Read Online Devil With a Gun by M. C. Grant - Free Book Online

perfect manicure, the closeness of his shave, and a posture that would make a ruler-wielding Catholic nun proud make me wonder if he’s straight.
    â€œI have an opening by the window,” he offers.
    The restaurant is completely deserted now that the lunchtime rush is over, so he can seat me anywhere, but the offer of the window is still gallant.
    â€œI’m actually here to talk with Mr. Krasnyi Lebed.” I dig in my pocket for a business card and hand it over.
    When he glances up from the card, some of his charm has been replaced with a steely aggression that sucks in his cheeks to reveal sharp, angular bones beneath. A small tingle ignites in the base of my brain stem to tell me he’s more than a head waiter.
    â€œDo you have an appointment?” he asks.
    â€œNo, sorry. I wasn’t sure how to contact him.”
    â€œThen I’m afraid—”
    â€œI doubt you’re the kind of man who gets afraid very often.” I smile flirtatiously. “Especially not when it comes to women. Could you please show Mr. Lebed my card and see if we can set something up?”
    My charms don’t seem to have much effect.
    â€œI’ll wait here,” I say. “And guard your eggs.”
    He glances toward the display cabinet, and out the corner of my eye I spot a tiny, almost imperceptible green light blink in the base of the topmost egg.
    â€œYou will wait here,” he says.
    I hold up three fingers with my pinkie trapped beneath my thumb. “Scout’s honor.”
    The waiter scowls slightly before walking away, which makes me wonder if maybe they don’t have Scouts in Russia and I’ve just given him the Moscow equivalent of our one-finger salute. That could be embarrassing.
    When the waiter returns, his eyes and his mood are even darker.
    â€œMr. Lebed will see you,” he says. “Hold out your arms.”
    I raise a quizzical eyebrow but comply, wondering if he wants us to play airplanes, which could actually be fun if we were both naked and the landing strip was a chocolate fountain.
    The waiter moves in to pat me down. He’s not shy about it either, but neither does he linger in the spots where I wouldn’t mind some male attention.
    â€œI usually get a man’s name before I let him do this,” I quip.
    â€œAnd I usually get a woman drunk first,” he says.
    â€œThat’s disturbing,” I say.
    â€œIt’s meant to be.”
    Suddenly feeling more violated than aroused, I follow the no-
longer-charming waiter through the deserted dining area to a private room in the rear, separated from the main restaurant by a pair of frosted glass doors.
    The waiter knocks once before opening the door. He stands to the side as I enter, and I’m relieved when he closes the door behind me to return to his duties at the reception desk.
    Inside, the room is half private-dining area and half office. Directly in front of me is a rectangular table sporting white linen, fine silver, and china place settings, but behind it is an elongated wood desk with two computers back-to-back that are being operated by what appear to be identical redheaded twins.
    The twins are dressed smartly in black dress pants and white shirts with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Each has an identical pair of tortoise shell glasses. One is wearing a blue tie, the other green.
    Neither of them flash me the top-secret Ginger Wink of Solidarity. Maybe they didn’t get the memo.
    I look to my left and see a mountain of a man with shoulders as wide as my legs are long. He’s wearing a suit that must have been custom made in a tent shop, but it fits him well. The only flaw is a slight bulge beneath his left arm that tells me he’s carrying a larger gun than the tailor intended. Then again, that could be on purpose, to give trouble pause before it starts.
    The bodyguard is standing perfectly still, and even though he doesn’t appear to be looking at