Frost pivoted and held up his index finger in a “hold on a minute” gesture.
“Hang up the phone, Frost!” I yelled so loud he jumped.
He looked at me in stunned surprise, then pulled the phone away from his ear and hit the speaker button. It was the best compromise he could offer me, I guess.
“You have to get me a phone number for Grinkov,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Will you just do it?!” I yelled. “I think I know how to help Dutch, but we have to move on it right now, okay?”
Frost stared moodily at me, probably trying to decide if he should tell me to go sit down, shut up, and let him handle it.
I got up from the chair where I’d been sitting, and approached him. When I was well into his personal space, I said, “You have no reason to trust me, but you know I love Dutch more than anything in the world. I would never put him in jeopardy, Frost. And the only way I can help him now is to listen to my intuition, which is insisting that you get me that number so I can call Grinkov.”
“There’s no way we’ll get approval for the half mil today,” Frost told me bluntly.
I didn’t even blink. “I know. I have something else in mind.” Again he wavered for a minute before sighing heavily; then he hit the end button to disconnect the line. Scrolling through his own contacts, he found the number he wanted and tapped it. A moment later he said, “Agent Dobbs, it’s Frost. I need a number. . . .”
Fifteen minutes later I sat on the white leather sofa staring at my cell phone on the coffee table. The display showed a keypad and the number I’d just plugged in. Out of the phone’s speaker came the tin sound of ringing, and finally the line was picked up. “Ya?” a male voice asked.
“I need to speak with Mr. Grinkov,” I said crisply.
There was silence on the other end of the line, but I could hear some background noise, so I knew that whoever answered hadn’t hung up on me.
“Who is this?”
The man on the other end had a smooth masculine voice and a very slight Slavic accent.
“My name is Abigail Carter. I am Richard Des Vries’s business partner.”
Across from me Frost’s eyebrows rose and he looked at me skeptically.
On the other end of the line there was a long pause, and I waited with bated breath for the guy to react or speak or tell me “wrong number” and hang up.
“Richard has been very bad boy,” said the voice, and I closed my eyes and used every ounce of control I had not to shriek or cry or beg the man to spare my fiancé’s life.
Swallowing hard, I said, “I understand Richard is late on a payment or two for a loan taken out with Mr. Grinkov.”
There was a chuckle on the other end of the line that sent a chill up my spine. “Is that what he told you?”
I ignored that. “Is this Mr. Grinkov?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” he replied coyly.
“I see,” I said, not really knowing where to go with that.
“Why are you calling?” he demanded.
“I would like to make payment on Mr. Des Vries’s debts,” I said. “And I would like Mr. Des Vries returned. Alive and in one piece.”
Across from me, Frost looked at me sharply, but I ignored him, and waited for my answer. “The loan must be paid in full,” said the caller.
I almost sagged with relief. He wouldn’t have said that if Dutch had already been murdered. “It will take a bit of time to gather the money,” I told him.
“How much time?”
“Two or three days,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed and crossing my fingers that he’d give me that long to reach Dutch’s best friend and business partner, Milo, and liquidate some assets.
The man on the other end sighed dramatically. “This is no good,” he said. “I need some money now, Miss Carter.”
My eyes shot open to meet Frost’s. He shook his head. He couldn’t promise that.
“Of course,” I said easily, my heart thundering with anxiety. “I knew you’d want some sort of deposit in good faith. But I’d also like some assurances that Mr. Des Vries is unharmed.”
“You would, eh?” he said, his voice mocking. “Well, unfortunately, Mr. Des Vries had a little accident on his way to meet with me, Miss Carter.”
I gripped the arm of the sofa, hard. “But he’s still alive, correct?”
“He is,” he assured me. “For now.”
“I will bring you the money tonight,” I said. “I have fifty thousand dollars.”
“That’s not enough,” the man said. “I will need one hundred thousand of the five hundred he owes me.”
I was afraid of that. “Yes, all right,” I said, glaring hard at Frost. “I will need the afternoon to gather the rest of the money together. Can you give me until this evening?”
“Yes, of course,” said the man. “I’m not unreasonable, after all. You will come by and have dinner with me. We will discuss the terms of repayment.”
Frost was shaking his head vehemently and mouthing the word, “No!”
“That sounds fine,” I told him. “Tell me where to go and I’ll be there.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Frost shouted the moment I’d hung up. Hmm, I doubted I’d be able get him to cough up a quarter for the swear jar. “Cooper, you can’t go to Grinkov’s house! We’ll never see you again!”
I stood up and limped over to the sink, dousing one of the towels under the faucet and holding it to my knee. “If you guys want to fire me, Frost, then go right ahead, but I’m going there tonight and I am going to make sure Dutch is still alive. And then I’m going to negotiate the terms of his release.”
Frost followed me over to the counter, where he stood angrily with his arms crossed over his chest. “I can’t give you a hundred thousand dollars, Cooper! Do you know how many people would have to sign off on that?”
I glared hard at him. “One,” I said, and limped back over to my phone. There were three people I personally knew that I could ask for a loan as large as one hundred thousand dollars, but only one of them wouldn’t ask me too many questions.
I dialed the phone while Frost watched me as if I’d just gone mad.
“Abby!” Milo said. “Long time no see, girl. What’s up?”
“Dutch is in trouble,” I told him, getting right to the point.
I could practically see Milo snap to attention. “Where?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said, blinking back the moisture that was flooding my eyes. I couldn’t involve Milo in our espionage, but that didn’t mean I didn’t long for him to fly in and help me rescue Dutch. “I need money to help him, Milo. A lot of money.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand.”
“How soon?” He’d said that without even a pause, and the moisture leaking from my eyes got harder to hold back. God love Milo!
“As soon as humanly possible.”
“Can you e-mail me some wiring instructions to the nearest bank?”
My eyes flickered to Frost. He nodded. “Yes, Milo, I can.”
“You’ll have it by five,” he assured me. “And Abs?”
“Yeah?”
“If things get worse and you need me, you call back, you hear?”
I could barely speak, but I managed a throaty, “Thanks, buddy. I will.”
It was nearly eight when I pulled into the long drive at the top of a very big hill overlooking a tony part of the Toronto suburbs called Yorkville. The house I rolled up to wasn’t really a house—it was more like a compound . . . or maybe a castle. It didn’t have a turret, but it seemed to have a tower. I wondered briefly, as I waited at the gate, if that’s where they were keeping Dutch. My stomach clenched again. I had no idea what little “accident” had befallen him, and just prayed he was okay.
The guard approached the car and asked me to step out. I complied and he first searched my purse, then the small attaché I’d brought along; then he gave me a good pat down. He didn’t take the o
pportunity to cop a feel, which I mentally gave him credit for, and finally he swept some sort of handheld gizmo over my body and told me to stretch out my arms and legs.
The gizmo made little crackling noises, but other than that, no loud squeaks or squeals went off, much to my relief.
Appearing satisfied, the guard stepped back from me and held out his hand. “Cell phone,” he said.
My brow furrowed. “Why?”
“You want to go in there?”
“Yes.”
“Then you give up your cell phone.”
I hesitated. What if he went through all the numbers loaded onto my phone? What if he called people and asked them about me? What if he downloaded my pictures and saw the cute ones I’d taken of Dutch and me right after he’d proposed?
The guard squinted at me, and I knew I had little choice. “Fine,” I said, reaching into the car and pulling it out. He went to grab it, but I held it away from him. “Just a second, buddy,” I said tersely, pulling out the clip holding my hair up and using one of the prongs to depress the button that released the SIM card. “You may have my phone,” I told him once I’d tucked the small piece of plastic into my pocket and locked the phone with a password. “But you can’t have my personal information.”
He scowled at me but made no further argument, taking my phone and motioning for me to get back into the car and go through the gate.
Once I was safely tucked back in my car, I used the rearview mirror to put the clip back into place, pulling a section of my hair back but leaving the sides long to cover my ears. Once I’d secured the clip, which hid a tiny camera and microphone and which Frost had insisted I wear, I clicked the teeny button on the side and felt it vibrate slightly. “How’s the angle?” I whispered.
In my ear I heard Frost say, “It’s fine. What took so long?”
I nodded to the guard as I passed by him through the gates. “I got the pat down,” I said. “And he took my cell.”
“Shit!” Frost said. “You let him have your cell? What numbers are on there, Cooper?”
I smiled. “None. I took the SIM card and locked the phone.”
There was a pause, then, “Good thinking,” which I thought might be the highest form of praise from Agent Frostbite.
I parked the car and took a small moment to collect myself. I knew the odds of coming out of here with Dutch were very, very low, and I had no idea if he was alive or dead, or even what condition he was in, but I knew that the most important thing for me to do was to remain calm, cool, and collected. I couldn’t react to anything that I saw or heard, because that could tip our hand, which would ensure our swift and immediate demise.
Frost had also warned me (at length) not to mention the drone or the code we were trying to shop. “If he knows you’ve got something as valuable as Intuit’s code, he’ll keep Rivers hostage until you cough up the disk—then we’ll be totally screwed.”
So, I was left with nothing but my own wits and my sixth sense to see me through the night. I knew that in order to utilize both to the fullest, I needed to collect myself and gather my courage. While I took a quiet moment in the car, I did what I usually do before I see my clients. I tucked all my emotions, feelings, judgments, and ego into a secure place in my brain, before stepping fully into the character of Abigail Carter, badass business partner to Rick Des Vries.
I then got out of the car and approached the house, carrying my purse and the small attaché. I raised my hand to use the knocker, but the door opened before I even had a chance. “Good evening,” said a man well into his sixties and sporting a British accent and a walking stick. “Ms. Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Very good to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “I am William Eddington, Mr. Grinkov’s butler.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.
“If you’ll follow me to the dining room?” he said with a slight bow before turning and moving through the large foyer, his walking stick clicking on the marble floor as we went.
The interior of the house wasn’t that surprising. I’d expected expensive, and that’s what I saw. Mostly brownish tones with olive green and gold accents and walls decorated with a great deal of expensive-looking art in gilded frames. By the looks of it, Grinkov favored the Impressionist era, but I found the overall effect of the house’s color and decorating style to be heavy and too serious for me.
We entered a large dining room with a cherrywood table polished to a bright sheen. Chairs that looked like thrones were positioned just so around the table, and two place settings had been arranged—one at the head of the table and one just to the left.
William indicated the seat on the left and pulled my chair out for me. I sat and folded my hands in my lap. “Would you care for a cocktail?” William asked me.
“No, thank you, William. Will Mr. Grinkov be long?”
“Good evening,” said a voice to my right. I swiveled slightly and into the room walked one of the sexiest men I’d ever seen. . . . (Uh . . . next to my fiancé of course . . . cough, cough.)
I stood as he approached, and switched my radar on to its highest setting. Maksim Grinkov was slightly shorter than Dutch, but I’d still put him close to six feet. He had a body that he took very good care of and he walked with the grace and power of an athlete. He had a broad chest, well-set shoulders, and a trim stomach. I had little doubt underneath his dress shirt he was sportin’ a six-pack.
He strolled into the room confidently, wearing black silk slacks and a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned muscular arms.
His face was square and roguish, his lips full and inviting, and his hazel eyes locked with mine, causing my pulse to quicken even despite the knowledge of who this man was and what he’d done to my fiancé.
In that moment I could tell he also liked what he saw. I felt my stomach muscles clench, and I wondered if I’d just done something incredibly stupid, like entering the den of a lion while wearing eau de antelope.
“Ms. Carter,” he said smoothly, stopping in front of me to take my hand and kiss it formally.
“Mr. Grinkov,” I answered, quickly quelling the burble of nervous tension in the pit of my stomach.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, standing tall again to pin me with those deadly, sexy eyes.
“Likewise. And thank you for inviting me to dine with you.” I worked on making my words formal and clear, hoping my manner and tone showed that I was all business.
Grinkov motioned for me to take my seat again, and I did. William, who’d been standing beside us the whole time, assisted me with my chair before moving off again, the sound of his walking stick fading into the distance.
“My chef has prepared a wonderful meal for us tonight,” Grinkov said, unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap. “I hope that you stay long enough to enjoy it.”
I nearly sucked in a breath at the implied threat, but managed to keep my mounting fear in check. Forcing myself to laugh lightly, I said, “As I do enjoy a nice meal, Mr. Grinkov, I hope so too.”
Grinkov raised his eyes to meet mine again. “Please, call me Maks.”
I nodded slightly and placed my hand over my heart. “Abigail.”
William returned at that moment, pushing a cart loaded with a rocks glass loaded with ice and vodka for his boss, and I was given a tall glass of bubbling water with a wedge of lime on the rim.
“You will not be having a cocktail?” Grinkov asked me.
“No,” I said, staring right at him. “I believe that business matters should be discussed with a clear head.”
The corner of Grinkov’s mouth quirked, but he made no further comment about my sobriety. Instead he raised his glass to me before taking a long sip. “So, tell me, Abigail, how did you and Richard become business partners?”
Grinkov’s eyes roved my face and chest again, and it was very obvious this particular lion loved the scent of antelope. I wondered if I might use his obvious attraction to
me to my advantage like I’d done with Kozahkov, and decided to go with it. “The usual way,” I said coyly, lifting my own napkin to unfold it and place it in my lap.
“What usual way is that, exactly?”
“We had some great sex over a three-day holiday, and in the few times we came up for air, we discovered that we had similar . . . uh, financial interests.”
Grinkov tilted his head back and laughed. I could tell that whatever he’d expected me to say, it hadn’t been that. He sobered quickly, or shall I say, he smoldered quickly. The man was oozing virility, and in the very back of my head I was at least relieved he didn’t physically repulse me like Viktor. “And do you still share his bed?” he asked.
“Des Vries?”
“Yes,” he said, eyeing me intently, looking for any hint of dishonesty.
“No. I do not share my bed with Rick Des Vries. Our arrangement now is strictly business.”
Grinkov sat back in his chair when William came back into the room, pushing his cart again, but this time it was loaded with a tray of toasted bread and three small dishes mounded with a black substance. Setting down the contents of the tray in front of us, he pointed to each individual dish and said, “Imperial Iranian osetra, Russian osetra, and Siberian osetra. Please alert me, sir, if you require more toast.”
William then departed and I was left to consider the idea of eating caviar. Fish eggs, blach!
Grinkov motioned for me to go first. Luckily, I’ve been to enough of my sister’s big Christmas shindigs to know the proper way to eat the slimy stuff.
I worked my way through a sample of each of the dishes and smiled and made little mmm-mmm sounds.
Grinkov continued to watch me closely, but he also continued to sip at his vodka, and it wasn’t long before he was given a refill.
Once the caviar was removed and replaced with a potato-leek soup, which was heavenly, Grinkov said, “Tell me about your business dealings with Des Vries.”
I wiped demurely at my mouth with my napkin before answering him. “No.”