I step aside. “Please tell your men to go ahead.”
As agreed, two guards enter the suite to check for bugs, wires, and weapons. A third pats me down after Dimitrov apologizes for the disrespectful but necessary treatment. I hold my breath as the guard sweeps his palms over the body pads on my hips and around my thighs, but they’re good quality. The porous material is designed to absorb body heat. Through clothes, they feel as warm to the touch as skin. The guards return from searching the bedroom and bathroom, giving Dimitrov a nod.
“The painting is there,” one of the men says on his way out.
My tone is seductive. “My turn.” I twirl a finger to indicate Dimitrov should turn around.
“Where is your bodyguard, Miss Petrova?” Dimitrov asks with a raised brow.
“Indisposed. And please, call me Natasha. If I may call you Casmir?”
“By all means, Natasha.” He lifts his arms with a mocking smile. “Feel free to search me thoroughly.”
I don’t hesitate to pat him down. Natasha wouldn’t be shy to touch him. On the contrary. I linger near his groin. The touch almost makes me gag, but I do a good job of hiding it. He’s muscled. In good shape. His regard is sharp, his mind fast. He’d make a dangerous opponent in any combat.
“My expert,” Dimitrov says when the ordeal is finally over, extending an arm toward the mousy man in the blue suit. “For obvious reasons, he prefers to remain anonymous.”
I repeat the search with the expert, minus the groin lingering.
When both Dimitrov and I are satisfied that neither party carries a weapon, I invite him and his expert in, closing the door behind them and turning the lock.
“This way,” I say, leading them to the lounge.
Dimitrov gasps and theatrically places a hand on his heart when he sees the painting. Flicking his fingers at the mousy man, he says, “Please.”
The expert steps closer, squinting as he removes his glasses to clean them on a handkerchief he pulls from his jacket pocket.
Making my way to the bedroom, I throw back over my shoulder, “Champagne?”
“Most fitting,” Dimitrov mumbles with a deviant glint in his eyes.
Everything about the man makes my skin crawl, but I blow him a kiss. “I’ll be right back.”
I move unhurriedly, sashaying my hips. I only walk faster when I’m out of view, and faster still when I pass the table on which a bottle of Dom Pérignon is cooling in an ice bucket. My heels are quiet on the thick carpet.
Five more steps to the bathroom.
I count the seconds. In three, Dimitrov is dead.
One.
Two.
Just as I grip the doorknob, a strong arm locks around my waist.
“Going somewhere, Natasha?” Dimitrov’s tone is low and menacing as he shoves his tongue into my ear.
33
Yan
Everything is going according to plan, but I can’t shake the discord in my gut. This morning nearly killed me. Making love to Mina while knowing I’m going to lose her today shredded me up inside. The space I tried to put between us after our intense lovemaking was the hardest thing I’ve done after leaving her alone in that suite to meet with a scumbag like Dimitrov.
Ilya and I get into the elevator. The two hotel security men are already stripped to their shirts and underwear. Their jackets and pants are bundled into a bag that stands on the floor. They use a keycard to block the elevator, ensuring it doesn’t stop on any floor.
When the doors close, Ilya and I quickly pull off our heavy-duty boots before peeling off the overalls. We’re wearing T-shirts and cargo pants underneath. We keep on the cotton gloves we used for transporting and handling the painting. The real purpose of them isn’t protecting a precious piece of art, but not leaving fingerprints. The government isn’t going to let their police force pursue us for a hit they ordered, not unless we get caught red-handed, but you never know. I don’t like leaving unnecessary traces. Our connection will sweep the room clean of Mina’s prints before letting the feds in on the scene.
As I shove my feet back into my boots, my mind goes to Mina. Will she be all right?
Goddamn. My focus isn’t where it should be. Probably sensing my volatile feelings, Ilya gives me a sidelong glance as he hands his overall to one of the men.
The men pull on the overalls and our caps, and I hand over the keys for the van. No one speaks. We ride down to the lobby in strained silence. Once they’ve exited and we’re on our way up again, Ilya pins me with a stare.
“What?” I snap, feeling like hitting something.
“You’ve got to get your shit together, man.”
“Who says I don’t?”
“You’re not here.” He points at the floor. “You’re fucking miles away.”
He’s right. I’m not the only one with plenty to lose. My brother’s life is on the line, too.
“It’s Mina,” I admit with a defeated sigh. “I’m concerned.” No, that’s putting it way too mildly. “I’m fucking going out of my mind with worry.”
“Hey.” He grips my shoulder and dips his head to catch my eyes. “She’s done plenty of jobs without you. She knows what she’s doing.”
“Still.” She’s a woman, and a tiny, delicate one at that. And she’ll be locked in a hotel room with a dangerous criminal in—I check my watch—seven minutes. Fuck. I grip my head between my hands. Just thinking about it makes me sweat. Every part of me wants to go back and pull her out of there.
“Focus,” Ilya says, giving me a shake. “In a few minutes, it’ll be over.”
It’ll be over. Mina and I will be over. Everything will be over. My life will lose all meaning when she walks out on me.
“Don’t think about it,” Ilya says, correctly guessing what’s going through my mind. “You can get drunk
