Page 19 of Lord of Passion

To my dismay, we landed at a private airfield, which appears deserted. I should have anticipated that.Of course,the Morozov's bougie jets wouldn't land anywhere as pedestrian as apublicairport. But that also means I'm trapped in a car with Nikandr for however long it takes to get to The Hotel Tsaritsa, or now that I'm in Moscow, I should sayOtel' «Tsaritsa»with all the fancy spelling and punctuation.

One of his guards is already loading my luggage into the back of a gray Bentley, so I grit my teeth and smile. Another dark-suited bodyguard opens the back door for me, and I slide in to see that smug son of a bitch is already seated comfortably on the other side, texting someone rapidly on his phone, lips pursed in concentration. I settle in, fastening my seatbelt. I'm going to think successful, happy thoughts about my tour ofOtel' «Tsaritsa»and all the excellent ideas I'll be taking back to-

"It's about a half an hour drive to the hotel," he says, his eyes never leaving his phone screen. "Feel free to make yourself a drink," he nods toward a bar, which is cleverly designed to fit against the back of the front seat. When I open it there are many delightful adult beverages to choose from. "While you're there, pour me a vodka, would you?" His fingers are still blazing across his keyboard.

"We're not at the Lyric and I don't work for you." I smile pleasantly. "You're welcome to help yourself." I see the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror; they're wide and somewhat alarmed. I guess nobody talks back to theSovietnik.

Nikandr refuses to take offense, chuckling and reaching over to make a drink for himself. Unfortunately, I had not anticipated that that meant he would be so close. Close enough that I can see his five o'clock shadow. I wonder how it would feel rasping against the skin on my thighs.

Oh myGod, where did that come from?

His hair is gleaming in the low light, it's impossibly thick and he smells like wintergreen, obscene amounts of money and poor life choices.

Gorgeous or not, I have got to keep away from this man.

Chapter Nine

In which Nikandr is kind of a dick.

Nikandr…

Sergei Pushkin, the General Manager ofOtel' «Tsaritsa»is in the lobby to greet us when we arrive. It's a nice courtesy, though I notice that after he greets me first, and respectfully, asSovietnik, his attention immediately turns to Caroline. There's a big smile wreathing his face.

Puskin is one of our most successful general managers in our hospitality division. He's in his early fifties, already silver-haired, and based on the amount of rhapsodizing I am forced to listen to from my Russian finance managers, he's considered a silver fox. He takes Caroline's hand in his, gently shaking it. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Caroline Basha. Your work with the new Hotel Lyrica has been delightful."

Now, a genuine grin flashes across her face and I'm instantly infuriated that it's not directed at me. "Sergei Puskin, I have been dying to hear more about the keyword profile that you've been building on to target your guests. It's so fascinating, and yet, I still can't figure out your programming."

He leans forward, still shaking her hand. "I am most pleased to show it to you, and will also insist on hearing more about your choice to use the reclaimed fixtures in some of your suites versus the ultra-modern ones in the others." Sergi gives me anotherabsent nod and then sweeps his hand out in a courtly fashion, personally escorting Caroline to her suite.

A starry-eyed concierge races up to me with my keys. I'm staring at Sergi's silver head, bent attentively towards Caroline's as he follows her into the elevator.

This motherfucker.

"Thank you." I force myself to not snatch the key card away from the crestfallen concierge, "My guards will bring my luggage up to my suite."

The Hotel Tsaritsa is a grand old building that used to be one of the smaller palaces for the Russian nobility. It has a high tower on one side where the penthouse suite was constructed. Loosening my tie, I walk into the tower room, which has a 360° view of the city, and put in a call to Alexsey.

"There you are.” He’s irritable as hell. "I've been working on this asshole for twelve hours. Nice of you to finally show up."

"I have been busy putting this fire out on the East Coast," I remind him. "What have you learned from Novikov's man?"

"They've been trying to break into the Moscow market," Alexsey says irritably. "How do these stupid fucks not know that it's already saturated with guns and drugs?" I hear a meaty punch and then a howl.

"You've let him keep his teeth?" I disapprove of this.

"Yeah, because I still wanted to understand what he was saying," Alexsey snaps back. "I'm sleep deprived and in a very bad mood. So far, I know that we better make nice with Viktor Volkov because they've been working him hard, offering him a fifty-percent reduction on arm sales for the first two shipments."

"Stupid fucks," I curse, putting my hand on my hip and pacing the circular room. "The only way they could be doing that is if they're stealing from someone else."

"You might want to check in with the MacTavishes in Edinburgh," Alexsey says. "This is more in their wheel house. Assault weaponry, sniper rifles, armor-piercing ammunition, that sort of thing."

It's a surprisingly clear day in Moscow and I can see the glittering windows of the high-rise part of the city, aggressively modern, unlike the formal authenticity of the older section with the cathedrals and the palaces. I wonder if Caroline's been here before?

"– So, you can see why I'm concerned." Oh, Alexsey’s still talking. There’s silence. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes! Yes." I rub my eyes. "It isn't a sustainable business model. It's designed strictly to get into Volkov's favor. I'll schedule a meeting with him tonight to make sure there's no chinks in our partnership. Do you need any help with questioning Novikov's man?"

I hear him shut the door, stepping outside. There's the faint sound of a boat horn so he must be down by the docks. "Actually, I just took over." He sounds distinctly queasy. I've never heard Alexsey sound like this before, somewhere between barely contained nausea and acute terror.