Seduction Game Page 3

  Holly turned toward the grumpy security guard and did as he asked, giving him a little smile. “Do I look like I’m carrying a gun? Where would I hide it?”

  Two spots of red appeared on the dour man’s cheeks as he ran a metal detector over her. It beeped as it passed over her breasts.

  “It must be the underwire in my bra,” she said. “Should I take it off?”

  Kirill looked like he was about to demand that she do just that, when Sasha muttered something to him in Russian.

  “Your shoes, please, miss.” Kirill pointed to her feet.

  Holly stepped out of one pump and then the other, handing them over. “Okay, but be careful. These are Christian Louboutins. They’re very expensive.”

  Sasha settled a big hand on the nape of her neck. “If he makes so much as a single scratch, I will buy you new pair.”

  Kirill examined the shoes, then handed them back to Holly.

  She slipped them on one at a time, holding on to Sasha’s arm for balance. “I didn’t realize being an art collector could be so dangerous.”

  “Money attracts danger, and art is money.” Sasha turned to the door of his hotel suite, swiped his key card. “Ladies first.”

  Holly stepped inside and glanced around. She’d stayed in the Roosevelt Suite once before when she’d gone out with that South African banker, but she wouldn’t tell Sasha that. “This is amazing!”

  He gave her a grand tour, his arm around her shoulders. The furniture was masculine and had a historical feel, with dark leather sofa and wing chairs, walnut cabinets, and polished wood floors. A portrait of Teddy Roosevelt from his Rough Rider days graced one wall. A four-poster bed stood in the spacious bedroom.

  Sasha guided her to the windows that gave them a view of the city lights. He caught her chin, pressed his lips to hers in a soft kiss. “You have only tasted a little of what could be your life with me. I can fly you around the world, show you places you have never seen. Paris? Rome? I will buy them for you. I can take you sailing on my yacht—Star of the Black Sea. It is a beautiful ship.”

  “That all sounds so romantic.” She’d heard it all before. He’d even shown her photos of the yacht.

  He smiled. “Shall we have some champagne?”

  On a sideboard just inside the door, a bottle sat chilling in a crystal ice bucket.

  “You’re such a gentleman, Sasha.”

  He’d been a perfect gentleman all evening—if being a gentleman were measured in grand gestures, spending money, and bad kissing. He’d reserved an entire restaurant for the two of them, their table set with old English roses. The chef had served course after course of delicacies, each with its own wine. Everything had been delicious, from the prosciutto appetizer to the coconut sorbet dessert.

  Sasha had asked her about her job and what she wanted out of life, making it clear that he had much to offer her—excitement, glamour, even work if she wanted it. When she’d asked him what kind of work, he’d told her that he sometimes had need of someone he could trust to deliver packages and that he paid handsomely for such service. Holly had told him that she was happy with her job at the paper and had steered the conversation back toward art.

  After dinner, they’d taken the limo back to the gallery, kissing in the privacy of the back seat. He had no skill as a kisser, going with too much tongue too fast. She’d been relieved when they’d arrived at the gallery and he’d had to put that clumsy oral appendage back in his own mouth.

  The gallery opening had been fun, with lots of people Holly knew from Denver’s cultural scene and tasty little hors d’oeuvres she’d been desperately tempted to eat. She knew Denver’s art scene well and had brushed up on art history just for the occasion. Not that she could hope to match Sasha’s knowledge on the subject—he truly was an expert—but at least she’d held her own.

  He drew her closer and kissed her, again leading with his tongue. “Can you feel it? You belong with me.”

  Oh, please!

  Beneath the glitz and the whiff of danger, Sasha was . . . boring.

  His cell phone buzzed.

  He drew it out of his pocket, frowned at the display. “I apologize. I must take this call. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  She gave his tie a tug. “Don’t take too long.”

  “I promise.” He smiled down at her, then put the phone to his ear and answered in his native tongue, disappearing into the small office and closing the door behind him.

  Holly slipped out of her heels and glanced around. Behind the closed door, Sasha began to shout, clearly angry and in the midst of a serious conversation.

  She saw her chance—and she took it.

  She opened her clutch, took out the box of tampons, and retrieved the nitrile gloves hidden inside one of the plastic applicator tubes. Slipping the gloves on as she went, she hurried to the bedroom and opened the closet door, searching behind his suits for the room’s safe, listening as Sasha continued to argue. She punched the hotel’s default password into the safe’s keypad and opened the door, memorizing the placement of the contents at a glance. Makarov MP pistol. Two loaded magazines. Cash. Files. Passport. Red aluminum RFID-safe case.

  She opened the RFID-safe case and found it—the stolen USB drive.

  Sasha’s voice boomed from the office beyond, making her pulse spike, and not for the first time she wished she understood Georgian. She spoke French, Russian, and some Arabic, but not a word of Georgian, which was a bummer because she had no idea what was making him so angry. Had someone outed her?

  Focus!

  If he were to come out and discover her, she would die.

  She took the special adapted smartphone from her handbag, popped it out of its case, and plugged the flash drive into the concealed USB port. A log-in prompt appeared on her screen, and she entered the password. The retrieval program kicked on and asked her if she wanted to download the data and upload the virus. She pressed “Yes,” her gaze drawn toward the bedroom door and the living area beyond.

  While the data was downloading, she tucked the phone and disk drive back into the open safe and hurried into the living area, reaching into her bra. Careful not to break the slender wires, she loosed the tiny listening device, its compact body made to look like a button, and pulled it free. She knew exactly where she wanted to place it. Her gaze fell on the portrait of Roosevelt with its thick gilded frame. She hurried over, lifted the portrait away from the wall, then affixed the device to the back edge of the frame and activated it.

  “Bully!” she whispered to Roosevelt, sure he would approve.

  Knowing she was running out of time, she opened the copy of the New York Times that sat on the coffee table and turned to the entertainment section so that Dudaev would think she’d been reading this entire time.

  Behind the closed door, Sasha fell silent.

  She froze.

  Oh, hell!

  When he began shouting again, she ran to the bedroom and pulled the phone and flash drive out of the safe, looking back toward the office as the seconds ticked by and the phone finished uploading the virus. Ninety-four percent. Ninety-eight percent.

  Done.

  She tucked the flash drive carefully away, closed the safe, and smoothed the suits back into place, then ran for the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  She took a deep breath, willing her heartbeat to slow. She peeled off the gloves and flushed them down the toilet, her gaze landing on her own reflection. Her cheeks were too pink, and there was a sheen of perspiration on her forehead. She dabbed it away with a tissue.

  He’d quit shouting now. Was he finished? If so, she had only seconds.

  With practiced calm, she left the bathroom, looking quickly for anything she might have missed, and found her clutch gaping, the box of tampons open. She closed the box and snapped the clutch shut.

  As they’d taught her in training, death was in the details.

  She slipped her pumps back on and sat on the sofa, and had just picked up the newspaper and rubbed
newsprint onto her fingertips when he opened the door and stepped out. Willing herself to relax—a predator like Sachino Dudaev would sense her adrenaline—she put a concerned frown on her face. “Is everything okay?”

  He moved toward her, a heavy scowl on his face, fury in his brown eyes.

  Holly felt her pulse spike.

  Had the call been someone warning him about her? Had she been exposed?

  “I apologize.” He bent down, pressed a kiss to her forehead, then walked over to the sideboard, his back toward her.

  She closed her eyes, exhaled.

  He went on. “The art world spans the globe, and that sometimes means calls come at strange hours. I promise—no more business tonight.”

  He seemed tense as he opened the champagne and poured them each a glass. “Veuve Clicquot 1996 Grande Dame. It was the best they had.”

  What had he been shouting about? She wished she knew, though she seriously doubted it had anything to do with art.

  She got to her feet and joined him. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

  Though she’d recovered the stolen intel, her task wouldn’t be complete until she’d uploaded the virus to his computer to destroy any files he might have copied. Unless he went to the bathroom in the next few minutes, she would have no choice but to let the night take its course, even if that meant having sex with him. If she got lucky, maybe he had a bad case of erectile dysfunction and was out of Viagra.

  Hey, a girl could dream.

  Sasha turned to her and offered her a glass, looking into her eyes in a way that was no doubt supposed to be sexy but made her want to laugh. “To beauty.”

  Holly clinked her glass with his and sipped, the bright taste dancing across her tongue, bubbles tickling her nose. “Mmm!”

  Sasha drew her down on the sofa beside him, the fingers of his free hand possessing hers. “You were tonight the most stunning exhibit in the gallery. Every man in the room wanted you. Every woman wanted to be you.”

  “What a sweet thing to say.” Holly resisted the urge to pull away.

  What was her problem tonight?

  She’d always gotten a thrill out of playing with dangerous men, manipulating them, turning their own lust and stupidity against them. They looked at her and saw a sexual plaything, a pretty toy they wanted to claim and control. They took her to dinner or to their beds, never knowing that she controlled them. The fact that her job was extremely risky—and would have both shocked and horrified her father—had only added to her sense of excitement. But tonight . . .

  Tonight was no different. The only thing that mattered was doing her job.

  You are the spider. He is the fly.

  She took another sip of champagne, looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Thank you for a magical evening.”

  He leaned down until his forehead almost touched hers, his gaze on her boobs. “The night isn’t yet over. I had hoped you would stay.”

  She let her lips curve in a slow smile. “If . . . if it’s not too soon. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m the kind—”

  He kissed her, a hard kiss, again leading with the tongue. She worked with it, trying to turn off her mind and just react with her body.

  He drew back, reached for the champagne bottle, and refilled their glasses. “Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  Feeling a little light-headed, she rose to her feet and followed him, her heart beating erratically. She took another sip of the golden liquid to calm herself.

  “I want to see you wearing nothing but my necklace.” He turned her to face away from him, and she felt his fingers take hold of the concealed side zipper. He drew it down, letting her dress fall to her feet, exposing her black lace bra and thong. His hands stroked the bare skin of her buttocks, cupping her, his body pressing close enough to prove that he, unfortunately, did not suffer from erectile dysfunction.

  The fingers of one of his hands took hold of her bra strap. “May I?”

  “Yes.” She felt a strange rush of breathlessness.

  Was she aroused by him? No! She couldn’t be.

  Then why was her heart beating so strangely?

  Though she’d enjoyed sex with one or two of the handful of men she’d had to sleep with as part of her job, she didn’t find Dudaev attractive in the least. For starters, he was old enough to be her grandfather. Second, there was that mustache. But mostly there was that bit about him being a murderer and a thief and a . . .

  She needed to stop drinking. It was getting hard to think.

  His fingers released the clasp, and he pulled her bra away, tossing it aside.

  Wearing only his sapphire necklace, her black lace thong, and her Christian Louboutin pumps, she stood still before him, a shiver sliding through her as his gaze moved over her.

  He reached out, cupped one of her breasts. “Oh, you are beautiful.”

  But something was wrong. The room was spinning.

  Oh, damn!

  “Sasha?”

  He stared at her, a strange look on his face. He seemed angry, and he was stammering, some of his words coming out in a language she didn’t understand. And then he was holding a gun.

  “What . . . ?” A burst of adrenaline hit her bloodstream—and dissipated.

  Drugged.

  She’d been drugged.

  Dudaev was going to kill her.

  This is so going to suck.

  She took a step away from him, felt herself begin to fall, and then . . .

  Nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Nick stepped out of the elevator wearing the room service uniform he’d liberated from the laundry and pushed a cart laden with strawberries and more champagne down the hall toward Dudaev’s room. The same thug stood sentry outside the door as before, watching Nick through dull, angry eyes.

  Nick rolled up to the door, lifted the cover off the serving dish with a white-gloved hand, picked up a strawberry, and popped it into his mouth, speaking as he chewed. “Want one?”

  The big Russian glowered at him and slammed the lid back into place, swearing in his native tongue. “Those are not for you.”

  The man reacted as Nick had hoped he would, not questioning whether his boss had placed another order, but turning toward the door to alert Dudaev that his strawberries and champagne had arrived—and were being poached by the help.

  Nick struck him at the base of his skull with the butt of his Ruger MK III, rendering him unconscious. The man fell against the door and slid to the floor in a heap.

  Nick searched him, confiscating his Makarov, his cell phone, and the key card to his room—and Dudaev’s. He glanced up at the security camera, uncertain how long it would take for the hotel’s security staff to realize the footage on this floor had been hacked and was set on a ten-minute feedback loop.

  With a swipe, he opened the door to Dudaev’s room, dragged two hundred pounds of bodyguard inside with him, then quietly closed the door. From the bedroom, he could hear Dudaev swearing, his speech slurred.

  The son of a bitch was still conscious.

  So much the better.

  Unable to leave witnesses behind, Nick aimed the suppressed pistol at the bodyguard’s forehead and pulled the trigger twice, ending the man’s life in a single, painless second with a double-tap.

  Pop. Pop.

  Too bad Nick didn’t have one of those magic Hollywood suppressors that turned pistol shots into whispers. Even with integrated suppression and .22 subsonic rounds, the shots weren’t silent.

  Still wearing gloves, he picked up the two shell casings, popped them into his pocket, and walked back to the bedroom, taking it all in at a glance.

  Ms. Bradshaw passed out on the bed, wearing nothing but a lace thong and those sparkling shoes, the sapphire nestled between her breasts. Dudaev still dressed and slumped half on the bed and half off, trying to raise his head, a small pistol on the floor near his feet. He must have realized something was wrong when the drug began to take effect and had gone for his weapon.

  At l
east Nick had managed to stop him from getting his hands on Ms. Bradshaw and enjoying one last fuck. He could feel good about that.

  Dudaev spotted Nick, saw the weapon in Nick’s hands, and his pupils dilated.

  Pulse ratcheting up a notch, Nick moved toward him, speaking in Georgian. “Remember that night in Batumi?”

  Dudaev seemed confused, mouthed unintelligible words.

  “I’m here to settle the score.”

  Dudaev made a clumsy effort to sit up, his gaze on his pistol.

  “You want that, don’t you?” Nick bent down, retrieved it, and stuck it in the waistband of his trousers. “It’s mine now.”

  He looked into the face of the man who’d killed Dani and who was almost certainly to blame for the disappearances and deaths of the other officers. There were lines around his eyes, his skin dull from tobacco use and tanning. His mustache and the gold chains around his neck made him look like a low-rent hustler. But it was the hatred in his eyes that revealed what he truly was.

  A ruthless killer.

  Nick hadn’t planned on taking out Dudaev tonight. Then he’d overheard one of Dudaev’s men telling him in Georgian at the gallery that Ms. Bradshaw was under Agency surveillance. While Dudaev had insisted that Holly wasn’t a risk to him and was only being watched because she’d been seen fraternizing with him, the other man had urged him to kill her—just to make certain.

  Nick felt he’d had no choice but to move early. Clearly, he’d been made. He needed to retrieve the stolen flash drive and eliminate Dudaev before they could move against him—or harm Ms. Bradshaw. The best way to do that here, where a firefight would draw all kinds of attention and perhaps get bystanders killed, was to render both Dudaev and Bradshaw unresponsive before Nick moved in.

  “It’s over, you son of a whore.” Nick took a pillow from the bed, pressed it over Dudaev’s face. The bastard struggled and moaned beneath him. Nick pushed the barrel of his pistol deep into the down to muffle the sound further.

  “For Kramer. For Dani.”

  Another double-tap.

  Pop. Pop.

  An explosion of feathers and blood.