The limo pulled up to the front doors of a restaurant called Tamara, a small, stand-alone venue surrounded by an enormous parking lot packed with sports cars and luxury sedans, and the limo’s doors opened.
Burly Russians stood at the entry to the restaurant and nodded to their escorts as they passed.
Guards. Dammit. There would be no running out the front door if they got a minute to escape.
They were whisked through the restaurant—he got an impression of white tablecloths and crystal wine glasses—to a private room in the back where the Russians were waiting for them.
The Russians were good at putting on a hearty greeting, and Tristan mimicked it all, from the broad grins, to the exuberant handshakes, to the threat of hugs.
The guy who’d called himself Sergey, although that was almost certainly not his name, sat at the center of the long table.
An incredibly beautiful and impossibly young blonde sat by Sergey’s side, tittering at everything he said and leaning against his side to caress his arm. She appeared to be about Colleen’s age, but Tristan suspected the thick black lines drawn around her eyes and scarlet lipstick on her puffy lips were making her look older than she was.
The small room was already warm from the lamps, the flames on the tea lights, and the five Russian men and Sergey’s blonde. Tristan shrugged off his suit jacket and hung it on the back of the chair. He was still wearing the vest of the three-piece suit, and he tugged it more firmly into place.
Colleen sat at Tristan’s side with a fluttering swish of the golden silk of her dress. That perfume she wore, which he could detect again because they were sitting closer than they’d been in the back seat of the car, wafted around him. A flash of her fingers stroking the sweet scent over her throat assailed him. The perfume filling his nose was sweet and floral, almost like rose-scented sugar cookies, and every cell in his body oriented on her fragrant flesh sitting so close to him that her bare arm touched his elbow, now separated from her skin by only the thin silk of his dress shirt.
He talked about nothing with the Russians for half an hour—sports, movies, and so on—because Sergey told them not to peruse the menu. Sergey insisted he would order for them because he knew what they must try at Tamara, one of the most expensive restaurants in California. The tasting menu was what they all needed to have so they could taste all the bounty of Russia, and so they would.
Tristan certainly wouldn’t argue with that. He had much larger arguments he would be making later.
Sergey remembered to tell the waiter that Colleen had a soy allergy and so there should be substitutions for any soy ingredient. Although that allergy was fictional, Colleen looked up from her giggling conversation with the blonde and beamed at Sergey right on cue.
Nice. Tristan returned to his conversation with Sergey, while Colleen continued hers with the blonde, who was making expansive hand gestures, including one with her thumb tucked inside her fist.
Tristan suppressed an urge to teach her how to make a proper fist with her thumb on the outside when she needed to punch someone. Maybe later.
A flurry of waitstaff emerged from the closed door that led to their private room and placed covered dishes in front of Tristan and everybody else. With a flourish, they removed the silver domes, revealing a small appetizer that Tristan guessed was a pate or terrine of some sort, meaning it was a paste smeared on a lower layer that looked like it might be a pastry or phyllo.
Tristan was perfectly comfortable with such high-society fare, though there were times he longed for a nice steak with a baked potato and big dollops of real butter and sour cream on it.
And corn. Always, corn.
“This looks delicious,” he said to Sergey.
“Is only decent Russian restaurant in California. Wait until you taste pirozhki and shashlik. That is why you want tasting menu here, so you get little bits of all of it. You don’t want to miss them.”
The girls continued to giggle and talk like high school girls, which was something he hadn’t thought Colleen would do. They were flapping their hands around like birds in a cage, practically throwing feminine gang signs.
Colleen asked the girl, “Have you tried the new cocktail that’s going around the college bars called an Angel Shot? We should go get one from the bar.”
“Yes, I would like Angel Shot very much,” the girl said back to her.
The tiny terrine was tasty, light with the taste of fresh herbs and sour cream. Tristan said to Sergey, “I couldn’t help but notice the security cameras at the front doors and in the lobby.”
Sergey scraped up the last bit of sauce with the side of his fork and sucked it off. “Yes, but we not have to worry about that much longer, thanks to your useful computer program. When is that ready for delivery?”
Tristan flicked his hand near his ear, a careless gesture like he was batting the problem away and behind them. “It’s compiling right now. I have to set up a proper satellite link so it won’t be detected by the hotel or anyone else. I’m sure you’ll want this transfer to be entirely dark web. I feel like I need to tell you, though, that I’m not the computer genius you seem to think I am. I farmed this out. It’s a little toy I have that I’m glad to share with you, but I didn’t write it,” he lied.
Sergey laughed and shook his fork at him. “Your school friends think you’re some kind of computer genius. They think you completely capable of writing such a useful piece of software.”
“And who can I thank for introducing us?”
“Does not matter, not anyone in particular. You went to school with many friends who are now higher up in our brotherhood. It was not so much one of them as several remembered you and were impressed by how you were not recognized at royal wedding. When it was discovered you were in need of financing for some venture, it seemed win-win to us. So we offer you money. Clean money.”
Beside his right elbow, Colleen scooted back her chair and wiggled to get out of the space.
Across the table, Sergey’s giggling blonde did the same.
