Page 5 of Breaking the Rules
She found him facedown on the bed buried under half of the dozen pillows mounded at the head.
“Dibs on the bed,” he said, his voice muffled by goose down.
“We’ll switch off,” Waverly corrected him.
Dante rolled onto his side, propped his head on his hand. “You know, this would be much easier if we were actually sleeping together.” He looked every bit the British movie star lying there in tastefully distressed jeans, the gray V-neck sweater worn casually over a white button down and topped by a dark corduroy blazer. His short blonde hair curled lightly around his face.
Waverly threw a pillow at him and hit him square in the handsome face. “If by easier, you mean messy and complicated, then I totally agree.”
He laughed, flashing her a pearly grin. They joked about their fake relationship turning real, but neither of them was interested. Dante was not the kind to settle down, and Waverly wasn’t interested in the complications of a fling or a relationship. She’d dated a little in college, enjoying the normalcy of being removed from Hollywood, but she could still never be one-hundred percent sure that the guys were interested in who she was becoming or who she had been.
“You are here!” Petra Stepanov, decked out in leather leggings and a furry vest, trotted into the room in her five-inch Tom Ford stilettos. She had a tiny dog clutched to her chest.
She wrapped Waverly in a one-armed hug and gave her a smacking kiss on both cheeks. “I am so glad you could join me this weekend,” she squealed.
The daughter of an Italian dancer and Russian tycoon, Petra was a unique blend of cultures. She had the heart of her mother, her father’s head for investments, and a love of everything American from baseball to the Kardashians. She wasn’t the typical spoiled rich girl. From what Waverly had gathered, her father had dragged her to the office just as often as her mother brought her to the theater. She was bubbly and sweet, and Waverly suspected she wouldn’t survive a day in the wild on her own.
She made the introduction and rolled her eyes behind Petra’s back when Dante amped up the charm, kissing the woman’s knuckles.
“Thank you for having us, Petra,” Waverly said. “Hi, Pixie.” She rubbed a knuckle gently over the dog’s round forehead.
“You are so good with names!” Petra gushed. “You must teach me your trick.” Waverly wondered what the studio would think of her educating a Russian on tradecraft.
“This room is incredible,” she said, gesturing at the bed that Dante was dragging himself off of.
“I’m so glad you like it,” Petra gushed. “It took Papa six years to get everything just so.”
“He’s certainly got an eye for design,” Dante complimented.
Petra looked at him from under her lashes. “I helped, too, in some rooms.”
Waverly hid a snort.
“I will let you get settled,” Petra announced. “Dinner is at eight.”
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They dined on Russian caviar, white truffle pizza, and lobster tail at the dining table. Backed in leather, the dining chairs had foot-long tassels that hung from the seat cushions. They currently doubled as a chew toy for Pixie, the teeny Chihuahua. Dante regaled them with tales from movie sets all over the world and plied Petra with innocuous questions about herself and her father.
Dante’s value as an agent came primarily from his uncanny ability to draw information out of women. They couldn’t seem to help themselves and spilled every detail of their lives to him.
None of Petra’s answers were striking warning bells, though. Grigory was in Russia for the next few weeks working on a new real estate deal. He planned to join his daughter in L.A. at the end of the month.
After dinner, Dante excused himself to take care of some vague business, which Waverly knew was cover for checking in with the studio and, knowing Dante, do a little snooping.
Waverly kept Petra occupied by insisting on an evening walk to the lakefront. It was dark, but Grigory had the landscape designers flank the stairs and path with solar lights. Pixie wore a pink turtleneck sweater to protect her from the cold, and two of Petra’s bodyguards tagged along to protect them from the shadows.
The first round of gunfire had Waverly shoving Petra behind her back against a tree.
“Fireworks?” Petra asked, trying to peer over her shoulder. The guards took up their positions in front of them, weapons drawn.
“I don’t think so,” Waverly whispered. “I think someone’s trying to get in the house.”
“What? What do they want?” Petra’s voice trembled.
“I don’t know,” Waverly said grimly. Her gun was in her room. All she had was the knife strapped to her ankle under her boots. Where the hell was Dante?
“Do you have your phone on you?” Waverly asked Petra.
