Page 50 of Dangerous Secrets

They thought they were among their own kind. They weren’t. They were with monsters.

It was amazing to him. How people could be around predators and notfeelthat they were different.

One elderly gent with an ebony cane topped by a silver orb took a drink off a tray offered by one of Worontoff’s minions. He didn’t notice the barbed wire tattoo visible under the snowy white cuff or the slight bulge under the left armpit of the man holding the tray. No doubt the goon had a backup in an ankle holster and a knife in a hip sheath. Not to mention a garotte in the fancy cummerbund.

He was an operator, no doubt about that. Steel gray crew-cut, knife scar along the jawline, in his fifties and fitter than any twenty year old could ever hope to be.

And Clueless Geezer happily lifting a drink from the tray Crew Cut held, unaware of the fact that with one word from Worontzoff, Crew Cut would rip his throat out. Jesus.

Nick knew, though. He’d been around people like Crew Cut all his life and every sense he had was on high alert.

So he walked around with a hand to Charity’s back, not as a gentleman would, to guide her gently and stake his claim, but because he was ready at any moment to shove her to the ground and pull out his Glock at the first sign of danger.

“Charity! My dear, so good to see you.” Nick stiffened as Worontzoff pulled himself away from a little gaggle of politicians, rich men and journalists across the room, to limp slowly toward Charity.

Nick could see the men and women Worontzoff had been talking to craning their necks to see who could possibly be more important than they were.

Nick had watched Worontzoff through his spotting scope and had studied hundreds of photographs. The photographs didn’t do Worontzoff justice.

He wasn’t tall—Nick was a full head taller—but he had an animal, magnetic presence that turned heads and stopped conversations. If you didn’t look at his hands, he could even be considered a handsome man, with a leonine head of graying blond hair, light blue eyes and high Slav cheekbones.

He made a beeline for Charity in his odd gait, ignoring everyone who tried to engage his attention as he crossed the huge room.

Charity was pink with pleasure, since she was so obviously the center of The Great Man’s attention. There was a little buzz ofwho is she?and then Worontzoff was right in front of her, bending to give her a little buss on the cheek.

Nick’s jaws clenched but there was nothing he could do about it without looking like a boor. It was a fatherly kiss, though therewas absolutely nothing fatherly about Worontzoff’s face when he straightened.

“My dear, you’re looking positively radiant! More beautiful than ever. What have you been doing?”

The tone was coy, but the glance he shot Nick was sharp as a saber. He knew perfectly well what she’d been doing and why she was glowing.

Charity held on to Nick’s arm. “Vassily, I’d like to introduce you to my friend, Nicholas Ames.”

Worontzoff smiled right into Nick’s eyes. They were clear as glass and just as cold. “Well, Mr. Ames, it is indeed a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Charity’s is a friend of mine, as the saying goes. You will forgive me if I don’t shake hands with you.” He held up one shattered hand, mottled red and criss-crossed with scars. “I had . . . a little run-in once with a prison guard.”

Don’t worry, you fuckhead. I wouldn’t shake hands with you, not even with a gun to my head,Nick thought.

Whoa.

This was bad. Being undercover means believing. You have to believe your cover story with every fiber of your being. You eat, drink and sleep your cover story. You never, ever break cover,especiallyin your head.

Nicholas Ames, New York businessman, would be absolutely delighted to meet a famous man, someone he’d never meet ordinarily. Stockbrokers lived off contacts and this was a good one. If nothing else, Nicholas Ames could dine out on having met a contender for the Nobel.

Nick had to get back into characternowor he would endanger not only himself but Charity.

He breathed like when he sniped. Long, calm breaths, guaranteed to drop his heart rate ten beats per breath and assumed an expression so bland it was as if he were alone in the room.

He nodded at Worontzoff’s hands. “No problem, sir. I’m very pleased to meet you. Charity’s told me so much about you.”

Worontzoff turned to Charity. “Have you now, my dear?” He placed his claw of a hand on her forearm.

Nick had goosebumps so thick the hairs on his forearm brushed against his shirt sleeve at the expression on Worontzoff’s face when he looked at Charity.

Nick’s instinct—hot, immediate, primordial—was to attract attention away from Charity, the way a mother bear lures a hunter away from the den where her cubs are sleeping.Look away from her, fuckhead! Look at me instead!

“Yeah.” Nick raised his voice a little, enough to carry. Enough to make Worontzoff instinctively look at him. “She said you were like a father to her. It’s really nice of you to let me tag along tonight, though to tell you the truth, I don’t know much about classical music. I’ll let Charity tell me what’s going on.”

He grinned, clueless businessman mainly interested in the woman whose waist he clasped. Tightly.

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