Dangerous Passion Page 12

  He stopped outside the door to his study. His inner sanctum.

  Drake looked down at Grace, standing quietly in front of the door. She seemed to understand that he needed a moment to gather himself, and though she must have been quivering with anxiety to discover what lay behind it, she stood and let him take his time.

  He could see long lashes, the curve of a high cheekbone, lush mouth slightly downturned. Beauty and grace. Courage, even. A woman of great worth. He’d never thought to see her outside this door.

  Drake reached out to the door, a beautiful mahogany veneer over stainless steel, and touched a small glass panel. He pressed his thumb against it; a bright green light flashed, and with a soft whirring sound, the door slid into the wall.

  Grace watched the door disappear and then looked up at him for permission to enter. The door framed darkness that had a cavernous feel to it. It was the largest room in the apartment and the darkness inside was dense and black.

  It had to be done.

  Drake pushed gently at her back and reaching to the side, flipped the light switch of the chandeliers. There were three of them, from Murano, and they made the room and its contents glow.

  Beside him, Grace gasped. He tightened his grip on her elbow as her knees buckled.

  Eight

  Enrique Cordero lived in Crown Heights, home of the Bloods. Cordero had come up out of the gang to form his own, a professional organization a million miles above the heads of the street gangs, though he used some of the old gang members now and again.

  He hadn’t used the excitable young punks forming the Bloods to get Drake, but he might as well have, for all the good they’d done.

  Fucking amateurs.

  Rutskoi had worked up a good head of steam by the time he made it to Cordero’s home. Compound, really. Thirty thousand square feet of what looked like a Mexican adobe hacienda plunked down five thousand miles north in a more unforgiving climate. The compound was surrounded by concrete walls two feet thick, with only one way in—a set of big featureless steel doors set in the wall farthest from the street. You had to drive all the way around, being tracked by surveillance cameras every inch of the way, and announce yourself to the monitor.

  Cordero’s gatekeeper hesitated just long enough to be insulting, making Rutskoi wait a full five minutes. Finally, Rutskoi heard the loud metallic click of the gate’s electronic lock disengaging. The big steel gates slowly swung open and Rutskoi drove his rental straight in.

  Shitheads, he thought sourly.

  The internal courtyard was lit up like a prison camp, huge 500-watt spotlights in each corner. He had to work to keep from shielding his eyes with his hand, not wanting to give Cordero’s men the satisfaction. The overbright lights ruined his night vision, as they were meant to. He could barely make out two hulking figures looking like gorillas in jeans and parkas flanking the entrance to the house and knew that they could see him with almost brutal clarity.

  Cordero thought he was so smart, but five of his men had let Drake go. He had fucking delivered Drake on a fucking platter and they had let him get away with hardly a scratch. The thought made him as angry now as it had five hours ago.

  Rutskoi got out of the car, holding up his hands to show they were empty, and stopped right outside the door. The two men frisked him thoroughly, even feeling his balls and the crack of his ass. They were right to, a terrorist could hide a good four or five pounds of plastic explosive in underpants, but Rutskoi was no terrorist and they knew it. It was a power game and they had probably been ordered to do it by Cordero, who was an idiot.

  “Go on in,” one of the gorillas growled.

  “I hope you enjoyed it,” Rutskoi said, and both gorillas stiffened with rage while he walked through the door. That was petty. He didn’t have time to play games with bodyguards. It was a sign of his frustration and anger that he’d prodded the animals.

  He stopped in the middle of the two-story atrium and tried to get himself under control.

  Fuck! The one chance anyone had ever had to nail Drake, the one small piece of information on a weakness of his, and Cordero’s men had blown it. That window of opportunity was never going to open again. Drake would be more tightly protected than the Kremlin now. And all because Cordero had sent second-rate men.

  If only this weren’t America. Rutskoi had no men here. If this had been back home and he could have taken care of it himself, Drake would be dead. After Drake gave him the codes, Rutskoi would be the sole proprietor of a kingdom and he wouldn’t have had to team up with a shit-for-brains like Cordero.

  But he was in America, and he was teamed up with Cordero. That was the bottom line and he had to deal with it. Rutskoi rarely wasted time wishing that things were different. It was a hard world and only hard men got by.

  Under control now, he trotted up the stairs to the second floor under the watchful eyes of another pair of security guards posted at the top of the stairs.

  “I have an appointment,” Rutskoi said as he passed them. They grunted and swiveled their heads to watch him as he made his way down the hallway.

  Before he got to Cordero’s office, the door opened and a very young, very pretty dark-haired girl walked out. She was unsteady on her feet, dark red lipstick smeared over her lips, eyes unfocused, hair mussed. Rutskoi watched her stumble along the corridor.

  He knocked briefly, then walked in, finding Cordero tucking his lipstick-stained cock back into his pants. White powder was scattered on the glass-topped coffee table.

  Oh Jesus, Rutskoi thought. The fuckhead was high. A couple of hours after failing to kidnap one of the most dangerous men on the planet, he was getting himself a blow job while high. Did he want to get killed?

  Rutskoi himself never did drugs, but he certainly understood why they helped in certain circumstances. In Chechnya, his men often shot up heroin. At a hundred rubles a shot, just a few dollars, they could spend a little time in a place inside their heads where dead Russian soldiers weren’t rigged with IEDs. Where small kids didn’t carry suicide belts. Where their officers weren’t selling off their own equipment. Rutskoi always turned a blind eye as long as they did it on down time and not while they were on duty. They had to do something to help them maintain their sanity.

  But Cordero wasn’t in the world’s worst hellhole, just praying to stay alive long enough to make it home, like Rutskoi’s soldiers. No, Cordero had a high-profit business in a safe, stable country. He was a leader, or at least he was supposed to be.

  Leaders kept clear heads at all times, were in control of themselves at all times. A leader wouldn’t get sidetracked by sex and drugs when war had been declared against a frighteningly powerful man who was undoubtedly at this very moment planning his revenge.

  Drake’s revenge was terrifying. Rutskoi had seen it for himself.

  The fact that Rutskoi was teamed with a man who was stoned and had just had sex when he should be fortifying his perimeter and planning the next moves was beyond frightening. He shouldn’t have teamed up with this man, this weakling, at all. But what choice had he had?

  “Ruso,” Cordero mumbled in greeting. He’d never been able to pronounce Rutskoi’s name, calling him simply “the Russian.” He fumbled to light a cigarette with trembling hands, inhaling deeply. “That didn’t go well, did it? We’ll have to try again in two weeks.”

  Rutskoi balled his fists to keep from smashing them into Cordero’s stupid, degenerate face. It took a moment to level his voice out. “Forget it. That won’t work again. We won’t get another chance. He’ll never go back to that alleyway, count on it. You had one chance and you fucked it up.”

  Cordero’s eyes widened at Rutskoi’s tone. He inhaled deeply on the cigarette, watching the tip flare red and scowled. “You can’t talk that way to me, Ruso. We don’t know exactly what happened. For all I know, my men were betrayed and Drake was waiting. His men sure came fast.”

  Rutskoi could feel a vein throbbing in his forehead. “His men came fast because he employs the best.
They’re fast and they’re good.” Unlike your second-rate hoodlums. “Right now he’s wrapped up tighter than a virgin’s ass and he’s finding out who came after him, then he’ll come after us. We’re dead men walking.”

  Cordero’s dark eyes gleamed. “Not if we get him first.” He leaned over to stub out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and almost lost his balance. He sat down heavily on the couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I say we go after him for real this time. Not to abduct him but to get rid of him.”

  Rutskoi sat down next to him, nostrils flaring at the smell of what seemed like half a bottle of expensive men’s cologne, pungent cigarette smoke and the heavy musk of sex. “What do you mean?”

  “You had some info, right? Someone on the inside willing to rat him out? Use him again.”

  “Telling me a small detail about Drake’s schedule is a little different from setting him up for murder. The people who work for Drake have been vetted. And they’re probably afraid of him, too.”

  Cordero waved that away. “No one’s immune to money.” He lowered his voice to a Marlon Brando-esque mumble, waggling his eyebrows. “Make him an offer he can’t refuse.” He burst out laughing at his own wit. The laugh turned into a hacking cough.

  “Christ, Cordero.”

  “I mean it, Ruso. Throw money at the guy. Or better yet, find out if Drake employs women to clean his house and kidnap the family of one so she can plant a mike. Or a bomb. What the fuck. The idea is to get rid of the fucker once and for all. And then you and me, Ruso, we’ll rule the world together.”

  You can’t rule yourself, Rutskoi thought sourly. How can you rule the world?

  Still…Rutskoi’s mind raced. No one had ever had inside info on Drake. Could his informant be persuaded to put out once more? For the right price? Or even better, one of the cleaning staff. That was a good idea. He’d been at Drake’s headquarters. There were multinationals with smaller offices than just the few spaces Drake had allowed him to see. That kind of space required a big staff, working seven days a week.

  If his informant didn’t come through, Rutskoi could kidnap the kids of one of the maids. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d kill kids if he had to—in Chechnya, sparing them hadn’t been an option, the fuckers were born with AK–47s in their hands—but he preferred not to.

  Cordero’s eyes were drifting over to the sideboard with its array of liquor. He was scooting forward on the couch trying to get up, but his balance was gone. The man was disgusting. What had Rutskoi been thinking of, teaming up with a miserable worm like this?

  Rutskoi made a fast decision, like a soldier in battle would. “Give me ten million dollars,” he said.

  Cordero’s head snapped around to him. “¿Qué?”

  “You heard me. Give me ten million dollars and I’ll do it. I’ll get rid of Drake for you, forever. And I won’t want to share in the business afterward. I’ll leave it all to you. You can take over Drake’s affairs, become the most powerful man in the business in one stroke, and I’ll disappear forever. Ten million dollars is nothing. It’s what Drake makes in a week. And even if you can’t scoop up all his businesses, you won’t have any rivals here. You’ll be top dog forever. A man like Drake comes along once every couple of generations. You’ll be rich and powerful, with no competition, for the rest of your life.”

  Cordero’s eyes filled with a crafty light. Christ, Rutskoi could all but see the gears grinding away in his brain. Rutskoi had just put Cordero’s secret dream right into his head. Drake gone, the business all his.

  “Five.” Cordero narrowed his eyes. A trickle of sweat fell from his coarse black hair down through the stubble on his cheek.

  “Ten,” Rutskoi said firmly. “And expenses. I’m going to need equipment and bribing money. I want you to give me a black credit card and some ID to go with the name. And I want ten million in my bank account in Switzerland. Up front. I promise you Drake will be gone, dead by my hand. I know him, know how he thinks. I’ve known him since he was twenty. I’m probably the only man alive who can do this.”

  “Ruso,” Cordero said slowly. “How can I trust you? I give you ten million dollars and you disappear. How crazy do you think I am?”

  “Drake isn’t sure about you, but he knows I was involved in the attempt. My life isn’t worth shit while he’s alive, after this. He’ll come after me, no question. So I need to get rid of him, in self-defense. I could maybe disappear, stay off his radar for a while, but you can’t. Your business is here. He’ll come after you, don’t ever doubt that, and he knows exactly where to find you. You can’t handle him. We saw that. Five of your men couldn’t take him down. But I can. I know him, I know him well. We’ve worked together, we’ve even fought together. I know his ways and I have this inside informer. Give me enough money to do the job and I’ll get rid of him for you. You stay put here for the next month, don’t move, don’t leave the compound, and I’ll give you Drake’s head on a plate. Not for you, but for me. And then I’ll disappear forever.”

  Rutskoi could watch the greed dawning on Cordero’s face. It was a win-win. Cordero could justify doing fuck-all for a month. He could spend it stoned, getting blow jobs every hour on the hour, while Rutskoi took care of taking Drake out. What was ten million to him? For access to Drake’s kingdom or at least with Drake out of the way? Nothing.

  “Okay,” Cordero said, finally. He stuck his hand out. Rutskoi took it. “Deal.”

  Cordero’s hand was soft, limp, humid; it was like touching a slug. Rutskoi barely managed to keep from wiping his hand on his trousers to get rid of the feel of it.

  “Deal,” he replied.

  Grace felt the breath leave her lungs in a whoosh, making her light-headed, dizzy, completely disoriented.

  It took her a second to understand. At first, she was overwhelmed by the magnificence of the room, which was like a small Versailles. The rest of the apartment was lush, hyper-comfortable in a very expensive sort of way, colorful and unique. This—this was lavish beyond anything she’d ever seen, the way royalty must live. Her eyes greedily drank in the jewel tones of the plush carpets, the enormous, brightly colored enameled vases with huge, thriving plants, a massive, highly polished desk that looked like the place where God would do his paperwork, if He had any.

  And of course, as in every room in this unusual home, the magnificent nighttime skyline of Manhattan stretched like an immense diamond necklace outside, along one glass wall.

  Then, a second later, what was on the remaining three walls popped out at her and she stared, unable to believe her eyes.

  Dozens and dozens of paintings, drawings, watercolors, exquisitely framed and beautifully lit. The artwork fit into the room perfectly, the colors and shapes echoing the furniture, sculptures, vases. Seeing the artwork here, recognizing it, was so outlandish, it had literally taken a second to penetrate her mind, though every work of art was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat.

  Hers.

  Every single painting, every single drawing, gouache, watercolor—all hers. This magnificent room was like a Grace Larsen museum. She pivoted to the dark-eyed man watching her so carefully. She felt herself wobble and he steadied her.

  “You,” she whispered.

  He bowed his head gravely. “Me,” he confirmed.

  Put it into words, pin it down. “You’re the one who’s been collecting my work for the past year.”

  “Yes.”

  Her head swam. “I think—I think I need to sit down.”

  “Absolutely.” Drake’s hand was once more on her elbow and it felt as if he were carrying her more than guiding her to the nearest couch. She sat down gratefully, not certain whether her legs would have held her one second longer. Drake sat next to her. The soft down cushions of the couch settled deeply under him, rolling her a little into him.

  Here, too, a big fire was burning, framed by an intricately carved hearth of sandstone. She was grateful for the warmth.

  Grace looked at the nearest wall
, where two of her best oils flanked the fireplace. She remembered clearly all the emotions running through her as she painted them. The two big oils were meant to be shown as a pair. A Flemish-style still life of overblown roses in an earthenware vase, an open manuscript and a plate with grapes and apples on a wooden table. The other painting was a still life of a small topiary in a red terra-cotta designer vase, an open laptop and a box of Godiva chocolates on a transparent Philippe Starck table. The Flemish-style still life was a riot of colors and rotund, convoluted shapes. The modern still life was in cool tones of gray and beige, with hard edges and machined shapes.

  She’d painted them more than a year ago, hoping that whoever bought them would buy them together and hang them together, the old and the new, but she hadn’t been holding her breath. Artists never got any kind of a say about who bought their work and how they displayed it.

  These two had been bought together and they were displayed magnificently.

  The far reaches of the room were in shadow, but she could see enough. A hand gleaming out of the darkness in one painting, the foam of the ocean in another. The walls were filled with her work.

  “I—I don’t know what to say, what to think. A whole year, I’ve been wondering who was buying up my work.” Mind spinning, she turned her head to him. “Harold was disappointed that you hadn’t organized a show. Most people who collect a lot of one person’s work are planning a show to drive prices up. You were never going to, were you?”

  He shook his head.

  “I didn’t really care, but Harold did. He felt he could have started pushing the prices even higher if you’d shown my work. Even though they were already going very high.” She’d made a fortune off him.

  Drake’s jaws worked. “Mr. Feinstein could have quadrupled the prices and I would have paid. I would have paid ten times what he asked. I love your work. Your paintings have given me enormous pleasure over this past year. There’s no price for that.” His dark eyes held hers. “I’m sorry if I held your career back by not showing your art. I didn’t want to—couldn’t share it with others. I see now I made you suffer. I am deeply sorry.”