Vienna Bargain

by Lila Dubois

  “It’s not a game. I treated it like one, and because of that…I hurt you.”

  She considered this a game? No, he wasn’t sure of much, but he knew she hadn’t been pretending during their scenes, both in the underground safe room and just now.

  “My name is Magdalena Moreau. I go by Alena, since Magdalena is hardly an easy name, especially when I was little.”

  Alexander froze, listening.

  “You knew that, from my passport—well, my legal name at least—and I suspect you know even more about me than that by now. I’m also sure your people are having trouble finding any real, useful information.”

  “Yes.”

  She laughed softly. “My quiet man.”

  Hearing those words made his heart clench.

  “My father is U.S. senator Augustin Moreau, from the great state of Georgia. Conservative. Pious. So of course he has several illegitimate children. I’m one of them.”

  Now Alexander turned, because there was old pain in her words. “The U.S. Secret Service scrubbed your records.”

  “Some of them, yes. For a while, after I graduated college—and was an adult so could make no legal claim on him or his money—he deigned to acknowledge me. Pretended I was a long-lost niece. That’s when I started using Moreau.”

  Alena stood in the center of the big room, looking small but composed. The fact that she wore nothing but a man’s dress shirt—his dress shirt—and a BDSM collar didn’t detract from her poise.

  The hurt in her words was old, and carrying that kind of foundational pain was something he understood.

  “If you wanted to know my dirty secrets, look under the name Magdalena Mooren.” She stressed the N sound. “My mother’s name.”

  “Mooren to Moore,” he said quietly.

  “The best lies are ones that are close to the truth.”

  Hearing her admit it was a lie didn’t bother him the way he’d thought it would.

  “When I was thirteen my mother died. I ran rather than be in a foster home. The foster home was perfectly lovely. I was simply angry at the world.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because it isn’t a game. In games, no one gets hurt.” Alena sighed and went to sit on the couch, but stopped and pushed herself back up.

  Alexander winced. He’d beaten her so badly she couldn’t even sit.

  “There is no excuse for what I’ve done to you,” he said again.

  “I was looking forward to making you feel bad, but it’s not as much fun as I thought it would be.”

  “Wha—why would you think I would feel bad?” The longer the conversation went on, the more the darkness within him retreated.

  Alena knelt on the couch and braced her elbows on the arm, leaning over the edge. “Once you know who I am, you were going to feel soooo bad.” She tsked.

  Alexander took several steps towards her, feeling less guilty with each step. “Who are you?”

  “Ah, ah, ah. You have to hear the whole story.”

  Alexander’s lips twitched.

  Damn, he loved her.

  Alexander went to the small bar and poured two glasses of Moldovan wine, bringing one over to her.

  “Thank you, Alexander.”

  “You’re welcome, Alena.”

  They sipped, and Alena looked surprised at the quality.

  “They make very good wine,” he noted.

  “They do.” She took another sip, then shifted slightly so she was facing him as he took a seat in the armchair. “Back to our story. I was thirteen. On my own, doing what I needed.”

  “Stealing?” he asked gently.

  “Nothing so pedestrian,” Alena declared with a wave of her hand. “You see I’d figured out who my father was. I watched the news, saw him and his perfect family. I wanted that. I wanted to be like them. I wanted to be rich and powerful. I went to work.”

  “Doing what?” Alexander looked at her and had a feeling that even at thirteen she could have done anything she put her mind to.

  “I called myself a problem solver. I did whatever people needed. There was this little shoe store. The owner wasn’t good with numbers, and I taught myself some accounting software and set it up for him.

  “I found lost bikes for kids in the neighborhood. I wrote essays, did other kids’ homework. I kept going to school though all of this.”

  “The people who should have been taking care of you didn’t look for you?”

  “I’m sure they would have, if I hadn’t pretended to be the social worker and called them to tell them I’d been placed in a group home instead.”

  “You were still just a child. You shouldn’t have had to take care of yourself.”

  Alena shrugged. “Teaching children that life is fair is a disservice. Still, I realized when it was time to learn to drive that I couldn’t make it without a legal adult to handle things I couldn’t. I reached out to my father.”

  “When you were sixteen?” Hadn’t she said he only acknowledged her after college?

  “I blackmailed him. I made him take me out to lunch once every few months and bring me cash. He always had an assistant with him—proprieties must be observed of course—so he’d secretly hand me this envelope at the end of the meal.

  “Each time we met, he had a different person with him, and told a different lie. I’d won the local essay contest and the prize was lunch with him. I was part of a mentorship program to get young women interested in politics. But we understood each other.”

  Alexander took a sip of wine and watched her. She looked tired, and was perhaps the most relaxed he’d ever seen her. Not relaxed—that wasn’t the right word. He studied her as she continued her story, trying to put together the pieces that made up Alena.

  “It wasn’t until I went to therapy that I realized while I thought I was playing Senator Moreau, he was undoubtedly playing me. For someone like him, I could be a wonderful asset. My morals were flexible; I did, and could, live outside the social and political spotlight that was on him and his real family.”

  “You were not real family?”

  “The bastard daughter? Of course not, suga’.”

  “A wonderful father.”

  “It sounds like yours was a peach too.”

  “My father’s criticism of my speaking patterns seems practically benign in comparison to your story.”

  “Doesn’t mean it didn’t fuck you up.” Alena arched a brow. “Clearly we both have some issues.”

  Alexander nodded even as he fought the urge to go over and sit beside her, let her rest on him rather than on the arm of the couch.

  Alena took a sip, then resumed her story.

  “Senator Moreau created a scholarship that put me through college. Encouraged me to go to law school. That’s what I realized in therapy; he wanted me to be a lawyer because an attorney who doesn’t take their oaths too seriously is valuable, as is one who has blood loyalty.” She paused. “He assumed that our shared blood made me feel some loyalty, and I simply let him assume.”

  They were silent for some time, sipping their wine. She wasn’t relaxed right now, he’d decided. She’d let down her walls. There was no amused regal facade or submission between them. This was Alena as she truly was—tired, half slumped, holding her wine glass in her fist rather than delicately with three fingers.

  And he was fairly certain he’d figured out what came next in this story. When she stayed quiet, he cleared his throat.

  “When were you recruited to the C.I.A.?”

  Alena sat up. “Oh suga’, I’m not C.I.A.”

  Alexander’s jaw clenched, because he knew she was lying again.

  “I’m not saying I wasn’t recruited. I had a few odd lunch meetings in college with people who strongly suggested I get a minor in Arabic, but no, I didn’t join the C.I.A.”

  That had the ring of truth which he found both relaxing…and confusing. She was a spy of some kind. If not government, then corporate espionage.

  Alena stood, walking over
to him, far less elegantly than he’d ever seen her move before. She handed him her empty wine glass then planted her hands on his thighs and leaned down until their noses were almost touching.

  “The man I blackmailed thanks to his affair with my mother wanted me to become his evil lawyer. The C.I.A., who I’m sure knew about me thanks to the Secret Service agents who kept anyone from knowing about my parentage, wanted me to come work for them since people without real families have very little to lose.”

  Alexander couldn’t help it. He smiled, because he was very sure of one thing. “You did neither.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Because you are far too stubborn to do what anyone else wants you to?”

  “I don’t know about that…” She leaned in, close enough that it would take very little to turn this moment into a kiss.

  A kiss like the one on the desk. The one that had made him feel like everything changed.

  “I’ve done the things you’ve wanted me to do,” Alena breathed.

  “After you stole from me.” He paused. “You’re not a terrorist, correct?”

  “A terrorist?” Alena jerked back.

  “Transportation and supply lines are high value terrorism targets. I had to promise my people that if you were a terrorist I wouldn’t let you go after three weeks.”

  “No, not a terrorist. Where’s the fun in that game?”

  “I thought this wasn’t a game.”

  She raised one hand and touched his cheek. “It’s not. But I was trying, so hard, to pretend it was. That’s how I deal with life. It’s all just a game. I played Senator Moreau and the prize was money and financing for college. Before that, surviving on my own, the game was about matching things up. If I do X, then Y will happen, and I win. Even if what I was trying to win was food, a place to stay.”

  Alexander reached over the side of the chair and set down both glasses so he’d have his hands free to touch her. He stroked her cheek. “I hurt for little Alena.”

  “I treated you like a game.” She closed her eyes and leaned into his hand. “Finding out where you went on those weekends, getting into the Orchid Club, making you notice me. Scene with me. Take me home with you. It was all a game.”

  The anger came back, but it was a slow simmering thing, much less important than the tenderness he felt as he kept stroking her cheek.

  “The prize was information. Your company’s information.”

  “Corporate espionage,” he said softly. “I know you work for someone. Someone who is looking for you.”

  “Someone is looking for me?” Alena worried her lip with her teeth. “That might change things.”

  “You think they’ll suspect you of breaking the contract to sell the information about their attempt?” He was thinking fast now. If he’d hired her to spy on one of his competitors—not that he would do that—and she suddenly disappeared… He would assume a double cross. “Who are you working for? GBI? I can protect you from them.” He could protect her from anyone, except maybe the intelligence community, so the fact that she wasn’t employed by a government made him confident that what he’d just said was true.

  Alena leaned back to wag her finger in his face. “Ah, ah, suga’. You’re jumping ahead. You should ask what I did end up studying in college since it wasn’t pre-law or Arabic.”

  “What did you study in college?” He smiled, he couldn’t help it.

  “Art history.”

  Alexander blinked.

  Alena grinned. “I love art. I studied art history and art conservation. I interned at the Smithsonian.”

  “Er…were you actually in Vienna to steal some of my art pieces and couldn’t get them off the wall?”

  “No. Though I considered art theft as a career. I’d make an excellent cat burglar, don’t you think?”

  Alexander had thought, only moments ago, he knew where this story was going. Now he was utterly confused.

  “That is such a cute face,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m not making a face.”

  “You are. It’s your ‘befuddled billionaire’ face.”

  “You are a cat burglar?”

  “No, I’m not. My job sometimes requires me to resort to some…questionable methods. But I’m the opposite of an art thief.”

  Alexander stared at her. Alena was grinning a wide, happy smile. No Mona Lisa secret amusement. This was a grin of anticipation, as if she were about to deliver the punchline of some joke.

  “Alena,” he said slowly. “What do you do for a living?”

  Alena straightened and stuck out her hand for him to shake. Alexander curled his fingers around hers.

  “Alena Moreau,” she said. “Insurance investigator.”

  Chapter 12

  Alena was still snickering to herself as several of the servants bustled around the patio in preparation for their al fresco dinner. Alexander was seated across from her, but he was bent over, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands.

  The woman playing bartender and pouring the wine—the younger one who clearly watched Instagram makeup tutorials—cast Alena a quick glance. Alena raised her brow, giving the woman her best arch look.

  Several hours had passed since she’d told Alexander what she did for a living. He’d gone quiet, either in disbelief or confusion. She wasn’t sure which, but she’d taken advantage of it, suggesting he have someone take her bag to a bedroom—preferably one in this wing though she had plans to demand a tour of all her other options later. Silently, Alexander had gone to his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a slim hardline phone. He’d spoken to the person on the other end of the line and then escorted her out of his office. She’d glanced around the gallery as they went through it, considered making him stop there so she could explain, but, quite frankly, she’d been enjoying his confusion far too much.

  She’d showered—the damned collar was still on, as they’d both seemingly forgotten about it, but when she’d come out of the shower, her suitcase had been waiting. She’d been able to put on her own clothes, and do her makeup, though over half of it was missing, probably confiscated back in Vienna.

  She’d dressed in a loose black skirt, royal blue boat-neck blouse, and had a Hermes silk scarf wrapped around her neck, obscuring the collar, which she’d twisted so the lock was at the back, hidden under her hair.

  Now she and Alexander were enjoying the sunset over Lake Beleu as they waited for the meal.

  A small platter of what appeared to be variants of cabbage rolls and polenta cakes was set down in the middle of the table. The woman served them, but when she asked what else she could bring them, Alexander waved her away.

  As the patio doors closed behind everyone, he looked up.

  “Insurance.”

  “Yes. Technically, I’m a consultant, but art insurance, particularly recovery, is what people hire me for.”

  “I’ve been trying to understand why you would tell this lie. This particular lie.”

  “And it’s so outrageous it must be the truth?” She dipped her cabbage roll into what looked like thin sour cream and took a bite. It was good, if heavy on the meat and lacking in vegetables besides the cabbage itself.

  “You broke into my house, risked prison, because you’re an insurance…” He shook his head. “My company handles its own insurance. We insure the packages we deliver.”

  “But what about what’s inside the packages?”

  “We offer insurance for goods we transport.”

  “Up to what dollar limit? A million euro? Two?”

  “I don’t know.” He sat back, looking irked.

  “I do. Two million euro for individual packages, and the contents must be declared.”

  “You are working for someone who insured something that was…lost? You became a submissive. My submissive, to try and locate a missing package.”

  “I’m very dedicated to my job,” she said cheerfully.

  “But why… But if that was the case why would you…” His not quite stammer wa
s back and she loved that he wasn’t hiding it from her.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose and looked at her. “You’re enjoying this.”

  “Immensely.”

  “Who do you work for?” Alexander asked rather desperately. “Who hires you as a consultant?”

  “My biggest client is Beijing Guardian International Auctions.”

  Alexander sat up slowly, and she saw the moment that he started to tense as he worked through the possibilities.

  China was a massive country with a growing appetite for fine art and collectibles. Several years ago, Beijing Guardian had surpassed the U.S. based Heritage Auctions as one of the largest auction houses in the world, with a reputation that put it on par with more established companies like Sotheby’s and Christie’s.

  And like Sotheby’s, Beijing Guardian was a worldwide operation…and more than just an auction house. They offered art and antiquities storage, appraisal, restoration…and insurance.

  “You’re searching for a piece of art my company lost…” Alexander frowned at the same time she shook her head.

  “No,” Alena clarified. “If that was all that was happening, there would have been no need for them to involve me. I only accept assignments that are challenging. And, quite frankly, lucrative. Lost during transport isn’t a challenge.”

  “You are the one they call…”

  “…when things go very, very wrong.”

  Alexander stared at her.

  “Want me to tell you?” she asked.

  “No,” he grumped. “Now I will figure it out myself.”

  She doubted that, but this was just too much fun. It felt so good not to be lying to him.

  There was a reason you didn’t tell him all this up front. And those reasons haven’t changed.

  Except they had, because she trusted Alexander Wagner. She loved him.

  Then again, the people she worked for might not think that was a good enough reason.

  Alexander stilled, his head jerking towards her. “Stolen art. You’re looking for a piece of stolen art.”

  “Yes,” Alena said softly.

  “Art that you think was transported by my company.”

  “Right again.”