He was a slick one. His congenial act didn’t fool her, though. He was as deadly as a Siberian tiger.
“Your jacket, Izzy?” he asked, though it wasn’t a question.
Izzy slid it off her shoulders and handed it to him. Her skin crawled as the Russian’s icy eyes slowly swept down her body, then back to her eyes. Izzy cocked a brow, challenging his ungentlemanly perusal.
“As a rule, Izzy, I don’t care for American women. I abhor vulgarity in a woman. I also despise women who would prostitute themselves for a dollar.” He placed his hand beneath her chin and lifted it up so that he held her gaze. “But you, you are the exception.”
Izzy jerked her chin from his grasp. “Thanks, I think.”
Hiking her bag over her shoulder, she looked past him and said, “Where is Boris? We have some business to attend to.”
“You’ll find him up the stairs, second set of double doors on the left.”
Izzy swallowed and started carefully up the stairway in her heels. Flynn had insisted she wear stilettos in case she needed a quick weapon. They were hell on her feet, though.
As she topped the wide staircase and looked down toward the dim entryway, she found Mr. Bushnik and two of his giants staring up at her. She smiled and forged onward.
“I hope you can still hear me,” she whispered. “Including Miro, there are three men downstairs. One at the door, the other midway down the front hall.” She came to the double doors and, taking a deep breath, she knocked.
“Come in,” a deeply accented voice commanded. Boris.
Izzy exhaled. “Show time,” she whispered. When she opened the door, she caught her breath. Red velvet covered the fifteen-foot walls. At least half a dozen large flat-screen televisions were mounted on them. Circularly arranged around an eight-foot-wide red velvet pedestal was black leather studded furniture. Anchored in the middle of the pedestal was a shining chrome pole that ran up into the elaborate tin ceiling.
A private strip club.
So this was where Boris had his notorious parties. Swallowing hard, Izzy looked past the small stage to Boris, who stood behind a large ornate black leather and wood desk to the right of a long black leather mahogany top bar that ran along the back wall of the room. He wasn’t alone.
His nephew Maks and Andre flanked him. Andre’s eyes narrowed, while Maks gave her a long appreciative look. She was dressed in black skinny jeans that hung low on her hips, a soft curve-hugging pink shirt that offered a hint of cleavage as well as a peak at her belly and belly button ring, and black suede stiletto heels. She looked sexy as hell in the simple rags. But then she had dressed deliberately to thrill.
“Mr. Sorlov, how are you?” she nervously asked. “Maks, Andre.”
“Vilde Style, I understand you have something I may be interested in viewing?” Boris said, not wasting time on perfunctory greetings.
Fine, she had no problem getting to the point. Easy in, easy out. “I absolutely do, but before I show you, I need you to understand that it comes with a price.”
Boris scoffed. “A price? Really?” He looked to Maks, then to Andre. “Look around you, you little bitch. You’re in no position to be making demands.”
Izzy gasped at his threat.
He held out his hand. “The drive.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
Anger snaked through Izzy as she tried to maintain her composure. “First of all, I’m not a bitch. Secondly, you should be thanking me for coming to you instead of hawking this video to the Italians in South Beach. Thirdly, I undertook the job with the condition that we meet and in exchange for the video you give me information. With your reputation preceding you, I had a feeling you might pull something like this, so I didn’t bring it.”
Boris growled and with a nod of his head toward her, indicated that Andre and Maks were to find out.
“Don’t come near me!” she shrieked, momentarily losing her composure. “I swear, you’ll never see what’s on the drive.” Her instinct was to shrink back and protect herself, but Boris didn’t respect fear, he respected strength. Izzy pulled herself together and stepped boldly toward Boris, ignoring the two other men. “I’m good at what I do. I guarantee you, you will be happy to give me what I want in exchange for what’s on the drive.”
“What do you want?” he bit out.
“Information on a dancer named Jasmyn. She disappeared almost four months ago. I know she was here. What happened to her?”
Boris’s eyes flickered with recognition the minute she said Alex’s stage name. His eyes narrowed. He knew where she was! “Tell me where she is and I’ll give you the key to the FBI.”
“Remove your clothes,” he commanded.
“What?” she asked nervously, backing away.
“Remove your clothing.”
Oh God. He was going to rape her. “No.”
“Andre, take her bag and go through it. Maks, help her undress and go through her clothing.”
Izzy stood completely still, trying hard to get a grip on her rising panic. It was just a naked strip search. Put up against being raped, it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. She supposed she should feel grateful, but she didn’t. It was still a violation. Izzy threw her bag at Andre and turned to a smirking Maks. “Keep your damn hands to yourself.”
She undressed quickly, making sure she kept the drive wrapped in her bra, then set it down on the carpet so it wouldn’t be exposed. While Andre dumped the contents of her bag onto the desk and rifled through it, Maks began to paw through her shoes and clothing. Izzy stood naked and proud as Boris walked around her. He ran his fingers between her butt cheeks, then through her hair. He pointed to her belly button ring. “What is that?”
“What does it look like?”
“Is same ring she wears,” Andre said, looking up from the desk.
When Maks bent down to pick up her bra, Izzy raised her hands high and said, “See, nothing under my arms. Or my tits.” The drive tumbled to the floor as Maks stood, and in a smooth move, she stepped on it, the thick carpeting acting as a cushion. They were so focused on her boobs they didn’t bother to look down. Dumbass men.
When it was determined her clothes were clean and she wasn’t wearing a wire, Izzy snatched her clothes back. She dropped the jeans to cover the drive while she put her bra and panties on. Carefully she picked up her jeans feeling for the drive. Pulling them on, she maneuvered the drive into her back pocket then quickly put her shirt on as she slid her feet back into her shoes.
“Now tell me about Jasmyn,” she demanded.
As the words left her mouth, Miro strode into the room flanked by his two giant bodyguards. “Wow,” Izzy tsked, shaking her head. “Six big Russians to make sure the one-hundred-and-ten-pound dancer doesn’t hurt them.”
Miro looked past her to Boris, who said, “She’s clean, but no drive.”
“My dear Izzy,” Miro crooned. “I am so disappointed.”
“The drive comes with conditions, conditions Boris refuses to accept.”
“What conditions?” Miro asked.
“Boris tells me what happened to Jasmyn, I give him the drive.”
Boris chuckled, the sound dark and demonic. “We do not negotiate with strippers. You will give me the drive because I asked for it.”
Izzy shook her head, standing her ground. “In America, when you give someone your word it means something.” She turned to Miro. “Mr. Sorlov said he would give me the information in exchange for the drive.”
Miro leaned against the edge of the desk and contemplated her statement. “We are not American.”
“But I am. And we’re in America.”
“Show us the video. If it is golden as you claim, I will give the information you ask for,” Boris said.
Miro shot him a look and Izzy wasn’t sure what it meant. Not taking any chances, she said, “Deal!” Then she dug into her back pocket, retrieved the drive, and handed it over to Boris.