Page 1 of Kissing Games
1
Charlie scanned the area. They were almost home free. This was what he’d trained for: protect lives, save lives, take lives. He was on high alert, muscles primed. He pushed through the crowds, his body shielding hers. Through the glass front doors, the car waited, engine running.Nearly there.He shouldered the door open and hurried her outside.
She stopped, holding the package out for him. He ignored her, pulling the back door of the car wide. ‘Get in, ma’am.’
‘Take it.’
‘No, ma’am,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the street, the people, the danger. His asset was another’s target. ‘Get in the car, ma’am.’
The woman pursed her lips. ‘Do your job,’ she hissed.
The pressure was rising. The longer they were out here, the greater the risk. ‘Iamdoing my job. Now get in the fucking car. Ma’am.’
She dropped the package at his feet, got in and slammed the door. He heard her shouting at the driver, then the car screeched away. He was stranded.
He bent down and picked up what she’d dropped.
‘Hey, sexy!’ A group of teenage girls giggled at him. One took out her phone. He moved and they ran off through the crowds. A passing van driver wolf-whistled. He looked at what he was holding: an oversized, pink, fluffy, heart-shaped pillow, the words ‘Hey, Sexy’ emblazoned on it – a present from Olga Petrova for her oligarch husband, Igor. Charlie sighed and strode away from the front door of Harrods. It was a fifteen-minute walk to their Belgravia mansion. Fifteen minutes to prepare himself.
Once again, he was in the shit.
Igor Petrov satbehind his desk, elbows resting on the expanse of white Carrara marble, pudgy fingers playing idly with a razor-sharp letter opener. He stared Charlie down.
Charlie stared back.
Igor looked like a secret military experiment: part bull, part bear, and all berserker. The sleeves of his tailor-made silk shirt were rolled up, revealing thick forearms covered with coarse black hair. A Rolex glinted on his wrist. The folds of his giant neck mirrored the grooves in his forehead. His eyes, cold points of darkness.
‘Mr Hamilton,’ he began, his voice low and guttural. ‘What am I to do with you? When you disrespect my wife, you disrespect me.’
Charlie bristled. He wasn’t the fucking problem here. He remained silent. Whatever he said would be wrong.
‘I am a businessman,’ Igor continued, opening his hands wide, the letter opener gleaming with intent. ‘I choose the best and expect them to perform. You,’ he gestured to him, ‘are one of the best. But…’ He sighed theatrically. ‘You came with a certain…’
Here we go.
‘… reputation. Very popular with the ladies.’
A muscle twitched in Charlie’s jaw and the side of Igor’s mouth turned up.Fuck.Charlie relaxed his stance. He’d been up against bigger bastards than this. He wouldn’t rise to the bait.
Igor leaned forwards, the letter opener now tight in his fist. ‘I see the way you look at Tatiana. She is my pearl. If—’
‘I have a girlfriend,’ Charlie spat, clamping his mouth shut before putting Igor straight about his coke-snorting, vapid little pearl of a daughter who kept trying to get into his bedroom at night.
Igor turned his attention to the tip of the letter opener, using the point to clean his fingernails. ‘Ah yes, Caroline…’
What the fuck?
Igor’s dark eyes flicked up to meet his. ‘Caroline Eleanor Baskerville. Amarriedwoman.’
Charlie clenched his fists.
‘Enough!’ barked Igor, slapping the letter opener on the desk with a clatter. He sighed again and sat back in the leather chair, hands behind his head. ‘Charlie, synochik. You can’t be a playboy all your life. When are you going to settle down?’ He reached a fat digit towards the intercom on the desk. ‘Because if you can’t,’ he shrugged, ‘the only job left for you will be policing copper mines in the Congo.’
He pressed a button. ‘Bring the car.’
Igor lifted his hips to free a phone from his trouser pocket and opened it up. He flicked his fingers in a dismissive motion at Charlie as he put the phone to his hairy ear. ‘Mischka! Kak dela?’
By the timeCharlie reached his room in their mansion, his rage was volcanic. He slammed the door and kicked off his shoes. He needed a shower to wash off the filth of the Petrov family.
