Page 78 of For Your Eyes Only
“No.” My reply is flat, and Hana snorts a laugh. I squint, leaning closer to her face. “What did you take tonight?”
Her eyes go wide, and she holds a finger over her mouth. “Shh!”
“Trip, what a surprise.” Blake breezes into the living room. “Back on our couch?”
“Trust me, I’m as happy about it as you are.”As in, not at all.
Hana’s older sister is dressed in a white velour track suit that shows off her full breasts and round ass, and her dark hair is pulled up on top of her head.
While Hana is waifish and dresses like circa-1990s Kate Moss in black tanks and jeans or a little black dress with pale lips and eternally smudged eyeliner, Blake is modern and curvy and always impeccably styled.
Debbie is somewhere in between. Her wild, strawberry-blonde hair is thickened by extensions, her makeup is simply a bold red lip, and she always wears Versace. When Grish starts acting up, she pretends to be sleeping with me, which I find annoying, but it keeps my mother from throwing eligible young socialites at me. So I’ve allowed it.
“I’m so happy you’re back.” Hana bounces on her toes, kissing my cheek before skipping in the direction of the kitchen where her friend is baking. “Let’s do lunch tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure. I have some business with Grish if I’m not here when you wake up.” Which I expect will be closer to dinnertime.
“It is late?” Blake tucks her bag under her arm, glancing at the clock. “Or is it early? I’m sure you know where to get whatever you need?”
“I don’t need much.” She nods, and I stop her. “Tell me, B, why don’t you ever go to St. Moritz with the moms?”
She studies me then shakes her head. “For a minute, I thought you were serious. You know those women make me itch.”
“You never date.” I slide my blazer off my shoulders. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Hana plays enough for the both of us. As for dating, when you find a good man in our crowd, let me know. I’m not holding my breath. Or wasting my time.”
Can’t argue with that, still. “One of these days, you’ll have to let down your guard or you’ll end up alone.”
“If I need dating advice, dear Trip, I’ll be sure and ask for it.”
I hold up both hands in surrender, and she breezes down the hallway in the direction of her bedroom.
Hana and Debbie are giggling and speaking in low voices in the kitchen, and the scent of sugar cookies drifts through the air. In the past, I would’ve gone in there with them, but tonight my mind is far away with Gia. I miss her, and I’m not looking forward to the meeting I’m attending with Grish tomorrow.
I step out of my shoes and place my jacket on the back of a chair, then I wrap a fleece blanket around my shoulders and prepare to sleep on their generous, leather couch. It isn’t the welcome home I’d imagined, but perhaps it should’ve been.
It’s a reminder of why I’m working so hard to get out of here. Blake’s right, this is no place for roots.
CHAPTER22
TRIP
Gibson’s is a cigar bar in the basement of a storefront in the Financial District. I don’t know who the actual owner is, but Grish has managed it as long as I’ve been here.
Whoever pays the bills clearly slips an extra thousand or so to the chief of police, because smoking is banned in all bars and restaurants in New York City. But in Gibson’s, with its wine-colored leather furniture, carpeted walls, and heavy velvet curtains, the air is thick with spicy cigar smoke.
Frank Sinatra croons over the house speakers, and the counters are lined with whiskey and bourbon and assorted spirits. The atmosphere is something out of a mafia movie, and hidden behind the curtains are round, leather booths where all varieties of dirty deals are made.
I usually hang around the brass-studded, wooden bar while women in high-fashion, skimpy cocktail dresses drift through the room carrying glasses of champagne in their slim hands. Their hair is perfect, their makeup on point, and it’s hard to tell which are escorts for hire and which are socialites looking to hook up.
At this time of evening, the club is closed to the public. Members only. The beefy guy at the door nods for us to enter, and when we descend the stairs, a new crowd of well-dressed, eastern-European types are standing at the bar. I assume they’re Russian, as we’ve all been summoned by Simon, but they could be Romanian, Czech, Ukrainian, or even from Belarus.
“That’s him.” Grish’s voice is low, and he nods to a smallish man sitting in one of the round booths as if he’s holding court. “Stay with me. I’ll do my best to keep you out of the conversation.”
I’m about to tell him I’m not afraid of these guys when my eyes land on Andre standing at the bar, and my insides flash. He smirks, and my surprise turns into fire burning at the base of my throat.
Grish gives no indication he recognizes any of the men at the bar, and I decide he was telling the truth about Andre. This guy is tracking me for Simon, the small man with blond hair and cold blue eyes. The one who doesn’t smile, and looks like he orders hits as easily as he orders shots of vodka.