“Okay.”
He followed close behind her. When she picked up the phone, her hands were trembling. She acted like a toughie, but she was just a scared little girl. A chunk of the mammoth wall he’d erected around his entire self tumbled to the ground. Damn if this pink-haired little girl didn’t have a hold of a piece of him. He took her hand into his and squeezed it. “You can do this,” he said softly.
Unmuting the phone, she put it to her ear and said, “If you pinched some of my tips from last night, Andre, I’m going to tell all the girls that you jerk off when they’re giving private lap dances.”
Flynn choked back a laugh.
Andre’s response wasn’t clear, but the tone and volume were crystal clear.
“Yeah, well, then I’ll tell Boris how you use his bar money for your own private lap dances.” A raft of Russian cursing spewed from the phone. The giant was angry. “Oh shut it, Andre. Why are you calling me so early in the day?" She winked at Flynn. He watched amazed. Maybe he’d underestimated her.
“Yes, I have it—no you can’t come get it! I’m not home. You might as well know I’m not going to give it to you, Andre. I don’t trust you to give it to Boris. You’ll probably charge for it. Oh shut it. I’m doing you a solid, Andre! Call Boris and tell him I have a juicy tape of a lily-white FBI agent doing some bad stuff. If he wants it, he’s going to have to pay big time for it.”
There was more cussing.
“And Andre? I’m back to cocktailing.” She looked up at Flynn and gave him a, “There are you happy?” look.
He grinned. He was very happy. He’d be happier if she never went back to Surf’s Up. But this was progress. One step at a time.
“Whoa, wait a minute, you crazy Cossack, I don’t do off-site parties, why’d you say I’d do it?” She shook her head.
Flynn stiffened. No fucking way.
“Oh. It’s at Boris’s private residence?” She looked to Flynn, and nodded, like it was a good thing.
Definitely not a good thing. Vehemently, he shook his head. She exasperated. “I’ll think about it, but Boris’s party aside, Andre, it’s cocktail or I walk.”
Please walk.
Pink smiled. “There, that’s a good Russian. I’ll see you Thursday at nine-ish.” She hit end and looked up at Flynn. “What video am I going to give Boris that will satisfy him?”
“We’re going to have to buy a little time. Do you belong to a gym?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, when you go in Thursday, tell Andre your cell phone was stolen at the gym, but since it’s password protected and you put a huge reward up at the gym for it, you think you’ll get it back.”
“He’s going to be pissed.”
“Then tell him you’re seeing me again this Friday and you’ll get a better one.”
“What if he doesn’t buy it?”
Flynn weighed the pros and cons. Would Andre slap her around? Most likely not, since he wouldn’t chance marking her. Pink brought in big tips and if Boris wanted her for a private dance party, Andre would make damn sure she was at her best. He needed her healthy. So long as that held true, she would be okay. Except if she thought for one minute she was going to Boris’s residence for a private party, she had another thing coming. He’d drug her and tie her up if he had to.
“He’s not going to have much of a choice.” Flynn pulled her into his arms. He didn’t want the day with her to end. “What plans do you have for the rest of the day?”
Pink shrugged, but smiled mischievously. “I know what I’d like to do, but I think my girl parts need a little rest.”
Impulsively, Flynn said, “I’ve been jonesing for some board time. Want to take a ride over to Half Moon Bay with me for the day?”
“You surf?”
“I try to.”
She smiled and said, “I have the perfect bikini.”
His lips drew tight. “I bet you do. It’s going to be cold over there. Bring it, though, and you can dance for me.”
“Depends on how you behave.”
“I can’t make any promises. We’ll need to stop by my place on the way out.”
She smiled brightly, stood on her toes and grabbed his face, and brought his mouth down to hers. She kissed him hard and quick. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
He stood there rooted to the floor, his lips throbbing. Damn it.
“Pack enough for overnight,” he called after her. He was going off the deep end, headfirst.
She poked her head back around the kitchen doorway. “That’s pretty presumptuous of you, Slick.”
He grinned and curbed the impulse to snatch her up into his arms and maul her. “You know you want to.”
“That’s beside the point!” She disappeared.
Twenty minutes later she emerged freshly showered, with a pink canvas duffle bag, dressed in a short little denim skirt, white, tit-hugging, midriff-baring T-shirt that, despite the fact that she was wearing a bra, accentuated more than it covered. The cork wedge shoes she wore brought her up to his chin. The only makeup she wore was mascara and pink lip gloss. He was spellbound.
She snapped her fingers under his nose. “Earth to Slick.”
Shaking his head, Flynn groaned and asked, “Could you change into a burlap sack, please?”
Throwing her head back, she laughed and slapped him good-naturedly on the chest. “This is all for you, big guy. I want your eyes on me and only me.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her against him. “Trust me, you could be wearing that sack and you’d have my undivided attention.”
Still smiling, she leaned into him and pursed her pouty lips. “Then you’d better be on your toes and make sure someone doesn’t sweep me off my feet on your watch.”
His face tightened. “I don’t share.”
She kissed his nose. “Neither do I.”
Chapter Eleven
Izzy sat quietly in the back of the black suburban next to Flynn. He’d called an Uber and it whisked them from the low-rent district of Oakland into the exclusive Piedmont hills. She’d grown up here, and as they wound their way up Rte.13, her stomach began to feel a little queasy.
“I thought you said you lived off your salary?” she asked him. Piedmont was not for paupers or government workers.
“I do, but I bought a house first.”
The SUV pulled up before a 1920s classic three-story house on an old tree-lined street. As they walked up the sidewalk, she said, “I grew up two streets down on Bellevue.”
“What happened?”
“You know I was kicked out.”
“I meant what happened after that?”
“Oh, you mean why did I grow up in a five-million-dollar house and turn out to be a cocktail waitress and retired stripper?”
As he inserted the key into the door, he turned the lock and opened it. He held out his arm for her to enter before him. Loudly exhaling, she did. This was a mistake. She should have let him walk this morning. Oh, heck she should have kicked him out last night before—
“Having second thoughts?”
She’d been so caught up in her thoughts she hadn’t realized her internal dialogue was playing out on her face. Her mother had always told her she could never hide what she was thinking or feeling. “Yes.” Why lie? “Look, I really like you.” An understatement. “I like being with you.” Bigger understatement. “I like everything about you.” Total truth. “Except the fact that you can’t get past what I do for a living.” Very true and a deal breaker for a man like Special Agent Flynn A. Ryker.
“I like you, too. A lot.”
He took her bag and set it down on the black, polished marble. The place was amazing. Black and white with just a hint of gray. But there was no warmth. “This place reminds me of a mausoleum.”
“Well, thanks.” He slid his hands into his back trouser pockets and for a moment seemed as uncomfortable as she was. “Believe it or not, this used to be a federal safe house, then a crash pad for a bunch of us single guys working task forces. It was a turnstile front door. Then one day, there was just me. Uncle Sam was making deep budget cuts, and they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I happen to like the clean, no-nonsense lines.”