Page 11 of Savage Lies

She looks every bit the part of my beautiful wife, recovering from a traumatic accident. What she doesn’t look like is the federal agent who spent a year trying to take me down.

“Mr. Kozlov,” the waiter stammers as we approach him. “Your usual table is ready.”

I place my hand on the small of Katya’s back and guide her through the restaurant. The dress leaves enough of her back exposed that we’re skin-to-skin, and I resist the urge to let my fingers trace the elegant line of her spine.

“This place is beautiful,” she comments as we’re seated at my regular corner table, the one that gives me clear sightlines to all exits and keeps my back to the wall.

“It’s your favorite,” I tell her as I take my seat and watch her take in the restaurant’s opulent décor. “You said the art nouveau styling reminded you of your favorite gallery in Paris.”

That part is true: We had been here together multiple times during her undercover operation, though she was Alexandra then, not Katya. I brought her here for three “business dinners” where she played the charming art curator while trying to extract information, and she told me more than once that this was her favorite restaurant in the city.

She nods like she’s trying to summon the memory, and I wonder if a part of her subconscious recognizes the familiar surroundings even if her conscious mind can’t place them.

“I’ve been to Paris?” She squints at me now.

“Our honeymoon,” I lie with a wink. “Two weeks at the George V, though we barely left the room for the first week.”

I let my gaze travel down her body as I say it, and I’m rewarded by the faint blush that stains her cheeks. Her pupils dilate, and she presses her thighs together under the table in a movement so subtle that I almost miss it.

“Tell me about that,” she prompts, leaning forward to give me a good view of her ample cleavage. “About our honeymoon.”

I lower my voice and ask, “Are you sure you want me to tell you about our honeymoon in public, kotyonok? Some memories are better shared in private.”

The blush brightens, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her dress. I wonder how far down it goes, if her entire body flushes when she’s aroused, and suddenly, my pants are a bit more snug than they were just a few minutes ago.

“Maybe later,” she says, and the breathless quality of her voice tells me she’s imagining what I intended.

The sommelier approaches with a wine list. I order Bordeaux without asking Katya. A small test. Alexandra would balk at the audacity. But Katya?

She doesn’t say anything.

“You seem to know everyone here,” she comments once we’re alone again.

“I’ve been coming here for years. They take good care of their regulars.”

What I don’t mention is that I own twenty percent of the place, or that “good care” means certain conversations never get overheard and some patrons are planted far from anyone who might be listening.

The waiter returns with our wine, going through the ritual of presenting the bottle and pouring a taste. I nod, and he fills our glasses and retreats, nervous in that way that says he knows who I am and what I can do.

Katya notices. Of course she does.

“They’re afraid of you,” she notes in a whisper as the waiter scurries away.

Damn straight.

“‘Afraid’ is a strong word. They respect me.”

“That wasn’t respect,” she argues. “That was fear.”

I take a sip of wine as I consider how much truth to give her. “Some people find successful businessmen intimidating. It’s not personal.”

“And what kind of business are you in? You keep saying shipping, but…”

“I move valuable items from one place to another safely and discreetly. It requires a certain reputation for reliability.”

It’s true, though the “valuable items” aren’t always legal, and the “reliability” is often enforced through methods that would horrify most people.

“Discreetly,” she repeats with a scoff.