On Best Behavior (C3) (28 page)

“What did he say?” Miranda asked.

Innochka gave Miranda a look of sympathy. “You don’t want to know.”

A slight narrowing of Andrei’s eyes, and Innochka clamped her mouth shut.

“Sit,” Vladimir ordered. Once Grant had guided Miranda to her seat, he took his own. “Samantha, tell me,” Vladimir dove in, “what time have you been with Mick?”

When Miranda gave him a quizzical look, he answered, “We’ve been together a month or so.”

“Time short,” Vladimir said, a glint of mischief in his black eyes. “Will last?”

Miranda leaned forward. “Oh, yes.” She laced her hand into his and beamed.

Andrei laughed. “Mick not look so sure.”

“Of course I’m sure it’ll last,” Grant said. He drew Miranda’s hand to his mouth and kissed her tanned skin. From the corner of his eye he could see that Andrei still appeared suspicious. Grant rotated her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist as well, trying not to gag at the cloying taste of her perfume.

He looked up to find her eyes darkened with lust. “You look beautiful tonight, Sam,” he told her.

A smile spread along her lips. “Thank you. You’re scorching hot, Mickey.”

He winced.
Mickey?
What was he—a freaking mouse?

“How did you and Mickey meet?” Innochka asked.

He stalled for time. “Why do you want to know?”

Rosy pink crept up Innochka’s cheeks. “I…I picture somebody different for you, I think.” Her blush deepened when Miranda leaned back, appearing offended. “I am sorry,” Innochka rushed ahead. “You are very pretty.”

“Samantha works at the hotel,” he said. Hearing tension in his voice, he took a subtle breath.

“
Da?”
Andrei tilted his head. “Where?”

Miranda smiled. “I work at the front desk. The best part of my job’s always been Mick coming to work every day. I kept trying to catch his eye, but he’s so shy. I called Mr. Remington to ask if Mick was single, and lucky for me, he was!”

He wished he could plug her diarrhea of the mouth.

“You close with Mr. Remington?” Andrei asked.

She shrugged. “He’s my boss, so he can be kind of a jerk sometimes, but he’s pretty cool overall, I guess.”

“He rich man,” Vladimir said.

“Oh, yes,” she agreed. “He should pay me a lot more per hour!”

“Well, I see the piano player summoning me,” Grant cut in. “Time for our first set.”

Miranda turned to him and clutched his shoulder. “Go out there and kill it, Mickey honey.”

“You bet, Sammie dear.” As he leaned in, she closed her eyes and her lips twitched with anticipation. At the last second his mouth darted to her cheek, kissing her on skin layered with makeup.

He brushed off his mouth on the way to the stage. He felt the remnants of Miranda all over him—his lips, his skin, his clothes. He winked at Andy as he took hold of the microphone.

Before introducing himself, he glanced at the table he’d just departed. To his dismay, Miranda made sweeping gestures as she talked, seeming to monopolize the conversation. All focused on her except for Vladimir, who stared at him with a small smirk.

He swallowed.
Please don’t blow it, Samantha
.

***

Sophie tucked a wayward strand of strawberry-blond hair under her black wig. Then she adjusted her red-framed glasses so they sat straight on her nose and stepped back from the bathroom mirror to view her plain black dress and sensible shoes. “I look like Janeane Garofalo.”

Kirsten laughed as she finished applying lip gloss. “Except she’s about a foot shorter than you.”

She looked at her friend’s long blond wig, black camisole, and tight red leather pants. “And you look like Britney Spears.”

“Yes!” Kirsten raised her fist in the air and shimmied her breasts. “Just the look I’m going for. I’m testing out the blondes-have-more-fun theory tonight.”

“No need for the test,” Sophie replied. “We
do
have more fun.”

Kirsten tossed the lip gloss into her purse. “Got news for ya, Janeane…
I’m
the blonde tonight.”

Sophie frowned at her reflection. “Maybe we should switch wigs?”

“Not a chance, my little liberal activist.” She grabbed her purse. “C’mon. I hear McCrooner’s already started. Don’t want to miss the show.”

As Sophie followed her out of the hotel lobby ladies’ room, she felt her stomach zing with butterflies. But when Kirsten opened the door to Capone’s Spirits, Grant’s sexy voice was quick to calm her. He sang one of her favorites—“I Get a Kick Out of You”—and she smiled and loosened her grip on her handbag. She wondered if he’d identify her, even in her disguise, but his attention seemed glued to the right of the stage.

Kirsten led them to one of the only remaining empty tables, in the far corner. As they sat, Sophie scanned the semi-circle of tables around the bar and stage, but failed to identify any party looking particularly thuggish. Maybe she’d need to clean her fake glasses.

“That guy’s staring at me,” Kirsten whispered as she tilted her head to the right.

Sophie took her time looking in that direction and saw a heavyset man ogling Kirsten’s pants. “Apparently the red leather’s a hit, Britney.”

Movement drew her attention back toward the stage. Grant and Andy had choreographed the ending to the song. Grant leaned down to croon to one of the women in the front row, leaving his backside stuck out for Andy’s boot to pretend to kick him off the stage. Grant wobbled before swiveling to glare at the piano player, then turned back to the audience to sing the final line. Laughter sprinkled in with the clapping.

“Andy Beecham on the piano!” Grant announced, extending his arm. More laughter came when his hand curled into a fist, which he shook in Andy’s face.

His expression sobered. “I dedicate the next song to a very special lady in the audience tonight.”

Sophie gasped as the opening notes of another Cole Porter song came from the piano. Did he know she was there?

But when he sang the beginning of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” he wasn’t looking at her. He gazed directly to his left. Sophie followed his line of vision to a table with two men and three women. When she noticed the hardness in the older man’s face and the menacing stare of the man seated close to him, she bristled.
Russians?
But when the woman with long red hair sat up and cradled her cheeks in her hands, gazing up at Grant with rapture, Sophie’s skin crawled. Who the
hell
was she?

She heard Kirsten say something, but it wasn’t until she tapped her arm that Sophie peeled her eyes from the redhead. Kirsten pointed at the cocktail waitress perched next to the table. “What do you want to drink? I’m getting a cosmopolitan.”

“Uh…” Sophie blinked up at the waitress, forgetting how to speak.

“Just get her a cosmo too,” Kirsten said.

“No. Just water for me.”

“What’s your deal?” Kirsten asked as the waitress departed. “You’re no fun tonight.”

“Didn’t you hear him dedicate this song to a special
lady?”

Kirsten gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “At first I was worried, but then I figured he says that every night. That Remington guy probably puts him up to it. Better for business to single out a lucky lady and pretend he’s into her.”

“No,” Sophie hissed, leaning in. “I found the
special
lady. She’s real. She’s sitting with the Russians.”

Kirsten’s face fell and her eyes darted around the other tables.

“I thought you said there’s
no way
he’s seeing another woman!”

Kirsten kept searching. “Where
is
the little ho-bag?”

“Center-right of the stage.” Sophie felt her voice waver. “She’s a redhead, sitting with two men and two women.”

“I’ll kill her,” Kirsten promised as she scanned the audience. “Then I’ll kill
him
.” Her mouth dropped open. “
Her?
Ewww.” She stared for a few moments with her nose scrunched up. “No way. No way he chooses her instead of you.”

The song came to an abrupt end, and Grant hopped off the stage amidst the applause. Sophie’s stomach dropped when he headed straight to the red-haired tramp and pressed a kiss to her cheek. She froze when the redhead popped off her chair, grabbed the lapels of his black jacket, and yanked his lips down to hers.

“Oh my God,” Kirsten murmured. “This is a train wreck. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it…it seems so unlike him.”

Suddenly aware she’d left her mouth hanging open, Sophie pressed her lips together. Her heart thumped. She looked down to her lap to find her fingers in a death grip on the cocktail napkin.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be
…

She looked up to find Grant and Slutty Pink Dress pulling away from their kiss.

“He’s holding her chair out for her, like he’s some
gentleman?”
Kirsten seethed. “That bastard. I’ll kill him.”

Despite her nausea, Sophie noticed something was off with Grant. His knuckles whitened where he clutched the redhead’s chair. His typically cool blue eyes flared with heat, but it didn’t look like passion he was feeling…no…he seemed
angry
. Yes, that was it—the ripple of muscle in his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. It reminded her of the look he’d given Carlo when he’d burst into Kirsten’s apartment to find him holding a gun on them. But why would he give that murderous look to Slutty Pink Dress?

She noticed she wasn’t breathing, and forced out some air. The napkin ripped in her hands, and without something to grip, her hands trembled in her lap.

“This is my fault for bringing you here. Do you want to leave?”

“No.” She swallowed. “This isn’t your fault.” She closed her eyes for a second, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. “I don’t want to go.” She clenched her teeth and forced herself to look back at Grant’s table. “I want answers.”

The older man—the don?—chuckled at something, and his guests all laughed in turn. All but Grant. His full lips slid into a tight smile, but fury kept his eyes shrouded in darkness. Then it seemed everyone at his table stared at him. Had the black-haired man—the
consigliore?
—asked him a question? A blush bloomed up Grant’s neck and spread to his cheeks. He started to say something, then paused. The redhead leaned in and spoke in his ear. He gave a slight nod, seeming to steel himself.

Sophie felt her stomach drop when he scooped the redhead into his lap, let her head fall back in the crook of his elbow, and lunged down to cover her in kisses. Now everyone at the table was definitely staring. As abruptly as he’d stolen her from her seat, he plopped Slutty Pink Dress back into her chair. The color of her cheeks was somewhere between that of her hair and her dress, her eyes huge.

Kirsten’s chair stirred next to her as she shot out of it. “I. Will. Kill. Him.”

Sophie’s hand darted out to stop her. “No! You’ll break his cover!” Kirsten slowly returned to her seat. Sophie gripped her head with both hands. Surprised to touch coarse black hair, she remembered her damn wig. She never should’ve come here.

“Here we are,” the waitress said, approaching their table with her tray. As she set Sophie’s glass of water in front of her, she asked, “You sure I can’t bring you a stronger drink, sweetie? Looks like you need it.”

She tried not to glare. “No thanks. I need to think clearly right now.” She took a sip of water as the waitress gave Kirsten her martini. Then inspiration hit. “I
would
like to order a drink for someone else, though.”

Kirsten gave her a quizzical look.

“Sure.” The waitress shrugged.

“The singer?” Sophie said as she gestured to the stage. “Do you know him?”

“Mick Saylor?”

“Yes.” Sophie smiled. “I’d like to buy him a shot of tequila.”

“Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea—” Kirsten began.

“And please deliver it with this napkin.” Sophie lifted her water glass to yank the napkin out from under it. She scrabbled for her purse to dig around for a pen. She scribbled on the napkin, then shoved it at the waitress. “Just add it to my tab, okay? And please, don’t tell him who bought the shot.”

“Of course,” the waitress said.

After she’d left, Kirsten leaned in. “What exactly are you doing, Dr. Taylor?”

“Don’t worry, Britney…everything will be fine.”

“
Fine?
You just saw your fiancé cheat on you, and you think everything will be fine?”

She nodded, watching Grant tap his long fingers on his thigh.

***

Grant wished he’d thought of attacking Miranda with a kiss like that earlier. Anything to shut her up. She now sported a glazed stupor sitting next to him, and for that he was grateful.