Page 74 of Mastered By Desire

Gage

Dmitri’s name lights up on my phone. Not who I was expecting. I answer.

“Have you talked to Leah?” he asks without greeting.

If he didn’t sound so concerned and uncomfortable, I would use this opportunity to plant seeds of lust in his mind. I would find ways to encourage them to get together again.

But he sounds worried, so I simply say, “No. I have not.”

“She’s not answering my calls. She stayed at a hotel last night. I called, no answer. I texted, no answer.”

“Could it be that she’s angry at you?” I ask.

“Yes.” His voice is simple, genuine. “But even if she’s pissed, she wouldn’t ignore me when I say I’m worried and want to make sure she’s okay. We’re friends first, before all this fucked up shit you had us doing.”

“I see. We should contact the police.”

“Already tried. She hasn’t been missing long enough for them to do anything. Detective Wentz doesn’t even sound like he gives a fuck.”

“He ought to—Leah is connected to the murder he’s trying to solve.”

“Youshould tell him that, because he sure as hell won’t listen to me.”

Even with my particular skills, I doubt I would be any more convincing. Dmitri’s concern and care for Leah are evident whenever they’re together, projected in every movement of his body, every inflection in his voice.

“I’m going to speak with my grandfather,” Dmitri says.

I frown at the city skyline beyond my living room window. “Is he in law enforcement?”

“No.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“I’ll speak with a security company I’ve worked with in the past,” I say. “Ironwood.”

Dmitri

When I say there’s more trouble, my grandfather hangs up.

Shit.

I call again, but it goes to voicemail. It can only mean one thing—whatever he has to say is potentially incriminating, and he’s not going to risk the phone.

I race to his house, my Mustang taking corners too fast, only pausing at stop signs.

He’s waiting at the front door when I arrive, wearing old jeans and a flannel shirt. He must have been gardening out back when I called. When I tell him about Leah’s disappearance, he frowns. When I tell him the detective wouldn’t help, his eyes flash with anger.

“Do not trust the detectives, Dmitri. Not at all.”

“What about Ironwood?”

He scoffs. “Do-gooders. You can trust them. But if you really want the problem taken care of? The Aseyev family can?—”

“No.” I might get desperate enough to use his connections, but at what cost?

But…Leah.

“Wait on calling your friends,” I finally say.

Granddad’s wire-brush eyebrows rise high on his forehead.

---