Page 86 of Sinful Promise

“What’s the matter?” Dasha asks, her eyes groggy from sleep.

“Trouble in London. Everyone is fine, but Andrian is stirring shit up.”

She sits up. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m waking everyone for a meeting. I have a plan.”

“What can I do?”

“Join us. You have a stake in this as well.”

As lightning snaps and cracks overhead, I roll out of bed and dress in lounging clothes. Flashes of white light fill the room, and Dasha’s eyes grow wide with fright. Thunder booms and echoes around us.

I have men on the ground, and we’re working hard to even the final playing field for the showdown. I have to figure out a way to end Andrian. I never want to see the look of fear in her eyes again.

31

DASHA

Everyone gathers in the conference room with three large windows. The wooden floor is covered with an ornate blue and white rug. There is a sofa that seats four comfortably. A square skylight is in the center of the ceiling. The only wall in the room is a long bookcase with four sections. Each section has three wooden shelves. Under the shelves is storage. A round railing, standing four inches above the shelf, keeps the books from tumbling out when the sea is rough. Sometimes, I forget I’m on a boat.

A crew member quietly enters the room carrying a tray laden with a large white carafe, numerous cups, tea bags, and an assortment of condiments for the coffee and tea. He sets the tray down and leaves quietly.

Francesca is wearing a designer sweatsuit of thin, light blue fabric. Matching ballet-type shoes cover her feet. Her hair is piled high, and she has a chic scarf woven through it.

Irina stands at the doorway, pausing to yawn. Her white knit tank top shows off her perfectly symmetrical breasts and the shirt covers the top of her drawstring lounging knit pants. The matching knit sweater extends to her knees. She screamssexyandBraunat the same time. She’s the ultimatefemme fatal,

Alex has on jogging pants, a white wife beater, and a jacket. It’s as if he’s going out on a run in a city. He’s even wearing sneakers.

“What the fuck is up?” His eyes dart around, reading the room.

I’m sitting on the overstuffed sofa. I pull my feet, warmed by socks, under me. I found a knit lounging outfit with long drawstring pants suitable to wear to the meeting. I pull the matching three-quarter-length sweater over my chest and fold my arms.

Irina and Francesca sit beside me on the sofa.

“All right.” Roman claps his hands, then turns to face us. “Bad news: one of our warehouses in London is on fire. Good news: everyone is fine. Aside from damages and an insurance claim, we’ll rebuild. We assume Andrian’s men are responsible.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Alex says. “Who the fuck else is going to be gallivanting around at night after he knows you have Dasha? It’s another brick in his wall, is what it is.”

“Right, makes sense. Hit you here and there to keep you off balance and wondering where he will strike next,” Francesca says.

“Yeah, it’s what I would do, too,” Irina says. She’s sitting on the edge of the sofa cushion, her hands clasped between her legs. “He wants to get in your head. He’s playing offense.”

“Fuck that.” Roman pours himself a cup of coffee. He straightens, his shoulders tight. “I’ve been thinking about this and talking to Alex, and…” He stops as another phone goes off.

Alex pulls the phone out of his jacket pocket. “Mm. Yes, Yes.,” he answers. He hangs up. “That was Pavel. Andrian’s posse left town in four huge SUVs.”

“How many men are in those vehicles? Did Pavel say?” Roman asks.

“He thinks twelve. That would be about right, four to a vehicle plus weapons.”

“I’m sure he’s carrying a small army, and we’ll be prepared for them in Monaco.”

“Wait, what time is it?” I ask.

“It’s two-thirty. Why?” Roman asks.

“I can call Katsia in the morning. Maybe my brother will have more information for us.”

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