Page 82 of Marked By Moonlight

Before or after he’d pillaged it as war booty?I nearly blurted.

Marius shot me a look of warning.

“Of course, my museum will only cater to the most exclusive clientele,” Raisa assured her.

“Of course,” Anastasia agreed, as if anything less would be a deal-breaker.

Eventually, Anastasia signaled for Marius to unveil the painting. When he did, Raisa clasped her hands to her chest. Her throat bobbed, and her eyes shone. Signs of genuine interest, or plain old avarice?

“Interesting. Very interesting,” Anastasia mused after Raisa had made her final pitch — er, goodbyes — and departed at the end of her thirty-minute time slot.

Marius silently covered the painting for maximum dramatic effect on the next candidate. Gordon’s idea, no doubt.

“What do you think?” Anastasia asked me.

I thought Raisa’s “museum” was more of a private club — if she ever actually launched it. Until then, whatever paintings she managed to secure with her investors’ money would be at her disposal.

Aloud, I was more tactful. “An interesting business model, but perhaps overly ambitious.”

Marius smirked.You got that right.

Fifteen minutes later, Roux ushered in the next candidate.

“Mr. Bogdan Karachanov,” he announced, then retreated.

I steeled myself, because this was the arms dealer.

Surprisingly, though, Bogdan turned out to be a bit of a charmer and not at all what I’d been expecting. Well, apart from the Eastern European accent and sturdy, bear shifter build.

“Madame. My pleasure.” He bowed deeply to kiss Anastasia’s knuckles.

At least, I figured that’s what he said, because he said it in Russian.

Her eyes danced, and she motioned him to take a seat much more warmly than she’d invited Raisa.

“Anastasia Nikolaevna,” she insisted, using the patronymic common to both their cultures.

His nostrils flared, and from under his thick, bushy eyebrows, his eyes darted to Marius. Clearly, his bear side had caught the scent of dragon. Then again, as an associate of Gordon’s, he wouldn’t question the presence of another shifter at a deal like this, especially if that shifter was a closemouthed dragon assigned to security.

Bogdan and Anastasia quickly switched to English, thank goodness, except for side remarks Bogdan threw in from time to time in Russian to keep Anastasia’s happy vibes going. He did the same in English, tossing in little colloquialisms to show what a nice, down-to-earth arms dealer he was. He didn’t get themright all the time, but hey — bonus points for effort in what had to be his second and third languages.

You hit the nail on the hammer,was one such comment, andA blessing in the skiesanother. The effect was unexpectedly endearing.

He and Anastasia hit it off instantly, as only a couple of aging Marxists who missed the good old days could. Bogdan’s old-world manners rivaled Henrik’s, which Anastasia clearly appreciated. The man could even quote Pushkin, to her delight.

“Better the illusions that exalt us than ten thousand truths,” he commented in a quote I remembered my father citing.

Clearly, Bogdan was a man of the world and a bit of a silver fox — er, silver bear? — with a head of thick hair and shoulders big enough to set off his slight paunch. All in all, a man I could see laughing and sipping brandy with my godfather.

And that was exactly what made me keep my guard up. For years, Gordon had hidden his dark side from me. He was still hiding it — and worse, he didn’t shy away from using me for his own purposes. Like now, when he’d set me up to lower the average age in the room and contribute occasional observations about art that gave all this a cultured, legitimate air.

I felt sicker and sicker with every passing moment.

Anastasia played with her pearls, chuckled, and blushed like a schoolgirl. She even pulled a miniature album out of her purse to show Bogdan a picture of herself at age six.

“That’s me, presenting Nikita Khrushchev with a bouquet of flowers…” she narrated.

Bogdan oohed, aahed, and reminisced about happy days in Komsomol youth camps.