The Volkov Brothers Series: The Complete Series by Leslie North (28)

Born into a Russian Mafia family, Vlad Karev is no stranger to violence…but this time it’s personal. Someone has murdered his father and Vlad can’t rest until he finds the killer. When the trail leads to an art gallery, Vlad wants to dig deeper, but he needs help from the owner’s daughter. The pretty redhead is far too innocent for a man like Vlad, but he’ll do what it takes to get the information he needs. His obligations are to the family, even if that means using the fiery woman.

Madison O’Connor works hard to keep her family’s gallery going, although secretly she has little interest in art. But when she discovers her father’s been laundering money for the Russian Mafia, she’ll do everything she can to keep him out of jail. She hates to lie, but she has a plan…seduce the Russian bad boy to learn the mob’s secrets. Never mind his dangerous exterior or icy blue eyes, Madison’s going to get her family free of the mob, even if she has to use Vlad Karev to do it.

As the killer gets closer, so do Vlad and Madison. But is their connection just the means to an end, or could their romance be real?

* * *

Vlad Karev sipped his morning coffee as he leaned lazily against the bus stop shelter across from the O’Connor Fine Arts Gallery. He certainly wasn't expecting the first exhibition he saw to be going on outside of the building.

“And I'm telling you I want to speak to your supervisor," a very feminine voice insisted. Even from where he stood, she sounded at the limits of her patience. Vlad guessed the dispute had been going on long before he arrived.

"I am the supervisor!" the man returned vehemently. "I drive, and I supervise! Anything you have to say, you say to me!"

A moving van was parked in the Gallery’s loading bay with the ramp down. Two men were in the process of unloading a large, bubble-wrapped frame from the trailer. A third man stood in the alley arguing with the redheaded woman carrying a clipboard. Vlad watched as the woman took a tentative step back when the man arguing with her leaned toward her.

"I've been saying it all morning! You absolutely cannot ship these frames with one layer of bubble wrap and some packing tape. This is completely unprofessional! I… oh, my God," the woman interrupted herself as one of the two men coming down the platform dropped the end of his frame. It hit the metal ramp with a loud crack of splintering wood. The movers halted to look to their supervisor for instruction. The latter waved them on without a second thought.

"I'm sorry, but are these wood frames?" the woman exclaimed. "Are you trying to ship me broken wood frames?"

"Five percent discount," the supervisor said pulling out a cigarette and popping one end into his mouth.

"Five percent?"

The man reached out to seize her clipboard. The woman cried out, but when she reached to wrestle it back again, the supervisor shoved her roughly away.

Vlad took that as his cue to intervene. Raising his hand, he signaled to his bodyguards to remain in the car before crossing the street without even looking for traffic, his attention solely focused on the scene in the alley. His long strides devolved into a more casual stroll as he came up beside the woman; she turned to regard his arrival with a stricken expression, unwittingly opening up her private exchange with the mover to encompass him as well.

"Fifty percent discount, and she gets to keep the clipboard," Vlad said.

The self-described supervisor looked him up and down. He had to look much more up than down. "Why do I give a fuck what you think?" the man demanded. "Mind your own business and keep walking!"

The look Vlad was getting from the woman wasn't much more encouraging. Up close, she was as beautiful and harassed as he had guessed from across the street. Thick, red hair blazed like a firestorm around her neck and shoulders, giving the impression that she had wrestled with it that morning before ultimately deciding to take it down from its restraints. The color of her mane contrasted with the starched monochrome of her white blouse, which was just translucent enough to betray the dark impression of the brazier she wore beneath it. A smattering of freckles across her high cheeks and button nose filled Vlad with an immediate and unexpected desire to see just how far the constellation extended. Did they cover the rest of her body; her neck, her shoulders…? Did her lovers count them before going to sleep on them?

Those were the tamest of the thoughts he entertained while looking at her. Even though his eyes were concealed behind his sunglasses, he thought she felt the suggestive weight of his gaze. He watched with interest as a mute flush rose up beneath the freckles whose full territory he was considering.

"Hey! You listening to me, pal?" the driver demanded. The two movers had returned from inside the gallery, their hands freed from carting the broken frame. They flanked their supervisor, although they eyed Vlad with a good deal more wariness.

Vlad turned his attention away from the beautiful woman to eye the three movers with far less interest. The accumulation of their upper body strength was something worth considering, at least. These weren't meatheads who zealously pumped iron at the gym—these were men who made their living hauling heavy objects, and they had the practical strength to show for it.

"Move whatever remains inside," Vlad instructed, "and apply the zero to your offered discount. I won't repeat myself."

"Sir, I can take care of this," the woman said uncertainly. Her tone made it clear she was uncomfortable with his easy command of the proceedings. He thought it likely her discomfort stemmed from the fact that she hadn't been able to tighten the leash on these men herself. "There's no need for you to get involved," she added.

"Why don't you tell the fire-crotch to learn how to handle her own business?" the supervisor demanded.

The woman gasped, as if all the wind had been knocked out of her by the crass insult. A meditative moment passed, and then Vlad put his coffee on a nearby ledge and struck out with the flat of his palm.

His single-handed shove sent the driver flying backward against the truck trailer. The container rang hollowly at the impact, and the man's shoulder gave a sharp crack to rival the shattered wood frame from earlier, although Vlad was confident he hadn't used enough force to break any bones. The two movers sprang out of the way, and the woman's hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I—"

"Get a move on," Vlad advised the three men. "Be glad I didn't spill my coffee."

The threat in his tone was thinly veiled, and the movers collaborated to unload the items much more expediently after that. A thorough apology from the stricken supervisor preceded a complete refund, and it wasn't long before Vlad and the woman found themselves standing alone in the alley amid a cloud of dispersing exhaust. The truck was gone, carrying with it the three stooges who had given her such a hard time.

"Terminate your contract with them," Vlad advised.

"You don't have to tell me twice," the woman agreed.

Generously, he held out his coffee to her. The woman accepted his offer without a second thought as to what she was doing, exhaling a long sigh, she raised the paper cup to her lips. In the next moment, she spat its contents out onto the ground.

"Does this have… is that vodka?" she exclaimed incredulously.

Vlad shrugged. It was as much a morning staple to him as cream was to professionals who had less vital business to attend to.

"You cannot come into the gallery if you are intoxicated," the woman said, delivering her verdict in a clipped procession of words.

Vlad raised an eyebrow. "Can't I?" He didn't bother correcting her assessment of his sobriety.

The woman fisted her knuckles on her diminutive hips. Any pair of hands could get lost in a set of curves like that, he mused privately. "No, you cannot," she emphasized. "This is my family's gallery, and I won’t have someone like you…that is to say…there’s been enough damage for one day."

There were two details in particular about the woman's comments that Vlad found far more interesting than her refusal to let him enter: one was her personal relationship to the gallery, and the other was her remark concerning someone like him. There was no mistaking the resentment in her tone. It may have been his intention to keep a low profile while visiting the gallery, but this woman saw right through him.

Then again, maybe it was the sharp sting of the vodka on her tongue that clued her in.

"Anyway, we're closed," she continued as she turned to go. His first sight of her had been from a distance, but he had yet to see her from behind. Vlad tipped his sunglasses to take in the view. Long, shapely legs stretched themselves to the limit of her slate-gray pencil skirt, hugging the rolling cleavage of her tight end. Now his thoughts about what lay beneath this woman's clothes were anything but tame.

He was moving before he even knew he was in pursuit.

Vlad reached out a hand and caught the heavy door, pulling it open with ease. Looking over his shoulder, he watched his bodyguard turn and return to the car. His men were good at their job but given recent events, they were more cautious than usual, which annoyed him. He was more than capable of taking care of himself in most any situation. Turning back to the door, he followed her inside. The woman walked double-time, casting a hasty glance over her shoulder as his long strides ate the distance between them.

"I said we're closed!" she snapped. She was as brave in her dealings with him as she had been with the three movers. The fact that she wasn't afraid of him—especially considering her hint that she knew what he really was—made Vlad much more willing to push the boundaries of their interaction.

"I'm not here to look at art," he replied. He wasn't used to having doors closed on him. He also wasn't used to hearing the word no, especially from a woman. "I'm here to speak to the owner. You just told me you're an O’Connor."

"I know what you're here about, Mr. Mafioso." She stopped and turned sharply on her heel, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. This new view from the front was enough to halt Vlad in his tracks. Luckily, she didn't appear to notice where his eyes were directed. He was certain him appraising her like she was one of the pieces she kept on display would have further hurt his chances of getting answers.

"I highly doubt that." His voice was cold enough to chill the faint wisps of steam still rising from what remained of his coffee. It was a new tone of voice, one the woman hadn't heard before but she didn't shrink from it. If anything, she looked suddenly curious… and curiosity could lead to a potential opening, if gentlemanly manners couldn't.

"I know you're here about money," she stated. "Specifically, you're here about the money that my family was foolish enough to accept from Sergey Karev, who I assume is your boss. How is he, by the way?"

She might as well have fired a bullet pointblank into his chest. If he had not been expecting this reception, then Vlad certainly hadn't expected to be the one to deliver the news.

His lips thinned into a humorless smile. "Dead."

He could see that the revelation stunned the capricious, curvaceous woman. Her steely expression faltered, and she blinked her big brown eyes. The hard front she had been putting up all but disintegrated.

"I… I didn't know," she confessed. "How? When?"

One of these questions Vlad wanted answered himself. Until then… "A month ago," he replied. "I'm surprised the news hasn't reached you."

"No. No, it hadn't." Her breasts swelled as she clenched her arms. "I'm guessing Father knew, but he must have been keeping it from me. Not just to avoid an 'I-told-you-so,' but to protect me. He knows how worried I've been about this whole arrangement."

The woman unlaced her arms only long enough to reach out and straighten a nearby vase. Vlad watched her from behind the dark shield of his sunglasses. Was that a nervous tell, and was this all a show for him? Was it possible this woman was only feigning ignorance, or had she really not known that the Pakhan—and her gallery's primary investor—was murdered?

Was it possible she knew, too, about the folded note secreted inside his pocket that her father had sent to Sergey the day he died?

For now, he avoided giving voice to any of his more private, pressing questions. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Madison O’Connor," she replied almost reluctantly. "What's yours?"

"Vlad Ivankov Karev."

"Karev… wait, Karev?" she echoed. Vlad didn't bat an eye, didn't tip his sunglasses, didn't give away any physical indication that her surprise at his identity was news to him. He had guessed as much from their first meeting and her dismissive treatment of him. He tried not to take it personally, considering he hadn't been aware of her connection to the gallery either. If anything, he found her disrespect refreshing.

"Sergey was my employer. He was also my father."

Madison O’Connor's expression was a shuffling deck of emotions. He thought he saw a look of remorse for his family tragedy flash across her face, before it was replaced in the next instant by a look of intense thoughtfulness. Clearly this woman didn't like that his family business was so deeply entangled with hers. Vlad couldn't tell if she was deciding whether to be cunning, but he was willing to find out.

"Shall we continue this conversation somewhere else?" he suggested.

"Yes… yes, I think that's a good idea," Madison said as she turned away. "This way to my office, Mr. Karev."

Vlad's mouth, the same one that had voiced the idea so swiftly met with Madison O’Connor's stamp of approval, flexed slightly, inching toward a smile. It wasn't the only stamp the woman left him with. As he followed after her, he rotated his coffee cup idly, musing on the light lipstick print leftover from their earlier exchange outside.

His wasn't the only mouth met with approval.