.”
Inwardly, I groaned. “I got off to a rough start. Couldn’t get my mind focused.” Didn’t want him to question my modeling ability.
“Yes. But you ended, how do you Americans say, vith a bang?”
“Yes, yes, I ended with a bang.” Great, he’d seen me in my woman-power sexy mode. Just what I needed. To get an old man excited.
Okay. Strategy: keep him talking while strolling the garden and touching every statue.
Problem: I wore the microsnipet detector on my right middle finger, which was currently linked with Romanov’s jacketed left arm.
“Oh, I must smell that flower.” I stepped in front of him and buried my nose in some red plant, which, by the way, smelled like nothing. I then linked my left arm through his right, and we continued down the path.
Model Spy Page 11
