A Date You Can't Refuse (30 page)

“Vlad,” I said, taking a deep breath. “‘No’ in this case doesn't mean ‘no, I don't want you.’ It means ‘no, not so fast.’ Baby. Don't they have foreplay in Belarus?”

His eyes lit up. “Foreplay? What foreplay do you like?”

“Guns.”

“Shooting guns?”

“This is a shooting range, isn't it?”

“Is it?”

I gave a shaky laugh. “I think I know a shooting range when I see one.”

“And this excites you?”

“What thinking person doesn't love an indoor gun range? I've always wanted one.”

Vlad leered at me. “Maybe I buy you one.”

“Handsome, by the time we're done, you'll buy me a gun range, a bowling alley, and a yoga garden. But first, show me the artillery.” Where were these words coming from?

Vlad went behind me and, with a hand on each shoulder blade, propelled me forward, across the room to the locked cupboards. There was a box on the wall, with a keypad. He punched in a code, opened the box, and withdrew a key. He opened the first of the cupboard doors and revealed a bunch of guns. Little ones. Not rifles, the other kind. Handguns. Enough handguns for the entire FBI, from the looks of it. This was chilling. What was behind door number two? And three?

“You like the Ruger?” Vlad said, showing me the gun.

“What's not to like?”

“You are familiar with it?”

“Not really.” I calculated the distance across the room. Could I outrun him?

“A .22 semiautomatic. It is a good gun to begin with, to get to know
one another, but perhaps, for my little soldier, we go straight to the nine-millimeter.”

“Sure, bring on the nine-millimeter,” I said, as if I had a clue what that was.

“Unless,” he said, reaching over to touch my hair, “you like a Glock?”

“I
love
a Glock,” I cried and stepped out of his reach. “My friend Joey has a Glock.”

“Who doesn't? Here we go, beauty. One for you, one for me.” He handed me a box of bullets. “Load them. I love to see a woman load a gun. It excites me.”

“Calm yourself. Vlad, I didn't make myself clear. I'm a beginner.”

“What do you mean?” He frowned.

“A gun virgin. I can't load one. I can't even shoot one. You have to teach me.”

A slow smile came over his face. “A gun virgin.”

“Yes. But lucky me, learning from a master—you are a master, aren't you?”

“I am. Many years in the military.” He reached to touch my hair. I stepped back.

“I love a military man. So tell me about this Glock.”

“Well, the Glock has no true safety. This is not a problem for you, Gun Virgin?”

“Safeties are overrated,” I said, as if my personal motto were not, in fact, Safety First. “But—wait. How come it doesn't have a safety?”

“In fact, it does have one,” Vlad said, loading the gun with bullets from the little box. “But when the finger is on the trigger, the safety is off. This is something to think about.”

I thought about it. “When the safety's off, how do you get it back on?”

“You take the finger off the trigger.” Vlad closed the gun with a snap. I jumped.

“What's the point of that? Isn't that like having car brakes that don't work?”

“I don't see the—what is the word?”

“Analogy? Sure you do,” I said, taking a step back. “It's like telling someone that if they want their car to stop, they should just turn off the engine.”

“At any rate,” Vlad said. “Let us begin. Do you know the safety rules?”

Use a gun that has a safety
would be a good one, for starters. “No, what are they?”

“I will whisper them to you,” he said, moving in.

“Wait!” I yelled right into his ear.

“What?” he yelled, backing off.

“Do you have—a flak jacket or something? A Kevlar vest?”

“Why?”

“Aren't we playing soldier? I want the costume.”

“So playful, you American girls.” But he turned to the gun cupboards and worked the key on the second one. I threw a look once more across the room to the door, but Vlad turned to me too soon. “I love American girls,” he said and made a little wiggling move with his tongue. I didn't want to think about what it signified.

“Was Chai ‘playful’ too?” I asked.

“Very playful. But we didn't play soldier. She made me spend money. The clubs. The dinner. Not like you.”

“No, I'm a cheap date.” So Vlad and Chai had been an item. If Crispin had discovered that and threatened Vlad, then Vlad would make a good suspect for Crispin's murder. Except that it was hard to imagine Crispin threatening Vlad in any meaningful way, so probably not. “Oh, my,” I said as he opened the cupboard.

There, hanging in neat rows, were dozens, maybe a hundred or two, vests. Vlad reached up and brought one down and held it up to my chest. It was similar to one I'd seen in Simon's closet.

“Beautiful,” I said. “I've worn black Kevlar, but not camouflage.”

“Not Kevlar,” Vlad said, smiling. “Spectra.”

“Oooh. Spectra!”

I put it on, slapping Vlad's hand away. He was desperate to help me zip it up, but he also seemed to enjoy being slapped.

The vest was not as heavy as I expected, and now the DVD was safe from his hands brushing against my stomach. Also, the vest covered my prominent breasts, a big plus.

“Now, my beauty,” he said. “You have your costume. I want my kiss.”

I fought back revulsion. “Hold on, Vlad. Are these the biggest guns you have?”

“What do you mean?”

It now hit me that I wasn't just a distressed damsel, I was a spy. I had a job to do. Playing this fearless, libidinous gun nut was inspiring me. I batted my eyes. “I listen to rap. Uzis, AK-47s, all those sexy names—I'm dying to touch one. Got any?”

“Wollie Shelley,” he said. “You surprise me. Many women see the beauty of a machine gun, but I did not spot you as one of them.”

I gave a modest shrug. “I'm a graphic artist, after all.”

He pulled the key out of his pocket once more and dangled it in front of me, the way you'd tempt a kitten with a catnip mouse. “So you want my big guns?” he asked.

“Is the Pope Catholic?” I reached for the key and he pulled it back.

“Uh-uh,” he said and wagged a finger. “Kiss first.”

“Gun first.”

“I say kiss.” He pulled me to him. I resisted, which only tightened his grip.

“Fine,” I said between my teeth. “But no gun, no tongue.”

Vlad put his fleshy mouth on mine. I kept mine clamped closed, but that didn't stop him from running his tongue all over my lips. I was now breathing through my nose, inhaling the considerable odor of alcohol, along with some strong cologne, emanating from him. His tongue was wandering up my cheek heading toward my ear, like a cat cleaning its kitten, when I felt I could shut him down. “Guns,” I reminded him, turning my head fast so that my nose hit his. It hurt, but it was worth it.

“Ouch. Watch it.” He gave me a playful slap on the cheek.

“Ouch,” I said back to him. “Let's see some firearms.”

He was breathing heavily as he turned a third time to the cupboards, fumbling with the key. Was this my chance?

I didn't ask myself twice. I took off across the room.

Maybe if the door hadn't been closed, or if I'd remembered that it opened outward, I'd have made it. But I wasted seconds pulling on it, and then Vlad was on top of me.

Being tackled is no picnic. By the time I recovered my wits and reflexes, Vlad's body was crushing the breath out of me. We were both facedown, and my arms were pinned to my sides and one of my legs was free to kick upward but met nothing but air. When I felt his breath in my ear, I used the one weapon I could think of. I lowered my head, then threw it back fast, making contact with something hard. I winced. He yelled.

My head was buzzing with pain, but the impact must've been worse for him, because his hold on me loosened and I wiggled to the right as he rolled to the left.

“Bitch! What are you doing? Bitch!” Vlad sat up as I scrambled away from him. He had a hand over his mouth and when he removed his hand and stared at it, there was blood on it. He looked at me, horrified. “What are you doing?” He reached inside his mouth and pulled out something, too small and/or bloody for me to identify. “My veneer!” he cried. “It is only six months old. Bitch!”

He pulled himself to his feet and I did too, moving backward toward the guns. The DVD had fallen out of my camisole, and I wedged it back in. Vlad was too occupied with his teeth to notice. Had I killed his amorous mood or simply inspired him to kill me?

Vlad pocketed his tooth fragment and started toward me, an ugly look in his eye.

Dread washed over me. I backed up.

Could I reach the guns? Yes. I kept on moving, in reverse, toward the table.

But were any of them loaded? Could I bring myself to shoot him?

Vlad was advancing.

I continued to back up until the table stopped me, and then I put my hand down and there was the Glock.

No safety! There's no safety!

I had to use both hands to pick it up because I was shaking and I was scared it was going to go off all by itself. It was aimed at the floor. Could
I bring it up any higher? Vlad's chest, for instance? Or maybe—his balls? If I couldn't shoot him, maybe I could scare him.

Vlad stopped, seeing the Glock. Then he snorted. “It's not loaded, stupid girl.” He walked toward me confidently.

“Vlad.”

The voice cut through the air and Vlad froze. Then he turned.

Yuri stood in the doorway. He said a few words in Russian to Vlad, then glanced at me. “Wollie, put down the gun.” He waited until I did, then walked to Vlad.

“Yuri,” Vlad said, “you see what this bitch—”

Yuri punched him in the face.

V
lad didn't go down, but he reeled and twirled and listed dangerously. And yowled. His hands held his jaw. Blood flowed from his mouth.

“Go,” Yuri said. “Get out, Vlad. Grusha will see to you. She's in the kitchen, baking.”

To my surprise, Vlad slunk off. Yuri closed the door behind him and turned to me.

“You're okay?”

I nodded. I was more than okay, I was giddy with relief. Happy, even. I wanted to throw myself into Yuri's arms. Maybe I was in shock.

“Vlad has some fine qualities,” Yuri said, studying me. “They are overshadowed by his unfortunate tendency to view half the human race as—”

“Meat?”

“Only the pretty ones. The rest he merely underestimates. Did I see blood on his face before I hit him?”

“A head butt, I think it's called. I knocked out one of his veneers.”

“Well done.”

I nodded. “Thank you. And—well, thank you. Your timing was phenomenal. How did you know we were here?”

Yuri pointed to the ceiling. “Surveillance cameras. Audio as well as video.”

I looked up. They were in every corner, black cameras, not even attempting to hide.

Yuri walked to one of them. He grabbed a chair, stood on it, and adjusted the lens. “I watched the footage last night as well, when you came in here alone.”

Uh-oh
.

“You were here a good while,” he said. “You seemed quite taken with the room. In fact, you sketched it.”

I gulped. “Occupational hazard. I sketch everything.”

“Why?”

“Well, you never know when there'll be a greeting card in it, and—”

“In a gun range?” He turned to me.

“Yes. Honestly, it was very exciting, finding this room.” I tried for a cheery smile. Since I was shaking again, or still shaking, it probably looked a little manic. “Anyhow, I didn't mean to come in here at all. It was Olive Oyl. She was scratching at the door.”

“Wollie, you disappoint me. Blaming the dog.” He smiled and crossed the room. “I see that Vlad gave you the tour.” He opened wide the last of the storage cupboard doors and stepped back.

Inside the cupboard were too many guns to count. Big guns. The kind that soldiers carry. Dozens of them, maybe a hundred, mostly alike. Yuri was either a gunrunner or a survivalist or planning to outfit an army. Or all of the above.

“Yuri, that's—quite a collection.”

“It is, isn't it? Are you going to tell me what you were doing here last night?”

“I'm incurably curious.” In fact, I couldn't stop staring at the cabinet full of guns. “So what are they all for? The little guns, those big ones, this Kevlar vest I'm wearing, the—”

“Spectra, not Kevlar. What's intriguing,” Yuri said, selecting a big gun, “is that I wouldn't have guessed that about you. Excessive curiosity. My assessment is that you take things at face value. You have a trusting
nature. I would have said that you have no great urge to delve into life's subterranean depths, the secrets of others.”

“In general, you're right. In this instance—honestly, I couldn't tell you why I came in here.” This was literally true: I
couldn't
tell him why. I'd promised Bennett Graham not to.

“Or why you're now so interested in my collection. Shall I offer one theory?”

Oh dear
. “Oh-kay”

He closed the cupboard and brought the big gun over to me, along with a box of bullets. He set them on the table. “You are fascinated by me.”

“Am
I?”

“Yes.” He walked back to the first cupboard and took out some paper targets, then carried them to the far end of the room and clipped them to the conveyor belt apparatus. He positioned one surveillance camera so that it focused on the target. “I captivate you,” he said. “So what is mine—this room—captivates you. Why would that be so, if it is in fact so?”

“I don't know,” I said. “Why?”

“Because my outstanding characteristic is a paternalistic nature. I love my children.”

“True.” I'd noticed that, the way he looked at Parashie and Alik. The way he paid attention when they spoke.

“Also, I am father to the entire team. Even to Vlad, not so many years my junior. I am a true patriarch.” He walked back to me, smiling. “To a woman with father issues, this is exceedingly attractive. It is most likely the reason you came to work for me.”

I blinked. “You think I have father issues?”

Yuri picked up the Glock from the table and a rectangular object. “This is a clip. It holds ten rounds.” He loaded it with bullets from his box. “Your father left when you were five. Abandonment, whether by absence or death, has a profound effect on children. They respond to it in myriad ways, but your way is dogged loyalty—not to say slavish devotion—to those you love, and a vulnerability—not to say slavish devotion—to
a certain male energy.” He'd loaded the bullets into the clip and popped the clip into the gun. “But now I think that is not the whole picture. Now I think we have underestimated you.”