tipsy—just way better than I had felt before.
“You okay to go to dinner?” Parker asked as he led me out of the bar and into the lobby. “You’re not drunk, are you?”
“I’m not that much of a lush,” I said, offended. “Do you really think I’d embarrass you like that in a meeting like this?”
The doorman opened the door for us and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. Parker paused, glancing down at me.
“No. I don’t.”
I stared up at him, the breeze ruffling his hair, and had to stop myself from reaching up to smooth it.
“Mr. Anderson?”
Parker turned as a man approached, clad in a somber black suit that to my eye was expensive, though not flashy.
“Your car is this way,” the man said, gesturing to a black sedan with tinted windows. Ooh. A Rolls. Very nice.
He opened the door for us and Parker waited for me to get in first. I was careful to keep my knees together, swinging my legs inside so I wouldn’t flash anyone a view of the black thong I was wearing. Parker slid in next to me.
I tried to concentrate on the scenery out my window—I’d only been to New York a couple of times, both of which I’d been accompanied by my parents. I watched the throngs of people on the sidewalk, so reminiscent of Chicago and yet not, and the flashes of restaurants and stores and company headquarters streaming by reminded me I was in the heart of the City That Never Sleeps. I saw a dozen places I’d have loved to jump out and explore, including two museums.
Traffic was typical New York bumper-to-bumper, taxis honking and cutting people off as busses streamed by inches away from their side mirrors. It took almost forty minutes to get to the restaurant. By that time, my buzz had, unfortunately, worn off. Parker took my elbow again as we walked inside. We were shown to a table in a far corner of the busy place where two men and one woman already sat. Both men stood when they caught sight of us.
“Mr. Anderson,” one of them said. “I am Viktor Rowan.” He extended his hand, which Parker took in a firm shake. “This is Sergei Klopov, my…how do you put it…? Ah, yes. My right-hand man.” Parker shook Sergei’s hand as well. “And this is Tania.” He motioned to the woman, and didn’t give her a title. She merely nodded, the barest hint of a smile crossing her face.
She looked younger than me, which was a bit of a surprise, considering Viktor’s age. Strikingly pretty, she had deep brown eyes, long black hair, and flawless skin. Other than the nod, she didn’t speak or acknowledge us.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Parker said smoothly. “May I introduce my assistant, Sage Reese?” I smiled and would have held out my hand as well, but they nodded and were already sitting down. Okay, then.
Viktor was as tall as Parker, but not as wide. His face had a few pockmarks, perhaps from acne or the chicken pox. Not unattractive; he smiled at me. But his eyes…his eyes were a light blue and coldly calculating. Just looking at him gave me a chill down my spine.
Sergei was a big man, but it wasn’t in the form of muscle. His suit had to have been handmade to fit his girth and I guessed him to be about six feet tall and perhaps three hundred pounds. He didn’t smile at me, merely nodded as he took my hand.
“Pleasure,” he said, his voice like a rake through gravel and heavily accented.
Parker pulled out a chair for me and I sat down as the waiter draped a black linen napkin in my lap. Only then did I notice the three other men who sat at a table close by. Clad in the same kind of suit as our driver, they each had a wire running from under their jacket to their ear. They scanned the restaurant, their eyes continually coming back to rest on Viktor. All of them had a telltale bulge underneath their jackets.
Bodyguards.
Well, I guess if I was worth a hundred million dollars, had once worked as Russian KGB, and headed the second largest bank in Russia, I’d have bodyguards, too.
“I am pleased you could make it on such short notice,” Viktor said to Parker. “My condolences on the loss of Randolph. He was a good man.”
The sommelier came by, opening and pouring a bottle of wine Viktor must have ordered prior