Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(78)

I swallowed carefully against the blade. “My wallet’s on the floor. My keys are in my pocket. The car’s out front. Take it and go.”

He had the deep, husky laugh of a smoker. I yelped as he grabbed me by the hair and shoved me down the dark hall ahead of him.

Heart in my throat, I let him push me through a doorway, into the belly of the shadowy garage. He pulled me up short, barking gruff words I didn’t understand. A smooth, cool voice responded in a guttural language that sounded decidedly Russian, and the man behind me let go of my hair with a grunt.

“Sit down, Ms. Donovan.” The disembodied words ghosted from the far side of the room. The man’s English was inflected with a subtle accent, and the frosty edge of his tone sent a shiver down my spine. I blinked, my eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. The white collar of the man’s dress shirt became visible in the dim light filtering through the high, narrow windows from the streetlamp outside. He stepped closer, his silhouette assuming the shape of a crisply tailored suit.

A metal folding chair creaked as he jerked it open in the middle of the garage.

When I didn’t move, the man behind me yanked me toward it by the hair. With giant, meaty, calloused hands, he set me roughly down into it.

“You know who I am, Ms. Donovan,” the man in the suit said. It was not a question.

I glanced over my shoulder at the ogre wielding the knife. Clearly, he hadn’t received the memo about the dress code. He wore a tight black T-shirt and dark denim jeans over a stocky, muscular frame. My eyes traveled upward, to a smoothly shaven head over heavy, expressive eyebrows, and a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. Up close, Andrei Borovkov was every bit as terrifying as I’d imagined he’d be.

Heels clicked slowly over the garage floor. My stomach fell away as Feliks Zhirov stepped into a beam of dusky light. His smile was serene. Expectant. I could only shake my head. “No,” I croaked. “I don’t think so.”

His smile opened wider, revealing straight white teeth. His sleek, dark hair fell curiously over one eye. “And yet, you were following me. Why?”

“I wasn’t—”

He held up a hand, his cuff links glittering in the low light. “Let’s do each other the courtesy of not wasting each other’s time.” His voice was ominously soft, the tight muscle of his jaw hinting at his impatience. “Yesterday, a blue sedan, with the same license plate as the one you just parked, followed my limo on a little expedition through Fauquier County. My colleague tracked that plate to this garage.” Feliks tucked his hands in his pockets, his elegant gait and his words thoughtfully measured as he paced in front of me. “Ramón and I had a little talk. He told me you’d be coming to return the car tonight, so I encouraged him to take the rest of the evening off. Which means we can stay in this garage as long as necessary.

But I’m sure you’d rather be home with your children, Ms. Donovan.” He let my name hang in the silence. Finding my home—my children—would be easy, assuming he hadn’t already … “So let’s cut to the chase. Tell me.” He straightened his sleeves with a pinch of each cuff as he sauntered closer. “Why were you following me?”

“I wasn’t following you.” Feliks paused in front of my chair, the hard lines of his mouth tightening into a thin line as his eyes cut to Andrei. Andrei’s hot cigarette breath rolled over the back of my neck. His knife bit my throat as his calloused hands pinned me in the chair. All I could think of were the three men Georgia’s friends had found murdered in an empty warehouse, their throats cut from ear to ear, left in a river of blood.

“I was following Theresa!” I blurted. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Eyes squeezed shut, I braced for death. When it didn’t come, I peeled one open.

Feliks cocked his head. Curiosity softened the sharp contours of his face as he regarded me the way a cat might consider its prey—uncertain if he wanted to kill me or play with me. “What exactly is your business with Ms. Hall?”

“She’s engaged to my ex-husband.”

His eyebrows rose with a hint of surprise. “And what had you hoped to gain by spying on our meeting?”

My mouth went dry. I tried not to think about the sting of Andrei’s knife, or the cool trickle down the side of my neck that may or may not have been sweat. “Steven … My ex-husband thinks she’s having an affair.”

“So you enlisted the help of a police officer to catch her?” Feliks laughed quietly. He scratched the dark stubble on his jaw. “Don’t look so surprised, Ms. Donovan. Detective Anthony and I go back a very long time. I may not have recognized the car, but I sure as hell recognized the driver.” He leaned in, a wicked gleam in his eye. He smelled like expensive liquor, soft leather, and fancy cologne, what I imagined the inside of a limo must smell like. “I can safely assume you witnessed nothing worthwhile, since Ms. Hall and I share a purely professional relationship.” The devious curl of his lip suggested we had different definitions of professional, and I recoiled as he brushed a stray lock of hair from my face with the tip of his finger. “But tell me,” he said, slipping his hands back in his pockets, “what was the detective after?”

“Nothing,” I said, my voice trembling. “He was just keeping me company.”

“Am I to infer that you and Detective Anthony enjoy a … personal relationship?”