Page 1 of My Russian Protector

1

RUSSIAN PROTECTOR

ALEX

It’s noon and I find myself seated alone at the small café next to St. Basil’s Cathedral. This is where the cryptic message told me to meet my potential client. I know nothing more than that she calls herself Anna. How she got my information is the mystery that brought me to the café in the first place.

I have no interest in what she’s offering. I just want to know who has been talking behind my back. My associates and I have worked hard to improve our images and have built the largest security firm in Moscow. Heads of State, foreign diplomats, and celebrities all trust us to protect them. I can’t have some big mouth running around telling people that I’m available to take jobs like the ones that I did in those darker days.

The bell above the café door chimes, and I look to see who has entered. Something slams into me the moment I lay my eyes on her.

It’s a young beauty with flowing locks of curly blonde hair. Her eyes are covered by dark sunglasses, and she’s wearing a red, floral sundress with a beige trench coat that’s tied in the back. The combination makes her look more like an American starlet from the fifties than a modern woman.

She peers around the room for a moment then spots me seated in the corner by the window. This must be her and, somehow, she knows my face. I find that a bit concerning but that issue will have to wait. First, I have to observe her as she moves toward me. She’s so stunning I can’t look away, not that I even want to. If she had pulled a pistol out of her coat and aimed, she would have shot me dead.

Her beauty is literally leaving me defenseless right now. It unsettles me because this has never happened before. My head is too foggy with desire to think clearly.

I stand when she reaches the table and take her outstretched hand in mine. I raise it to my lips and kiss it gently. She licks her lips when I do and my eyes grow wide. If it was a ploy to get me to let my guard down a little, she succeeded.

“Alexsander Alborov,” I introduce myself. “And you are?”

“As I said in my message, I’m Anna.”

“Do you have a last name?”

“Yes, but it isn’t relevant to our dealings,” she replies as she takes the seat beside mine at the tiny bistro table. Her thigh brushes against my leg and a subtle heat rises in my groin. Shit. Of all the places to turn rock-hard.

“Is there a reason for the cloak-and-dagger act?” I ask her, gritting my teeth in an attempt to control the swelling in my pants.

She takes off her sunglasses and looks around the room. “Yes. If you tell me no, then I’ll have to find someone else, and I wouldn’t want you to warn your colleagues about me.” Her eyes are a stunning emerald green, and for me, they’re the final cherry on top of a most decadent and luscious cake.

I can tell she hasn’t thought this through. I wouldn’t need her last name to ensure that nobody in my circle takes her job, but I’ll play along for now. What could an innocent-looking beauty like this want with an ex-hitman, anyway?

“What exactly is it that you want to discuss with me?” I ask her.

“Well, a–a job,” she stutters.

“Does someone need security? If so, you can call the office and make those arrangements,” I play dumb.

“No, no one needs security. It’s a different kind of job,” she whispers.

“We only offer security services, miss. What kind of contractor is it you’re looking for? Perhaps I can point you in the right direction.”

“I need you to help me locate someone,” she replies and slips a large envelope filled with cash out of her handbag. She places the envelope in front of me and adds, “There’s more than enough money there to cover all of your expenses and your regular fee.”

“My regular fee? As what? A bounty hunter? I just told you that I don’t do that. And what exactly do you want to be done to this person when you find them? Do you want me to make them disappear permanently?”

“No, I don’t need your hitman services. I just need you to find him,” she says, looking down and gnawing on her lower lip.

“Who? A boyfriend who left you at the altar? And why do you think I offer hitman services?” I’m playing hardball but I can’t keep my eyes off her long, sleek legs or her full lips.

“I know you’re a hitman because you were once sent to kill the person that I need you to find,” she answers.

Leaning back, I tap my fingers on the table. My raging erection is now under control, all because her admission has turned my arousal into intrigue. It blows my cover but nobody accuses me of not completing a job. “Sweetheart, if I was sent to kill them, you aren’t going to find them.”

She grins and places her hands in her lap. Batting her eyes at me, she reveals, “I’m talking about Dimitri Pavlova. I know you didn’t kill him because he’s my father.”

My memories flip like a cinema reel in my head until I find and replay the story of Dimitri Pavlova. He was a small-time gambler that owed the mob a high roller's kind of cash. When it became obvious he couldn’t pay up, I was retained to dispose of him. I staked out his house for days, but there was no sign of him.

---