Page 67 of Marked

“No, he’s right. I was being a bitch.”

Settling back against the leather seats, I closed my eyes, trying to eliminate all of the unnecessary chatter happening between my heart and my head. I needed to focus on the here and now, instead of worrying about the what-ifs should plans A through D unravel. If shit went left, I’d handle it––we’d handle it. That’s what family did.

Before we left the office at o’dark thirty this morning, we’d gotten word from Zakhar’s second-in-command, Kasimir. Vlaschenko agreed to meet, but only at a place and time of his choosing.Cocky Russian. It wasn’t anything we hadn’t already anticipated and prepared for. Although dinner at a bustling, hard-to-get-reservations-for steakhouse, thirteen miles away in nearby Ashland, Kentucky wasn’t what any of us had in mind. Nor was the fact he insisted I be the only agent in attendance. Noah was not pleased and he made it known…repeatedly.

Pulling up to the front of Steak on Main, the knottwisted further. As a law enforcement officer, sometimes your gut instinct was the only thing you had to go by. Right then mine was churning fiercely.

When the valet attendant opened the back door, I slid to the edge of the seat, my knee-length LBD revealing a bit too much of my thigh to the pimply-faced teenager. When Noah tugged on the hand he still had in his grip, I twisted around.

“You’re gonna have to let go, Cowboy.”

“If anything feels off, get up and get the hell out.”

“This whole damn thing feels off.” I leaned in, kissing him softly. “You didn’t give me a chance earlier, so I’m gonna say this now. I’ve been in love with you since before I knew how to love, Noah Anderson.”

“You better come back to me in one piece, or I’ll tan your ass,” he whispered in my ear.

“Promises, promises.”

“You remember what to say if you want us to get you out?”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Duncan.” The warning look he gave me reminded me of the same one Dad used whenever he was exasperated with me and Lee. No wonder Koen nicknamed him and Waverly, Mom and Dad. It was the damn truth. “Is it warm in here?”

“Good.” He nodded.

I watched from the sidewalk as Duncan drove past the surveillance van parked on the corner across the street. Its dark tinted windows and bakery business logo on the side blended in seamlessly with the dozen or so other delivery vehicles lining the curb. The time of day helped as well, considering the sun was starting to set.

My cheap, knock-off heels clicked noisily on the concrete as I strode toward the glass-wrapped facade of thebuilding. As I approached, the acne-covered kid, along with an older gentleman, opened the French-style doors, letting the most divine smell escape into the night air. My stomach grumbled, suggesting the two and a half donuts I’d eaten earlier had long since been digested.

“Good evening, ma’am. May I help you?”

The maître d’ was decked out in all black; black fitted jeans, a long-sleeve black button-down shirt––and you guessed it––a black Stetson. The only thing not black was the huge silver buckle he wore on his black leather belt. The whole place gave me more of a Texas vibe rather than Kentucky, which made sense since the owners were from a little town near Austin, called New Braunfels.

“I’m meeting Zakhar Vlaschenko.”

“Ah, yes. If you’d follow me, your date is waiting.”

I chuckled to myself, immensely grateful Waverly only insisted on me wearing a wire and not an earpiece as well. I’m sure the comment about my “date” was going over really well with Noah. If I listened real hard, I could hear his voice in my head.“It’s not a fucking date.”

Scanning the restaurant, I followed the cowboy toward the rear of the restaurant, vowing to have Noah bring me back here when I could enjoy the atmosphere, instead of scrutinizing the patrons to figure out which ones came here with my dinner companion. We weaved our way through the dimly lit space, bypassing hordes of hungry diners eating by candlelight, until we reached our destination; a lone table in the corner. It was what the industry called the chef’s table, which was reserved for special guests; like the man sitting behind it, looking even more handsome in person.

Game time.

Zakhar stood and I had to keep my chin from hitting thefloor. What the hell did they feed these guys? Miracle Grow? He was taller than Duncan by at least a couple inches, and the pictures hadn’t done his muscles any justice. There was no way the navy-blue suit he wore was anything but tailor-made. Off the rack was definitely not in this guy's vocabulary.

“Special Agent Biggs,” he held out his hand, “it’s a pleasure.”

“Same, Mr. Vlaschenko.”

After pulling out my chair, the maître d’ handed us each a menu, recounted the specials for the evening, and told us our waiter would be over shortly.

“Zak, please.”

“Hmm?”

“Call me Zak. May I call you Alaina?”

“Only if you have a death wish.” I slapped the menu down, having decided on the most expensive cut of meat I could find.

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