SIX
I left my Land Rover running and slid out of the driver’s seat as the valet handed me a claim ticket.
For the first time in my life, I took a good look at the guy about to park my vehicle. I really studied him, wondering if he was who he appeared to be.
Had he too been planted here by some organization?
And what if he had been? Another concern bombarded me. Was he a good guy or a bad guy? Security or spy?
I swept my gaze down his body and wondered if there was a communicator in his ear or a gun hidden somewhere on him.
Since I didn’t know if I could actually use the weapon on me in an emergency, my newest theory about the valet was particularly disturbing.
Zane was right. I needed to get out of my own head. My overactive imagination was spitting out ideas faster than editors at a pitch meeting. I was psyching myself out just when I had to remain cool, calm and collected.
The valet was probably exactly who he appeared to be, a fresh-faced kid looking to make some cash over his summer break from college by parking cars in the Hamptons . . . and I needed to start acting like who I actually was—Brent Hearst supporting a good cause while enjoying the beach for the weekend.
It shouldn’t be hard.
It shouldn’t be, but it was.
I waited for the valet to pull away in my vehicle and crossed the driveway toward the home’s entrance.
There was a small, tasteful table set up in front for the volunteers to check people into the party.
I stepped up to the two women and forced a smile I could only hope looked natural.
“Brent Hearst. I was a last minute addition to the guest list. I believe there’s a ticket being held here in my name. And I still need to pay.” I slid the envelope containing a corporate check out of the inside breast pocket of my navy blue jacket.
Luckily the party wasn’t formal, so a tuxedo wasn’t required—just a leg holster.
“Welcome, Mr. Hearst. We have your ticket right here.” The older of the two women treated me to a smile as she took my payment.
She should be happy to see me. There was ten thousand dollars in that envelope the organization didn’t have a minute ago.
“Alexandra, Mr. Hearst’s ticket is in the box.”
As the younger woman looked for the envelope with my name on it in the box I took a second look at her. Not because I suspected her as I had the valet, but because she and her fresh faced, girl-next-door good looks was well worth spending some time looking at.
The pretty twenty-something volunteer was almost enough to make me forget my real reason for being here.
Almost . . .
“Mr. Hearst.” She held out the ticket she’d located with a brilliant smile.
I forced myself to smile back. “Thank you, Alexandra.”
She nodded her acceptance of my thanks as her green gaze met mine. “The silent auction is set up on the front porch if you’d like to take a look.”
“Thank you. Anything good I should bid on?” I asked.
No, I wasn’t flirting.
Okay, maybe I was flirting a little bit, but the real reason I was stalling was because I knew the Russian’s car hadn’t arrived yet. I thought it would be better if I were outside when it did. That way he’d go right from the driver’s protection to mine—God help us both.
Not that I was planning to do anything to protect him except keep an eye on him and call for backup if anything looked off. But if Zane thought that was enough, I couldn’t argue.
“That depends on what interests you,” the young brunette said, drawing me away from my racing thoughts and back to a much more pleasant subject—her.
She was all business as she spoke. I didn’t know if she was being on her best behavior because of the presence of the older woman seated next to her, or because I wasn’t as charming as I thought.
“The week in Aspen looks incredible,” the other woman chimed in.
“Thank you. I’ll check it out.” Running out of things to say, which was unlike me, I glanced over my shoulder, looking for the Russian’s arrival.
Where was that damn town car? Zane’s man needed to drive faster.
There must be traffic. It wouldn’t be a surprise. A sunny summer weekend meant guaranteed traffic on Long Island.
As my mind raced I noticed Alexandra watching me with interest. And not the kind of interest a man wanted from a hot woman. More like she was wondering what I was doing hanging around the check-in table in the driveway when there was no doubt incredible food and drinks being served just yards away.
I scrambled for an excuse.
Leaning lower, I feigned confiding in her as I whispered none too quietly, “I hate attending these things alone.”
It wasn’t true. I usually knew most of the guests and enjoyed networking with those I didn’t know, but she didn’t know that.
She lifted one well-shaped dark brow. “It’s for a good cause.”
I felt the censure. I needed to move on. “Yes. You’re right.”
I straightened and glanced behind me at the drive again—and let out a breath of relief as a black sedan pulled up.
Hoping against hope it was the Russian, I held my breath as the driver’s door opened and a man much too muscular to look like he sat on his ass behind the wheel all day got out.
That had to be Zane’s guy. The driver glanced quickly in my direction then moved to the passenger door, swinging it open.
The man I recognized as the Russian from the pictures Zane had showed me stepped out. The driver slammed the door behind him then got back behind the wheel.
He pulled away, hopefully to park somewhere nearby since he was my backup.
The Russian moved toward the table, and that was my cue to make myself scarce. I wanted to keep an eye on the guy, but I certainly didn’t want to talk to him. He might ask me a question I wasn’t prepared to answer.
My nerves were about to get the best of me already, without making direct contact with the mark or the target or whatever the hell term I should be using for the Russian. Zane hadn’t briefed me on that detail.
I wondered what else we’d forgotten to go over as I glanced back at Alexandra. “Guess I’ll be getting inside.”
As her focus remained honed in on my face, she said, “Enjoy.”
“I’ll try.” I nodded then moved past her.
I climbed the stairs onto the covered porch and walked around toward the side of the house, following the sound of the party.
The porch overlooked the gardens of the gorgeous home. I remained on the corner. There I’d be able to see the Russian as he followed the path I’d taken, and I could report in to Zane before I was surrounded by guests and had to socialize.
“Base. I’m in,” I said softly, hoping Zane would hear.
“Good. Now stop talking to me before someone sees you.”
He was right. I would look like a crazy person speaking to no one.
I caught myself touching my ear, afraid the communicator had worked its way out as I walked and become visible. I forced my hand down even as I worried that it might fall out and I’d lose my only connection to Zane.
“Okay,” I said, the need to talk to him strong in spite of his warning.
“Go get yourself a drink and calm the fuck down, Rosebud.” Zane stressed my name, which did sound ridiculous now in the midst of this thing.
“Fuck off,” I said.
I heard him laugh but couldn’t worry about him more because the Russian was now on the porch as well and heading my way.
A drink sounded good. Not just to calm my nerves but because I’d already spotted the bar and it would be a good place to observe the Russian and the other guests.
No one would question the authenticity of my standing there waiting to get a drink.
As I marveled at how even the most routine, mundane actions seemed beyond me now that I had a subversive reason for being here, I strode toward the bar.
I had a new appreciation for how Zane had survived all those years in the SEALs, keeping his cool under fire when I couldn’t seem to keep mine at a cocktail party.
“Enjoying yourself yet, Mr. Hearst?”
I turned at the question to find Alexandra beside me. “Working on it. And please, call me Brent. Are you off duty for the night?”
“Not quite. I’ve been sent on an errand.”
“Ah.” I nodded, wishing I were here to enjoy myself because I would definitely enjoy getting to know the lovely Alexandra under other circumstances.
“And what if I were off duty for the night?” She let the question hang suggestively in the air.
Was she flirting with me?
After her businesslike, almost cold behavior at the check-in desk, that took me off guard. And if she was coming on to me, what the hell did I do about it?
With me playing bodyguard, this was not the time or the place, and I was in no shape to reciprocate anyway. I was lucky to string together two sentences as my nerves threatened to cripple me.
“Brent . . .” Zane’s voice, heavy with warning, filled my ear.
Startled, I jumped.
Had she noticed? If she hadn’t, she’d certainly noticed that I had yet to reply to her.
“Uh, if you were off duty you’d get to enjoy the party. It’s a shame you won’t be able to, stuck at that check-in table.”
“Yes, it is a shame.” Her gaze stayed on me for what seemed like forever. Finally, she said, “I’d better be getting back.”
As a small smile bowed her lips she tipped her head in a nod and was gone, leaving me to finally release the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
“Jesus.” I’d barely breathed the curse but Zane heard it, of course.
“Boy, have you lost your game,” he said.
“Fuck you,” I mumbled.
“I told you to stop talking to me.”
Was he kidding?
“Then stop talking to me,” I hissed and considered pulling the damn communicator out of my ear.
I could always put it back in if I needed it, but it might save my sanity to get Zane out of my head. I had enough stress already without him fucking around with me.
I was still deciding if I should risk his wrath and pursue that idea when my Russian target was joined by a woman too beautiful to be real.
Although that described a lot of people in the Hamptons I still felt like I needed to pass on the information.
I wandered to the edge of the party and faced the ocean. I pretended to be admiring the view so no one would notice me talking to myself. “Zane—I mean Base. Come in.”
Zane sighed. “Yes?”
“There’s a woman talking to the Russian.”
“And?”
“What’s strange is I don’t recognize her.”
“You recognize everyone else there?” he asked, as if that notion was ridiculous.
I turned and glanced around and yeah, I might not know everyone personally, but I recognized every guest in attendance at least by sight. I could open any issue of the local Hampton’s publication and see these same people pictured at one event or another.
“As a matter of fact, I do. But there’s more. She’s way too hot. Like abnormally so.”
“So you think she’s a honeypot.”
“A what?” I asked.
“A hot woman sent to cozy up to a man, get him to let his guard down to get something out of him. Or to do him harm.”
I got what Zane was insinuating. That she could be a spy or an assassin. But she could also be a model or a gold digger. I didn’t know. Just as I didn’t know how the hell my life had shifted so drastically that the word assassin was even in my thoughts.
I saw a photographer going from group to group snapping pictures. He stopped in front of the Russian and I got an idea.
“Hang on,” I whispered to Zane and then I strode toward the photographer.
When he was done with his picture and had turned away from the Russian and the mystery woman, I stepped up to him and extended my hand. “Hey, there. Brent Hearst.”
He juggled the camera to his left hand so he could grasp mine with his right. “Um, hi. Paul Schaeffer. Staff photographer. Dan’s Papers.”
I nodded. “I figured that’s who you worked for. You guys always have the best pictures of the events out here.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. Uh, did you need something? I’d be happy to include you in the spread if that’s—”
“Actually I was wondering if you knew who she was.” I angled my body toward the Russian and his lady companion and tipped my head in that direction.
“Oh.” He grinned. “Gotcha. She is an attention-grabber. Hang on. I can tell you exactly.” He pulled out a small notebook and referred to his scrawl on the pages. “She’s Viktoria Mikhelson.”
“Mikhelson.” I repeated the name as it rang a bell. The familiarity nagged at me but I couldn’t pin down exactly why. Finally, I remembered. “Wait, is her father Leonid Mikhelson?”
“Don’t know.” The photographer shrugged.
I’d done some research after Zane had given me this more than odd assignment. Mikhelson was on Forbes’s list of the world’s richest men right along with Mordashov. I couldn’t recall how he’d made his money, but I remembered he’d founded some art museum and had named it in honor of his daughter.
So that was the connection. She wasn’t an assassin. Just another rich Russian. Two Russian billionaires at one party, it made sense they’d hang out together.
Feeling confident I’d done my due diligence, I said, “Thank you, Paul. You’ve been very helpful.”
“No problem.” The photographer lifted his camera. “Picture?”
I laughed. “Sure, if you really want it. Don’t feel obligated.”
He shook his head. “Of course, I want it. The Hearsts are a part of Hamptons history.”
“I suppose you’re right.” For better or worse. Not this particular Hearst, but as far as some other members of my family, yes, he was correct. I leaned one hand against the porch post. “Here good?”
“Perfect.” He snapped the shot and then said, “Thanks.”
“Thank you. I look forward to the article.” When he’d moved on, I turned and made my way toward the bar—again. Maybe I’d actually get there this time. But before I did, I whispered, “Base. You get all that?”
“Yeah. Searching her now. I’ll send a photo to your cell just to confirm it’s really her and not someone sent to replace her.”
Jesus, I hadn’t even considered that possibility. “Someone could do that?”
“Possibly. If she’s a close enough match and they don’t know each other personally. Wait for my text.”
“Okay.” And while I was waiting, I finally stepped up to the bar. “Beer, please.”
I took the bottle from the bartender just as the cell in my pocket vibrated. I took a sip before heading back to the edge of the party and checking my phone.
The woman in the photo was a dead ringer for the woman talking to the Russian.
“That’s her,” I said softly, the bottle hiding the view of my lips for any guests who might be looking.
“Roger that.”
My lips twitched, enjoying that Zane had lapsed into military speak.
I was starting to really get into this mission.
Russian billionaires. Covert communicators. I felt like James Bond, right down to the presence of the mysterious Bond girl. But I’d seen enough of those movies to know that good old 007 tended to get himself into trouble when he succumbed to the charms of the uber-sexy beauty.
She usually tried to kill him, if not during sex, then right after. Observing the scorching hot Russian heiress in front of me, I had to admit that it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.
I glanced back at the porch and remembered there was also the lovely volunteer assistant Alexandra—she’d make a very enticing Moneypenny in my Bond movie scenario.
All right, maybe I was getting into the intrigue a bit too much but with as uneventful as this assignment guarding the Russian had been so far, I didn’t see a problem with a little mental distraction.
Speaking of the Russian . . . I swept the area with my gaze and realized I could no longer see him.
Where had he gone?
While I’d been fantasizing about Alexandra, he’d disappeared somewhere. I didn’t know where but he was, indeed, gone.
Shit.
“What’s wrong?” Zane’s question held a good dose of panic and I realized I’d muttered the curse aloud.
I strode toward the house and spotted the Russian and the heiress through the window. A closer look proved they were in deep conversation while studying a painting on the wall of the home.
Art. The heiress’s, and her father’s, passion.
Phew. Crisis averted.
“Nothing. It’s fine. I see him,” I told Zane.
Silently I promised myself I’d stop daydreaming even if nothing exciting was happening.
With any luck the rest of the evening would prove to be just as boring. In my current situation, boring was good. I just needed to remember that.
The leg holster starting to chafe my leg should serve as a good reminder. At that thought I took another swallow of the one beer I’d allow myself tonight and wished it were whisky instead.