“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.
Not 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.
He extended a hand with a gracefully studied flourish. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Miss Whitby.”
She matched his move, minus the flourish or the grace. She wasn’t clumsy, just prim, librarian-ish, he supposed. His fingers swept around hers in a gentle caress, the tips of his fingers settling on her pulse. A bit disconcerting to find it placid and unaffected. He held back a frown, rather proud he’d managed it. He started to lift her hand to his mouth, but it somehow slid free of his.
She had already begun her turn to lead him to the office. “Please call me Nell, Mr. Afoniki.”
Had he been glad she didn’t gush? He halted her move by not following her. She paused halfway through her turn, one brow lifted in inquiry.
“You must call me Dimitri,” he said, shocked by his tone. It wasn’t gushing. He did not gush, but it was…rather friendly. He would need to be careful. Too much friendly gave women ideas.
She blinked, the slow sweep of her lashes softening the austerity of her face, but when the lashes lifted again, the look in her eyes showed no inclination toward getting ideas. He had a fleeting feeling of déjà vu from her steady brown gaze. As if this had happened to him before, but that was not possible. Women fell at his feet, had for as long as he could recall.
“If you’ll come with me, I’m sure we can get your issue sorted out.” The tone held gentle prodding, but not much else.
He’d have been piqued, but then he recalled he’d seen the tactic once or twice before. This pretended indifference to get his attention. He would allow her to continue the charade. For now. This time he allowed the change of location by following her down the cool hallway. She led him without the usual self-conscious shimmy. She faked indifference very well. Almost her games amused. Almost. Her figure was not up to his standards, the rear her best side, even minus the shimmy. She had the height for a few adjustments, some enhancements, though the face would take more than a little work to bring it up to code. Not that he planned to try. This game they played was not the usual one. Information, not sex, was on the table.
She turned at the door to the office. “Can I get you something?”
The provocative question was so prosaically offered, he was genuinely amused, he noted, rather surprised. Few men had managed this level of composure in his presence, the women never. His certainty faltered briefly. It was possible she did not know—but her gaze found him, studying him like a policeman. Or, it came to him in a flash, that assistant principal. He had not thought of her in years. The private Catholic school was, for the most part, run by nuns. Easy prey. Even at eight he knew how to make them giggle and blush. He’d caused the fight that had landed him in her office, but he knew teachers weren’t allowed to assess blame or disbelieve him. It might damage his tender psyche. Oh, he’d get punished, but so would his victim. A win-win.
He’d been laughing inside until that calm, stern gaze latched onto him. This one sliced and diced him with the same calm, seeing dispassion. Oh yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. Her eyes lost focus for several seconds. Not a good idea in the presence of the Russian Tiger.
She blinked, returning to the present, with no sign of discomposure. “Sorry, was just thinking about rutabagas.”
He frowned. Did she plan to offer him a vegetable tray? He replaced the frown with a smolder. “I prefer the sweet to the savory.” He waited for her to return this serve. Or at least blush.
She studied him thoughtfully, distantly. “I’m afraid we don’t have a lot of variety. Just bottled water and maybe a soft drink or two, but I’m happy to check.”
Was that a return of his serve or—it was his turn to blink, trying to connect the proper dots. Rutabagas to drinks? She was not what he’d expected, despite keeping his expectations low. Not that he was disappointed. He was not entirely sure what he was. Nothing felt familiar, a novel sensation that he hoped never to encounter again.
“I’m fine.” He wasn’t, exactly, but he would be. Ordinary women were not on his radar, but she was a woman. The management of an ordinary one couldn’t be that different.
“Right then, let me pull up your uncle’s file.” She crossed to the chair tucked in behind a small, but well-crafted desk and sat. “Please.” She gestured toward the wing back chairs in front of the desk. “This will just take a minute.” Her hand covered the mouse, waking up the computer screen, then attacked the keyboard with an economy of movement.
Her fingers were long, nicely shaped and showed some care. No polish or talon nails. They were her only good feature, so she might have enhanced them with an understated polish, but she hadn’t. She’d accepted her ordinariness, he concluded. He lowered himself into one of the chairs, studying her with professional curiosity. She made no effort to flirt or acknowledge him as a man, because she knew what she was and what she wasn’t? Would that make her vulnerable to a modest charm offensive? Would she know the basic moves? Almost, she’d seemed to look through him—but that would be a feint, a pretense. No woman looked past his face. Ever.
He relaxed in the chair. “You don’t sound local.” Idle conversation first. A circling of the prey before moving in.
The shift of attention toward him was brief. “No. I’m from Wyoming.” A pause. “Not Star Valley.”
He felt free to frown at this, her attention wholly on her screen. “Of course not.” Why did he feel as if he’d missed a cue? He never missed cues. “You’re very far from h
ome.” A slight nod, something that might have been a smile. “What brought you to New Orleans?”
That pulled her attention off her screen. The careful way she considered her answer confirmed his suspicion that they played a game.
“Sarah—Miss Burland—was my roommate in college. When she started the business, she asked me to come help out.”
Cagey, very cagey. Seemed to deliver information without delivering. A clever woman. He supposed it was the fall-back position of the ordinary, but it gave him no hint to her purpose. Did she seek to hide her past? Or her reason for being in New Orleans? He’d read her file. She seemed an open book…
Was that the key? “Don’t you write books or something?”
This nudged a smile out of her, one that improved the austerity of her features, but it faded quickly. “I’ve published one children’s book.”
She followed this with a look that made him add, “I was looking for a gift for my…cousin’s child and…” He realized he was explaining—which he never did—so he smiled. It was what he did.
She seemed about to comment, but gave a sort of nod instead. When she did speak it was to offer, “I’m sorry. The computer is a bit slow today.”
Was she uneasy? No sign of it on her face and her gaze appeared singularly untroubled. In profile she seemed less, well, it verged on—he shook his head, not sure what he thought. Which was not typical. He was spoiled, he realized, hovering between amused and annoyed. He’d come here expecting easy. It had been some time since he’d faced a real challenge. Not that he considered her a real challenge. Not yet. His thoughts kept circling back to: not what he’d expected.
When he took her features, her figure apart, there was nothing special, and yet…somehow the sum was something more than not-special. Was it her eyes? There was intelligence in them and humor. Not the malicious kind, but he did resist a need to shift in his chair. If she was here for some hidden purpose, why wait two years to act? Unless…was that her aim? Force them to make their move? Or perhaps her plans were long term? If so, she was a cool customer. Very cool.
Relatively Risky Page 3
