He was slumped in between them, barely able to hold his head up. For a long moment I stood completely frozen; the shock of seeing two men abducting my fiancé caused all my synapses to fire at once—the overload left me temporarily immobile.

It wasn’t until the thugs started to jam Dutch into the car that I dropped the bag of bagels and took off running. I closed in on them fast, mindless of the people scurrying out of the way along the sidewalk, focusing only on reaching Dutch.

One of the thugs saw me coming, because he paused in his effort to shove Dutch into the car and looked me dead in the eye.

I waved my fist at him and roared a kind of carnal, angry scream.

He countered with a big ol’ gun aimed steadily in my direction.

Point to bad guy.

“Let him go!” I shouted, weaving slightly to the side at the sight of the gun but still pounding down the pavement toward the two men.

At that moment, Dutch shoved one of them aside and reached for the gun. It went off and glass broke right next to me. People screamed and crouched down. Someone yelled, “GUN!” and more people screamed and ducked.

I continued to race right for the town car, but as I got to within about ten feet of it, the two guys wrestled Dutch inside, slammed the door closed, and turned to me.

One pointed his gun at my heart; the other drew his and took careful aim. I knew that the next time they fired, they wouldn’t miss. I stopped, my chest heaving and my blood boiling. Without a word the two men stepped to the front doors of the black sedan and got in. A moment later, they gunned the engine and the car roared to life, jumping forward—right at me. I dove to the side, straight into a couple of trash cans, sending one of them directly into the sedan’s path.

There was a thunderous clash of metal, garbage flew up in the air along with the can, and I covered my head as much of it came raining down on me.

When the dust settled, I got to my feet and tried to catch the sedan’s license plate. “Are you okay?” asked a middle-aged woman in a long camel coat.

I nodded, and took a step out into the street just as the sedan was turning the corner. “Miss!” she said. “You’re bleeding, honey.”

Sirens sounded in the distance and it seemed the whole street was looking anxiously at me. “The police will be here in just a minute,” the kindly woman said.

I nodded because I couldn’t really talk. I was still processing what’d happened. “Did you know that man?” she asked, her brow creased with concern.

I tore my eyes away from the corner where the sedan had turned and disappeared, staring at her for the first time. “What?” I whispered.

“The man they abducted,” she said, pulling me gently over to a stoop. “Did you know him?”

I swallowed back the large lump forming in my throat. The sirens were getting closer now, the police were closing in, and I had nothing to tell them. Dutch and I were in deep cover, and I’d been warned not to leave a paper trail or call attention to myself under any circumstance.

“Where’s my purse?” I asked, searching the ground desperately.

“It’s right there,” said the woman, pointing to my new purse, now covered in coffee grounds. I took a step toward it and winced. “You should see a doctor about that cut,” she told me.

My knee was slashed up pretty good, but there was no way I was going to take the time to worry about it now. Wiping away some of the grime, I dug through my purse and lifted out my cell phone.

The helpful pedestrian was looking at me curiously, and I attempted a small smile. “I need to make a call.”

She nodded, but continued to stare at me curiously. The sirens were much closer now. The police would be here in about ten more seconds. Looking back to the woman, I pointed to the bar we were right next to and said, “I’ll just be in there for a minute to make my call, and then I’ll be out to give the police my statement.”

“I’ll tell them,” she assured me.

“Thanks,” I said, before ducking quickly into the establishment.

There were no patrons inside, and most of the staff were ogling out the window. When I entered, one of them stared at me in shock and said, “Shit, lady! You almost got run down by that car! You okay?”

I nodded. “Is there a restroom I could use? I want to get some water on my knee.”

“Sure,” he said, and pointed to the back of the bar. “Head down that hallway. It’s right next to the exit.”

“Thanks,” I said. “If the police come in here looking for me, would you tell them I’ll be right out?”

“I will,” he said, before handing me two clean, folded bar towels. “Use these to clean your knee,” he instructed.

I took the towels and hurried away. The screech of tires outside let me know the police had arrived. Ducking into the back hallway, I cruised right past the ladies’ room and snuck out the back exit, which put me in an alley.

Moving through the narrow street, I turned right the first chance I got, and continued to work my way west until I was about four blocks away from the scene.

Once I was safely out of police range, I flagged down a cab and gave the address for the condo. He gave me a once-over before putting the car into drive. Looking down at myself, I could hardly blame him.

As he drove, I pressed one of the bar towels to my knee, and finally selected Frost’s number from the contacts list on my phone. I waited anxiously until he picked up. “What?” he asked, getting right to the point.

I was about to tell him everything that had happened before I remembered that I had an audience. “Meet me at the condo in ten minutes,” I instructed and, not wanting to argue about it, I simply hung up.

Frost had his phone up to his ear, waiting on hold for Director Tanner. “If you’d been there, Cooper, they’d have shot you first.”

I considered that for a minute, and realized that was probably why my crew had made an effort to keep me away from the office until I’d seen Dutch being dragged out. Still, it didn’t make me feel any better to know that I’d been unable to help him or prevent his abduction.

“Yeah,” said Frost, his voice tense and edgy, “I’m still waiting for the director.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes at the person on the other end of the line. “I don’t care if she’s in a meeting!” he practically yelled. “You get her a message from me to take my call right now, goddammit!”

I watched as Frost clenched his fist and turned away to pace the floor. It reminded me of what I’d done earlier that morning, and what had inspired the pacing, and I felt immediately that I knew what I had to do. “Hang up the phone, Frost,” I commanded.

Frost pivoted and held up his index finger in a “hold on a minute” gesture.

“Hang up the phone, Frost!” I yelled so loud he jumped.

He looked at me in stunned surprise, then pulled the phone away from his ear and hit the speaker button. It was the best compromise he could offer me, I guess.

“You have to get me a phone number for Grinkov,” I told him.

“Why?”

“Will you just do it?!” I yelled. “I think I know how to help Dutch, but we have to move on it right now, okay?”

Frost stared moodily at me, probably trying to decide if he should tell me to go sit down, shut up, and let him handle it.

I got up from the chair where I’d been sitting, and approached him. When I was well into his personal space, I said, “You have no reason to trust me, but you know I love Dutch more than anything in the world. I would never put him in jeopardy, Frost. And the only way I can help him now is to listen to my intuition, which is insisting that you get me that number so I can call Grinkov.”

“There’s no way we’ll get approval for the half mil today,” Frost told me bluntly.

I didn’t even blink. “I know. I have something else in mind.” Again he wavered for a minute before sighing heavily; then he hit the end button to disconnect the line. Scrolling through his own contacts, he found the number he wanted and tapped it. A moment later he said, “Agent Dobbs, it’s Frost. I need a number. . . .”

“I need to speak with Mr. Grinkov,” I said crisply.

There was silence on the other end of the line, but I could hear some background noise, so I knew that whoever answered hadn’t hung up on me.

“Who is this?”

The man on the other end had a smooth masculine voice and a very slight Slavic accent.

“My name is Abigail Carter. I am Richard Des Vries’s business partner.”

Across from me Frost’s eyebrows rose and he looked at me skeptically.

On the other end of the line there was a long pause, and I waited with bated breath for the guy to react or speak or tell me “wrong number” and hang up.

“Richard has been very bad boy,” said the voice, and I closed my eyes and used every ounce of control I had not to shriek or cry or beg the man to spare my fiancé’s life.

Swallowing hard, I said, “I understand Richard is late on a payment or two for a loan taken out with Mr. Grinkov.”

There was a chuckle on the other end of the line that sent a chill up my spine. “Is that what he told you?”

I ignored that. “Is this Mr. Grinkov?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” he replied coyly.

“I see,” I said, not really knowing where to go with that.

“Why are you calling?” he demanded.

“I would like to make payment on Mr. Des Vries’s debts,” I said. “And I would like Mr. Des Vries returned. Alive and in one piece.”

Across from me, Frost looked at me sharply, but I ignored him, and waited for my answer. “The loan must be paid in full,” said the caller.

I almost sagged with relief. He wouldn’t have said that if Dutch had already been murdered. “It will take a bit of time to gather the money,” I told him.

“How much time?”

“Two or three days,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed and crossing my fingers that he’d give me that long to reach Dutch’s best friend and business partner, Milo, and liquidate some assets.

The man on the other end sighed dramatically. “This is no good,” he said. “I need some money now, Miss Carter.”

My eyes shot open to meet Frost’s. He shook his head. He couldn’t promise that.

“Of course,” I said easily, my heart thundering with anxiety. “I knew you’d want some sort of deposit in good faith. But I’d also like some assurances that Mr. Des Vries is unharmed.”

“You would, eh?” he said, his voice mocking. “Well, unfortunately, Mr. Des Vries had a little accident on his way to meet with me, Miss Carter.”

I gripped the arm of the sofa, hard. “But he’s still alive, correct?”

“He is,” he assured me. “For now.”

“I will bring you the money tonight,” I said. “I have fifty thousand dollars.”

“That’s not enough,” the man said. “I will need one hundred thousand of the five hundred he owes me.”

I was afraid of that. “Yes, all right,” I said, glaring hard at Frost. “I will need the afternoon to gather the rest of the money together. Can you give me until this evening?”

“Yes, of course,” said the man. “I’m not unreasonable, after all. You will come by and have dinner with me. We will discuss the terms of repayment.”

Frost was shaking his head vehemently and mouthing the word, “No!”

“That sounds fine,” I told him. “Tell me where to go and I’ll be there.”

I stood up and limped over to the sink, dousing one of the towels under the faucet and holding it to my knee. “If you guys want to fire me, Frost, then go right ahead, but I’m going there tonight and I am going to make sure Dutch is still alive. And then I’m going to negotiate the terms of his release.”

Frost followed me over to the counter, where he stood angrily with his arms crossed over his chest. “I can’t give you a hundred thousand dollars, Cooper! Do you know how many people would have to sign off on that?”

I glared hard at him. “One,” I said, and limped back over to my phone. There were three people I personally knew that I could ask for a loan as large as one hundred thousand dollars, but only one of them wouldn’t ask me too many questions.

I dialed the phone while Frost watched me as if I’d just gone mad.

“Abby!” Milo said. “Long time no see, girl. What’s up?”

“Dutch is in trouble,” I told him, getting right to the point.

I could practically see Milo snap to attention. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you,” I said, blinking back the moisture that was flooding my eyes. I couldn’t involve Milo in our espionage, but that didn’t mean I didn’t long for him to fly in and help me rescue Dutch. “I need money to help him, Milo. A lot of money.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“How soon?” He’d said that without even a pause, and the moisture leaking from my eyes got harder to hold back. God love Milo!

“As soon as humanly possible.”

“Can you e-mail me some wiring instructions to the nearest bank?”

My eyes flickered to Frost. He nodded. “Yes, Milo, I can.”

“You’ll have it by five,” he assured me. “And Abs?”

“Yeah?”

“If things get worse and you need me, you call back, you hear?”

I could barely speak, but I managed a throaty, “Thanks, buddy. I will.”

The guard approached the car and asked me to step out. I complied and he first searched my purse, then the small attaché I’d brought along; then he gave me a good pat down. He didn’t take the opportunity to cop a feel, which I mentally gave him credit for, and finally he swept some sort of handheld gizmo over my body and told me to stretch out my arms and legs.

The gizmo made little crackling noises, but other than that, no loud squeaks or squeals went off, much to my relief.

Appearing satisfied, the guard stepped back from me and held out his hand. “Cell phone,” he said.

My brow furrowed. “Why?”

“You want to go in there?”

“Yes.”

“Then you give up your cell phone.”

I hesitated. What if he went through all the numbers loaded onto my phone? What if he called people and asked them about me? What if he downloaded my pictures and saw the cute ones I’d taken of Dutch and me right after he’d proposed?

The guard squinted at me, and I knew I had little choice. “Fine,” I said, reaching into the car and pulling it out. He went to grab it, but I held it away from him. “Just a second, buddy,” I said tersely, pulling out the clip holding my hair up and using one of the prongs to depress the button that released the SIM card. “You may have my phone,” I told him once I’d tucked the small piece of plastic into my pocket and locked the phone with a password. “But you can’t have my personal information.”

He scowled at me but made no further argument, taking my phone and motioning for me to get back into the car and go through the gate.

Once I was safely tucked back in my car, I used the rearview mirror to put the clip back into place, pulling a section of my hair back but leaving the sides long to cover my ears. Once I’d secured the clip, which hid a tiny camera and microphone and which Frost had insisted I wear, I clicked the teeny button on the side and felt it vibrate slightly. “How’s the angle?” I whispered.

In my ear I heard Frost say, “It’s fine. What took so long?”

I nodded to the guard as I passed by him through the gates. “I got the pat down,” I said. “And he took my cell.”

“Shit!” Frost said. “You let him have your cell? What numbers are on there, Cooper?”

I smiled. “None. I took the SIM card and locked the phone.”

There was a pause, then, “Good thinking,” which I thought might be the highest form of praise from Agent Frostbite.

I parked the car and took a small moment to collect myself. I knew the odds of coming out of here with Dutch were very, very low, and I had no idea if he was alive or dead, or even what condition he was in, but I knew that the most important thing for me to do was to remain calm, cool, and collected. I couldn’t react to anything that I saw or heard, because that could tip our hand, which would ensure our swift and immediate demise.

Frost had also warned me (at length) not to mention the drone or the code we were trying to shop. “If he knows you’ve got something as valuable as Intuit’s code, he’ll keep Rivers hostage until you cough up the disk—then we’ll be totally screwed.”

So, I was left with nothing but my own wits and my sixth sense to see me through the night. I knew that in order to utilize both to the fullest, I needed to collect myself and gather my courage. While I took a quiet moment in the car, I did what I usually do before I see my clients. I tucked all my emotions, feelings, judgments, and ego into a secure place in my brain, before stepping fully into the character of Abigail Carter, badass business partner to Rick Des Vries.

I then got out of the car and approached the house, carrying my purse and the small attaché. I raised my hand to use the knocker, but the door opened before I even had a chance. “Good evening,” said a man well into his sixties and sporting a British accent and a walking stick. “Ms. Carter?”

“Yes.”

“Very good to meet you,” he said, extending his hand. “I am William Eddington, Mr. Grinkov’s butler.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“If you’ll follow me to the dining room?” he said with a slight bow before turning and moving through the large foyer, his walking stick clicking on the marble floor as we went.

The interior of the house wasn’t that surprising. I’d expected expensive, and that’s what I saw. Mostly brownish tones with olive green and gold accents and walls decorated with a great deal of expensive-looking art in gilded frames. By the looks of it, Grinkov favored the Impressionist era, but I found the overall effect of the house’s color and decorating style to be heavy and too serious for me.

We entered a large dining room with a cherrywood table polished to a bright sheen. Chairs that looked like thrones were positioned just so around the table, and two place settings had been arranged—one at the head of the table and one just to the left.

William indicated the seat on the left and pulled my chair out for me. I sat and folded my hands in my lap. “Would you care for a cocktail?” William asked me.

“No, thank you, William. Will Mr. Grinkov be long?”

“Good evening,” said a voice to my right. I swiveled slightly and into the room walked one of the sexiest men I’d ever seen. . . . (Uh . . . next to my fiancé of course . . . cough, cough.)

I stood as he approached, and switched my radar on to its highest setting. Maksim Grinkov was slightly shorter than Dutch, but I’d still put him close to six feet. He had a body that he took very good care of and he walked with the grace and power of an athlete. He had a broad chest, well-set shoulders, and a trim stomach. I had little doubt underneath his dress shirt he was sportin’ a six-pack.

He strolled into the room confidently, wearing black silk slacks and a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned muscular arms.

His face was square and roguish, his lips full and inviting, and his hazel eyes locked with mine, causing my pulse to quicken even despite the knowledge of who this man was and what he’d done to my fiancé.

In that moment I could tell he also liked what he saw. I felt my stomach muscles clench, and I wondered if I’d just done something incredibly stupid, like entering the den of a lion while wearing eau de antelope.

“Ms. Carter,” he said smoothly, stopping in front of me to take my hand and kiss it formally.

“Mr. Grinkov,” I answered, quickly quelling the burble of nervous tension in the pit of my stomach.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, standing tall again to pin me with those deadly, sexy eyes.

“Likewise. And thank you for inviting me to dine with you.” I worked on making my words formal and clear, hoping my manner and tone showed that I was all business.

Grinkov motioned for me to take my seat again, and I did. William, who’d been standing beside us the whole time, assisted me with my chair before moving off again, the sound of his walking stick fading into the distance.

“My chef has prepared a wonderful meal for us tonight,” Grinkov said, unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap. “I hope that you stay long enough to enjoy it.”

I nearly sucked in a breath at the implied threat, but managed to keep my mounting fear in check. Forcing myself to laugh lightly, I said, “As I do enjoy a nice meal, Mr. Grinkov, I hope so too.”

Grinkov raised his eyes to meet mine again. “Please, call me Maks.”

I nodded slightly and placed my hand over my heart. “Abigail.”

William returned at that moment, pushing a cart loaded with a rocks glass loaded with ice and vodka for his boss, and I was given a tall glass of bubbling water with a wedge of lime on the rim.

“You will not be having a cocktail?” Grinkov asked me.

“No,” I said, staring right at him. “I believe that business matters should be discussed with a clear head.”

The corner of Grinkov’s mouth quirked, but he made no further comment about my sobriety. Instead he raised his glass to me before taking a long sip. “So, tell me, Abigail, how did you and Richard become business partners?”

Grinkov’s eyes roved my face and chest again, and it was very obvious this particular lion loved the scent of antelope. I wondered if I might use his obvious attraction to me to my advantage like I’d done with Kozahkov, and decided to go with it. “The usual way,” I said coyly, lifting my own napkin to unfold it and place it in my lap.

“What usual way is that, exactly?”

“We had some great sex over a three-day holiday, and in the few times we came up for air, we discovered that we had similar . . . uh, financial interests.”

Grinkov tilted his head back and laughed. I could tell that whatever he’d expected me to say, it hadn’t been that. He sobered quickly, or shall I say, he smoldered quickly. The man was oozing virility, and in the very back of my head I was at least relieved he didn’t physically repulse me like Viktor. “And do you still share his bed?” he asked.

“Des Vries?”

“Yes,” he said, eyeing me intently, looking for any hint of dishonesty.

“No. I do not share my bed with Rick Des Vries. Our arrangement now is strictly business.”

Grinkov sat back in his chair when William came back into the room, pushing his cart again, but this time it was loaded with a tray of toasted bread and three small dishes mounded with a black substance. Setting down the contents of the tray in front of us, he pointed to each individual dish and said, “Imperial Iranian osetra, Russian osetra, and Siberian osetra. Please alert me, sir, if you require more toast.”

William then departed and I was left to consider the idea of eating caviar. Fish eggs, blach!

Grinkov motioned for me to go first. Luckily, I’ve been to enough of my sister’s big Christmas shindigs to know the proper way to eat the slimy stuff.

I worked my way through a sample of each of the dishes and smiled and made little mmm-mmm sounds.

Grinkov continued to watch me closely, but he also continued to sip at his vodka, and it wasn’t long before he was given a refill.

Once the caviar was removed and replaced with a potato-leek soup, which was heavenly, Grinkov said, “Tell me about your business dealings with Des Vries.”

I wiped demurely at my mouth with my napkin before answering him. “No.”

Grinkov’s spoon stopped midway to his mouth. “You refuse me?” he asked, a dangerous undertone in his voice.

“Yes,” I said, without flinching.

Grinkov set down his spoon and his hands rested beside his soup, clenching and unclenching. I knew he was waiting for me to elaborate, but I wasn’t about to, especially given Frost’s warning. I also knew that I couldn’t make something else up because I knew that Grinkov would check it out and then Dutch and I would be toast.

My host inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly and said, “You must give me a detail to confirm that you and Richard are partners.”

“Fine,” I said, reaching down to pick up my attaché. Being careful not to bump my soup, I opened it and took out ten packs of Canadian one-hundred-dollar bills. “There’s the hundred grand I promised you as a down payment for Mr. Des Vries’s debts,” I said. “That should be proof enough.”

Grinkov did not even look at the money; instead he continued to eye me in frustration. “Very well,” he said at last, his tone a bit icy now. “But we must discuss the arrangement of the other four hundred and fifty thousand.”

This time I couldn’t help it—I let out a gasp. “He only owes you four hundred thousand more, Mr. Grinkov.”

Grinkov smiled. He liked that he’d finally pushed one of my buttons. “Interest,” he said by way of explanation. “And please, call me Maks.”

Again I had to work hard to rein in my emotions, but I managed. “I would like to see Rick to make sure he’s all right.”

William appeared at my side to take my soup bowl, and Grinkov waited until his butler had replaced the dish with pan-braised trout and succulent-looking vegetables before he said, “We will eat a little first.”

I had no choice; I had to sit there and pick at my food, waiting for Grinkov to give the okay to let me see Dutch. It wasn’t until William came in again to refill his rocks glass that Maks finally made a small hand gesture to his butler, who nodded and left us alone.

As Grinkov was finishing his final bite of trout, the butler returned with a computer tablet. Grinkov took it from him and flipped the screen on, swiveling it around to show me. The image on the monitor revealed Dutch, sitting down and leaning heavily against the wall in a small room with no furniture. His shirt was torn and stained at the collar with blood, and I could see he’d been badly beaten.

I forced myself to take a slow steady breath, pushing down the fury the image inspired. “How do I know he’s alive?” I asked.

Grinkov calmly removed his cell from his pocket and made a call. He spoke in Russian and while I watched, someone entered the room, causing Dutch to pick his head up slightly. The man looked up at the monitor with a sick smile and kicked Dutch, who reacted by lunging at the assailant and wrapping his arms around the thug’s leg, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Another man ran in and shoved Dutch off his partner’s leg, punching my fiancé in the head for good measure before both thugs departed.

It took everything I had, and I do mean everything, not to burst into tears and stab Grinkov with my fork. But none of those actions would help Dutch, so I dipped my chin and took a deep breath once. Twice. Three times, waiting for the panic, fear, rage, and gut-wrenching heartache to pass. It didn’t, but I managed to get beyond it—at least temporarily.

“Motherfuckers,” I heard in my ear. Frost had seen the image on the monitor and it was the first time I’d heard from him since I’d entered the home. His voice in my ear reminded me that I wasn’t completely alone in all this. That, more than anything, helped me focus and come up with a plan.

“You’ve beaten him,” I said, my voice hollow and cold.

Grinkov was again watching me intently. “Richard knew there would be consequences for nonpayment.”

“Easy, Cooper,” Frost whispered.

“He requires medical attention,” I said.

“You may take him to the hospital the moment I receive all that is owed to me,” Grinkov said in a tone that didn’t allow for argument. “Besides,” he added, his mouth turned down in disgust, “Richard has given far worse beatings to his women—or hadn’t you heard about that?”

I swallowed hard again. “I’ve heard.”

Grinkov eyed me with steely eyes. “And yet you and he are friends.”

The statement was more a question and I knew I had to offer up some sort of explanation, so I said, “Richard is not my friend; he is my business partner. Even though we connected under intimate circumstances, we no longer have that kind of relationship, and Richard knows that if he ever laid a hand on me, I’d kill him dead.”

Grinkov appeared to take that in. “Well, at least you have some sense,” he said to me. “But you will forgive me if I do not pity Richard’s little accident today. I saw a girl he’d gotten cross with once, and I can assure you, her physical condition was much worse.”

I tried to remember that Grinkov fully believed Dutch was Richard Des Vries, and that it was obvious the former mobster didn’t especially advocate violence against women, and he’d maybe ordered his boys to be a little rougher with Dutch because of it, but now I knew what was in store for my fiancé if I didn’t get him out of there tonight, and it chilled me to the bone. My ankle tapped against the attaché at my feet, where I’d replaced the money before we’d been served our final courses. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Grinkov—”

“Maks,” he corrected.

I forced a smile and leaned in to look him in the eye. “Maks, I wonder if you and I might find a way to settle Rick’s debt tonight?”

Grinkov laughed and reached out to stroke my wrist seductively. “I have had many high-priced whores in my day, Abigail, but never one that cost four hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

I lifted my hand away from Grinkov, only slightly insulted. “You misunderstand,” I said to him. “I’m not offering you my body. I’m offering you an opportunity to double your money.”

Grinkov cocked one eyebrow at me. “What did you have in mind?”

“Poker.”

Eddington came to the table again and lifted away my plate, loading it onto his cart. I tried not to imagine how much Dutch might be suffering while I dined on a gourmet meal and offered to play cards with his captor.

“So, you enjoy gambling as much as your business partner, then, eh?” Grinkov asked. To my relief, I could tell he was intrigued.

“I do. That’s how he and I cemented our partnership, actually. I kicked his ass in a high-stakes poker game about a year ago. He’d put up half the ownership of his import/export business in the match, and he lost.”

Grinkov pursed his lips. “You believe yourself to be a skillful player, then?”

I gave him a sideways smile. “Oh, I know I’m good. The question in front of me is, are you?”

“Nice,” Frost whispered.

Grinkov circled his finger around the rim of his rocks glass and considered me with those smokin’ hazel eyes. “Oh, Abigail, I am good,” he assured me, and I knew he wasn’t just talking about his gambling abilities, but I also knew I had a chance. “What are the terms you’re proposing?”

I reached again for my attaché and pulled out the first hundred thousand plus another ten bundles of cash, which was all the money Milo had wired me. “Texas hold ’em. Ten grand minimum. We play until either Rick’s debt is clear, or I’ve run out of money.”

Grinkov tapped his finger thoughtfully on the table. Frost whispered, “Come on, you son of a bitch, take the bait.”

Finally, Grinkov sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think that is all you can offer me,” he said.

Uh-oh. I lifted the attaché and showed him the empty interior. “As I said, this is all the money I was able to liquidate on such short notice. I won’t be able to bring more until Monday, when the banks open again.”

“Yes,” he said smoothly, his eyes again boring into mine. “And yet, you have come here with another currency, Abigail. One I find I quite desire.”

Gulp. I had to resist the urge to look away, and stare steadily into those eyes. “You want me to sleep with you?”

“Yes.”

My breath quickened and my pulse raced and something inside of me unexpectedly stirred . . . and I hated myself for it. Still, I did nothing to hide my reaction because, again, I knew I could use it to my advantage. “All right. If I lose, then you may keep all my money; Rick will still owe you the four fifty, and tonight, I will rock your world.”

“Not just tonight,” he corrected, leaning in to hold my hand, lifting it to kiss the inside of my wrist. “You will stay with me until Monday morning when I will escort you to the bank.”

I swallowed hard, forced a smile, and reached out to stroke the side of his face. “Assuming you’ll have the strength come Monday, right, Maks?”

Maks’s pupils dilated so far his eyes were all but black. “Yes,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss me.

I pulled away and shook my head. “Business first,” I cautioned. “Pleasure second.”

Grinkov laughed long and low. “Very well,” he said. “I will have William bring the cards and the chips.”

Before Grinkov could call for his butler, however, I put my hand on his arm. “I’d like you to speak to the two men guarding Rick, first. I’d like you to tell them not to lay another finger on him until our game is finished.”

Grinkov’s brow rose. “Oh?” he said, and he clearly didn’t look pleased that I’d made such a request.

I was quick to explain, lest he change his mind about our terms. “I need to make sure Rick lives long enough for me to collect him. He’s no good to me dead, Maks.”

“I see,” he said, but he still seemed suspicious. “I don’t give up something for nothing, Abigail.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” I said, praying that Dutch could forgive me someday, and I leaned forward, grabbed Grinkov by the back of the head, and kissed him passionately.

I wanted to feel nothing but disgust and distaste, but the truth was, there was an intense chemistry between us that sparked when our lips touched, and the kiss sealed it. After a long, lingering moment I pulled my lips away, but our foreheads remained touching. My breath was coming quickly and those home fires were burning. Jesus! What was wrong with me?

Grinkov lifted his phone to his ear and gave the order for his men to lay off their prisoner. Then he cupped my face and kissed me again, and I knew I was going to hell.