Page 81 of Stripped

"Aye, the roads are busy tonight. I'll do my best."

Pim looked over her shoulder. It wouldn't be long before Wraith realized she was missing. She wasn't sure Sokolov would even be at the arts venue. It was a guess at best, but if he was trying to lure her somewhere, there were only a few spots that came to mind.

It took twice as long as it normally would to get to the west end, given the extra traffic. The driver pulled up in front of the bar. She handed the young man her credit card, and he ran it through the reader.

"Thank you," she said, barely shutting the door as she ran up the steps to the building. Its iconic pyramid spire stood valiant in the night sky, alight with a tilted blue halo. The effect was supposed to represent striving for grace. Pim often wondered what grace the artist actually meant to convey—charm, mercy, prayer, beauty, perhaps all of them. Tonight, she hoped she had guessed right and it was mercy. The bars and restaurants were packed elbow to elbow with festivalgoers. Live music blared from the clubs and the dance floors were at full capacity. She rushed toward her beloved auditorium, hoping it was empty. No such luck. The entrance was cordoned off and a bouncer stood guard, holding a clipboard. She read the placard. Green Shore Production Company. It was worth a shot.

She smiled as she walked up to the man. He was more muscle than anything else, one of those guys who spent every waking moment in the gym. "Hello," she said in what she hoped was a sexy voice. "I was hoping I could get in."

"Name?" He held up the board, waving it.

Apparently not. "Primrose McNeil."

"Primrose. You don't hear that often," he said, scanning the names on the list. "Aye, here you are."

"I'm on the list?"

"You sound surprised." He undid the latch on the rope and held it open. "Looks right boring in there. If you tire of it, you can always come back here and talk to me."

"I doubt it." She entered the room, her apprehension growing. The guard was right; compared to all the other rooms, this one was dead. Tables had been set up, and small groups of people sat eating quietly. A band played at the end of the auditorium as a few couples waltzed across the floor. A man approached her. "You're expected up in the balcony." His American accent was sharp and nasal. She looked back at the bouncer and he gave her a wink.

She slowly started up the spiral staircase that led to the gallery. When she got to the top, Viktor Sokolov was seated on a bench which ran along the curve of the stained-glass windows. He stood when he saw her. "Not only talented, but clever and resourceful."

"Where is he?" The staircase exited in the center of the room and she kept the blue cylindrical casing between them.

"Not here. I wouldn't bring a child out on a night like this. But I assure you he's safe, for now." He adjusted his royal blue velvet tuxedo jacket. "Come and sit. Champagne is in order, I believe."

"Tell me where he is?"

"Tsk, tsk." He clicked his tongue. "I thought I taught you last time that I don't play that way." He sat down, patting the space beside him.

"Or what?"

He stood up quickly, crossing the floor in three strides, and yanked her toward him so they stood inches from each other. His hand ran across the flat plane of her stomach. "It's still tender, I presume," he said into her ear, the heat of his breath on her skin revolting. "You hid it well tonight, the pain, but then you're used to hiding your pain. Next time, you'll wish that's the only thing I'd done to you." She followed him to the cushioned window seats and sat. A man appeared with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes, setting the tray down next to Viktor and leaving.

"Green Shore Productions?" she asked. He picked this venue, knowing she would come to it. Knowing she would find the association with mercy. What was his connection to the company?

"I'm a silent partner. A very generous partner." His eyes traveled down her body, appreciative in their slow perusal. "In fact, you should be congratulating me. We won an award tonight, for best investigative documentary on our piece about sex trafficking."

"Jesus Christ. There will be men looking for me," she said, hoping it sounded brazen and hid the emptiness she felt. No one would know where to find her. She'd left the phone in her dance bag. There was no way to trace her location.

"If you mean that group of amateurs, I'm aware of them." He picked up the champagne, holding it at a slight angle, and grabbed the cork firmly while turning the bottle until it popped with a soft exhale. "The angels sigh," he said appreciatively as he poured them each a glass. "I'm not scared."

"You should be. They shut down your sick operation."

"A minor inconvenience for the moment. And I have many operations." He handed her a glass.

"Still."

"Still? Yet, here you sit, and where are they?" He held his glass up. "What shall we toast to?" He looked around, searching for an idea. "Work as if you are living in the early days of a better nation. The very words of your sainted Alasdair Gray. Slange."

They were embossed in gold on a wooden beam above them, mocking her with their false inspiration, a plea for people to come together for a better future. "Slange." She took a sip of the champagne, cold and crisp, the bubbles nipping at the back of her throat. "Where's Hamish?" she tried again.

"You're always in such a hurry. We haven't even talked about your performance tonight." He sat back, crossing his legs elegantly, and looked at her over his glass before downing the contents.

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Nothing to talk about? That's rich. I help you achieve a pinnacle, a defining moment in your career, and you have nothing to say." He poured himself another glass.

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