Her unguarded emotion, whether anger or angst, fascinated me.
Why would a beautiful woman—for her slim face and large dark eyes were beautiful, obvious even through that ridiculous mime make-up that brought a chuckle to my throat—be dressed in a polyester-shiny wedding gown and standing above a crowd?
A magic connection like an invisible wave reverberating between us, bouncing in ripples as we spoke and returning to shake me off balance, was a ridiculous thought.
A fanciful belief in mysticism was heavily discouraged in my family. Children were shushed or punished for believing in magic or magicians. Rasputin had been only a few generations ago.
Visions of The Bride’s monochrome skin and gown and those scarlet lips flashed over the gold-sprinkled bar scene as Konstantin droned on about his college classes.
She was . . . interesting. That was probably it. The Bride was outside of my usual sophisticated experience, a woman street performer painted for dramatic effect and standing above the crowd in a halo of white light from a streetlamp.
She was a novelty.
And that was the only reason I was so starstruck.
Right?
I did so want to go look at her again, to ask her why she was out there, why she was painted, and why she was wearing a wedding gown, of all things.
And why fire flashed in her eyes.
The vision of her seemed like a harbinger of new beginnings, but again, I did not believe in signs from God or the universe. I am culturally, soberly religious, as a good example for others. Superstition was not tolerated in my life.
My elbow jostled, a shock that traveled to my spine and neck.
Michel grinned up at me, his closed lips turning his attempt at a smile into a reptilian grimace.
As I looked at my brother, he had Konstantin by the arm, too.
I hadn’t even noticed my uncle sidling up to us, an uncharacteristic lapse in situational awareness.
Inattentiveness like that could get me killed. That lapse should shake me more than an anonymous woman standing on the street wearing a wedding gown, in white theatrical make-up, who’d seen me back.
“Come on, boys. The meeting is starting, and my guests are waiting.”
Ryan’s quick glance was a message, asking if he should do something. I shook my head. There was no reason to make a scene.
Konstantin and I allowed ourselves to be steered toward Michel’s table, where three men waited, drinking clear liquid in small glasses, the bottle of Beluga vodka in the center of the table.
Russians.
CHAPTER 14
negotiations
NICOLAI ROMANOV
My second mistakewas getting drunk with Russians.
If my uncle had tried to steer my brother and me out of the club, I would have pressed the panic button on the side of my watch to alert my security detail, but he pushed us toward the round booth at the dark edge of the bar.
“Russians?”My voice was harsh in my throat. “Icannotinvest in Russia. The Russian government will take the opportunity to seize our assets, and Putin will interpret it as a personal insult if not an attack. He’llcome afterKostya and me.”
With Konstantin right there, I didn’t want to say that Putin would kill us, probably brutally, to make an example of what happened to people he perceives as enemies or threats.
“It’s not an investmentinRussia,” Michel assured us.
“We stayawayfrom Russia.” In any case, going into negotiations blind was insane. “What is this deal you’ve set up, Michel?”
