Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (237 page)

David inhaled the intoxicating smell of her skin. “You still working at that job of yours?” he asked. “I told you that you could quit. I want to take care of you, Mila.”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I kind of like it. I get to meet new people. Besides, what would I do? Sit around all day long and wait for you to come over?”

“I’m sorry, baby, you know that I want to see more of you, but at the moment things are really hectic. Just give me a little bit of time. Soon, neither one of us will ever have to work again. Then, we’ll be together all the time.”

Mila sucked on his earlobe, biting it playfully. “Promise?”

“I swear,” David groaned. “Now come here, you.”

* * *

Mila Brabec hurriedly wriggled into her pantyhose. Today was going to be her first day at her new job, and she did not want to be late. Sure, David’s offer to quit working sounded tempting, but for now she was not ready to abandon her independence. Besides, she made sure that David made ample contributions to her lifestyle. Her clothes, her meals, and her rent were all taken care of by David. All the money she made from her waitressing job, Mila saved.

Since the commencement of her waitressing career, Mila had changed jobs several times. Each time she had moved to a more upscale restaurant, and her earnings grew along with the prestige of each new employment. Her latest job had been at a steakhouse in the theater district. It was amazing how much a good waitress could make in tips. An average tip for a party of four ran upwards of fifty dollars, and that was being conservative. Being a good waitress required having a good understanding of people. As long as you gave the customers what they wanted, they were bound to repay in kind. If she smiled just right and showed her cleavage at a revealing angle, Mila almost always managed to get a minimum of seventy dollars, but usually she scored eighty or more. Couples were tougher, especially married couples. First dates, on the other hand, were the best: there was no easier target than a guy who was trying to impress his date.

Mila ran her fingers along the expensive material of her uniform for her new job. At the Panther Restaurant and Lounge Club, the waitresses wore formfitting shifts cut of luxurious black cloth. The dresses were custom-designed by Rodrigo Calos, a Spanish designer whose clothes Mila’s had longingly eyed in the windows of expensive department stores. Calos’s dresses started at five thousand a piece, and Mila did not even dare to broach David for one. But now she would be wearing one of Calos’s creations. So what if the dress were a uniform? It still made her look stunning, and if things continued progressing in the same vein as they had been recently, Mila hoped to one day be able to buy one of Calos’s creations with her own money. Mila knocked on wood, which was a custom from the old country to avoid jinxing one’s luck. She was not superstitious but she did not want to risk things unnecessarily, especially not when she was convinced that her luck was changing for the better.

First, David had rented this wonderful apartment for her, and then, a few weeks later, she got the offer for her new job. It happened when she was waitressing at the steakhouse, which was a pleasant but otherwise unremarkable establishment patronized by a middle-class clientele and occasional corporate suits. When it came to sizing up her customers, Mila never missed a beat. Right away her ears caught the sound of the Czech accent emanating from the party of three men that were seated in the far corner booth. Despite the fact that the men were impeccably dressed in expensive designer suits, Mila could tell that they were not expatriates residing in New York but were here on a visit, most likely a business visit.

As she took the order from the other table, Mila glanced casually at her compatriots. The man who looked to be the boss of the group was in his mid-fifties. Even when seated, it was obvious that he was a man of short height, but his build was that of a taller man, enabling him to make up for the space he lost with his height with his width. He was the kind of man who looked in control no matter where he was. His face looked familiar, but Mila could not quite place her finger on where she had seen it. Then it came to her: the man was Petr Kovar, one of the richest men in Eastern Europe. The press called him a self-made billionaire, but it was whispered that his fortune came from appropriating government property after the Soviet influence over the region ended. Petr Kovar’s business interests spanned from manufacturing to fast food to real estate. Mila’s heart quickened, as she imagined the kind of influence one could get by knowing a man like Petr Kovar, or any of his associates for that matter. Petr’s other companion was of the same age as Petr; a balding, average-looking man, he was entirely preoccupied with sucking up to Petr. Mila dismissed him from her attention almost immediately. The youngest and the most handsome man in the party looked to be in his early thirties. He addressed the two men with dignified deference, and Mila wondered if he was related to Petr—there was a definite similarity in their features although the younger man was clearly the handsomer of the two as well as much taller.

As she walked over to the table, Mila deliberated whether she should address the men in Czech. People were funny creatures—some might consider the choice of the native tongue an overly familiar gesture, so she chose to speak in English, leaving it up to the men to decide on the language choice. She did not have to wait long. “Where are you from?” Petr asked.

“Prague,” Mila replied concisely.

“I knew it. Prague has the most beautiful women.”

“Thank you,” Mila said shyly.

“You’re welcome. It’s the truth. I am Petr Kovar.”

“I know,” Mila replied. “It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you, sir.”

“An honor? I’m not sure I like the sound of that—makes me feel like an old man,” Kovar chuckled.

Mila cursed herself inwardly. Usually she never lost her cool around men, but this was Petr Kovar, a man who was pretty much considered to be on par with God in her native country. “I’m sorry, sir, I only meant that …”

“It’s all right. I was just … what is the American expression? … busting your balls. So what’s good here?” asked Petr.

“Steak for four is our best dish,” Mila replied. “We can cut it for three if you’d like,” she added.

“No need. We’re pretty hungry.”

For the remainder of their meal, Kovar and his companions did not pay much attention to Mila. It was a busy night, so Mila had plenty of tables to serve. Every now and then she would cast a hopeful glance at the Kovar table, but the men were engrossed in conversation, and she dared not interrupt.

When she picked up the bill from the Kovar table, she was surprised to find as her tip two one hundred dollar bills. She quickly hid one of the bills in her pocket: there was no way she was sharing the entire hoard with the busboys. There was a note on the receipt: One Mercer Street, tomorrow at 1 p.m.

Mila shoved the note into her pocket and went about her work. She was no prude, but she was no prostitute either. Under the right circumstances she would certainly welcome a roll in the hay with Petr Kovar, but she would expect her compensation to exceed two hundred dollars and not be presented to her in such a crude manner. Well, at least she got a two-hundred-dollar tip, which so far was her record.

The next day, the youngest man from the party showed up at the restaurant at six p.m. The hostess was not at her station, so Mila had to greet him. “Do you have a reservation?” she asked in the coolest voice she could muster.

“Why didn’t you come today?” the man asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Mila stared at him icily. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“Do you remember the two hundred dollars I left you?”

Mila pressed her lips together. The last thing she needed was a scene that would cause her to lose her job. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but if you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to call the police,” she hissed.

“Relax, lady. My uncle is opening a new restaurant, and I’m going to run the place for him. We’re looking for waitresses, and you look the part, so if you’re tired of working in this dump, the offer is still on. Come to this address tomorrow at two p.m.” The man handed his business card to Mila.

Mila prided herself on having an excellent poker face, but now her control abandoned her as a profuse blush spread over her cheeks. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. “It’s just that we get all kinds of people coming in here …”

“You won’t have all kinds of people coming into our place, so I hope to see you tomorrow. By the way, my name is Anton Kovar.”

“I’m Mila Brabec. See you tomorrow, Anton,” Mila whispered.

The next day Mila got a job at Petr Kovar’s restaurant. The restaurant was called Panther Restaurant and Lounge Club and was serving American cuisine prepared by some fancy chef she had seen on one of those TV culinary shows. Mila thought the name was tacky, but who was she to judge? She would be getting paid ten dollars an hour plus tips. If the Kovar tip were any indication, she was bound to make plenty of money. And who knew, with the kind of clientele that was expected to frequent the place, her job might bring in an added benefit of a loaded boyfriend; eventually, maybe even a husband. Sure, Mila liked being with David well enough, but her current lover was not in any rush to get to the altar, and Mila’s U.S. visa was not likely to be extended.

Chapter Eighteen

Dennis Walker was having a rotten Monday. Granted, Mondays were designed to be rotten, but this one positively stank. The same could be said about Dennis’s weekend. He had had a fight with Shoshanna on Sunday. The two of them had barely patched things up when another quarrel erupted. Not that he was particularly upset about that bit, but he was upset about the cause of it: Janet Maple.

“Who is it?” Shoshanna had demanded after Dennis declined to join her on a Caribbean getaway she had planned as a celebration of their getting back together. “Who is this other woman standing between us?”

“I’m just really busy at work right now, and I can’t get away.”

“You mean you don’t want to leave her,” Shoshanna snapped.

“It’s not true, Shoshanna. There’s no one else. I just can’t take off from work right now, that’s all.”

“Oh, please. Do you really expect me to believe that you can’t take a few days off from work? That’s never been a problem for you before. There has to be something else, or someone else.”

In Dennis’s opinion, Shoshanna had her many vices: she was needy, flighty, and downright selfish, but her worst quality was that she was insanely jealous. Her only redeeming quality was her smoking hot looks, but then there were many women with smoking hot looks.

Dennis had been extremely careful not to give Shoshanna any grounds for suspicion. The most ridiculous part of it all was that he had been faithful to Shoshanna, at least physically, not because he was in love with her but because the woman he wanted did not want him.

“You told me that you hate your job at the Treasury,” Shoshanna added imploringly. “Why don’t you just quit? I’ve got enough money for the both of us.”

Dennis shook his head. Why was it that he always ended up with the wrong kind of woman? The mere fact that Shoshanna thought him capable of leeching off of her made it clear that she knew nothing about him; to her, he was just a boy toy she would grow tired of in a matter of months, just like she had grown tired of all her other boyfriends. The only difference with Dennis was that, by being emotionally unavailable, he had not allowed her to grow tired of him. A logical question to ask was why had Dennis been putting up with Shoshanna in the first place? Unfortunately, when it came to women, Dennis Walker was not the most logical man.

“My situation at work is complicated right now, but quitting is not an option. I have to see things through, which is precisely why I can’t take time off.”

“You mean you can’t take time off because you don’t want to be away from her.”

“Who?”

“Whoever you think of when you get that faraway look in your eyes. Because I know for sure that you aren’t thinking of me.”

“There is no one else. No one else but you,” Dennis protested vainly.

“Save it, Dennis. If there is one thing that I won’t stand for, it’s lying. I could forgive infidelity, but I will not be lied to.”

The clicking of Shoshanna’s heels echoed in Dennis’s ears like bullets. For all her self-absorption and vanity, Shoshanna had seen right through him. For indeed there was someone else between then, or any other woman Dennis had tried to date since he had met Janet Maple. It pained him to admit it but Shoshanna was right: he was a liar, and the person he had deceived most was himself. Instead of going after Janet when he’d had the chance, he elected to take the safer road of being friends. And now Janet was taken by none other than Kingsley—the man who had ruined Dennis’s career and his love life.

Dennis got up from his desk. He needed the distraction of human interaction. He headed to the junior analysts’ section where there were several pretty specimens of the female gender who were always glad to see him.

The downside to his plan, which he only realized when it was too late, was that his route included passing by Peter Laskin’s office. Walking by Laskin’s office, Dennis heard the sound of busy typing. Typical Laskin, Dennis thought, no matter what happens, the man keeps plowing along. Deep down Dennis knew that Laskin was good at his job, but right now Dennis was in no mood to admit it. Truth be told, lately Laskin was probably far more productive than Dennis, not that Dennis was eager to admit this point either. In his defense, Dennis had a reason to be in a slump. Ever since he had spotted Janet with Alex, he had been unable to think of anything or anyone else but her. For all his hatred of Alex, Dennis was doing very little to get back at the man. Oh, sure, Dennis had spent plenty of time fantasizing about how he was going to expose the sneaky maggot. But first, he had to come up with a definite plan of action, or any plan for that matter.

“How is it going, Dennis?” Laskin’s voice carried through the open doorway.

Dennis stepped inside Laskin’s office. Even talking to Laskin was better than being alone with his thoughts. “Rotten,” Dennis confessed.