Becoming Rain (Burying Water #2)(44)

“Yeah, well, they’d better get used to this and a lot of it,” I mutter, flashing a sly grin Rain’s way to catch the flush in her cheeks. I wish I could spend the rest of the day with her. I’m considering how to shirk all responsibility and do just that when my phone starts vibrating in my pocket. I know it’s Rust without looking. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ve gotta get going.”

“Yeah, you do.” She drops her gaze down again. “Go shower.”

“Join me?”

She only smiles, snapping her fingers at Stanley. He trots over obediently. “Here.” She stands and tosses me a paper bag that was sitting beside her on the bench. “Your lunch for today, and tomorrow, and the next day . . . so you don’t have to eat that awful street meat.”

I let my phone ring as I watch her walk down the path, those slow, sleek movements stirring my blood.

Chapter 20

CLARA

“Good save on that, Bertelli,” Warner’s voice fills my ear as I walk along the path, not ready to go back to my condo yet.

“Thanks.” I toss the ball for Stanley. For the hundredth time today. Somehow he still hasn’t lost weight.

“I can’t believe he came right out and admitted to the bartender. Surprised me.”

“Yeah, me too.” More like flabbergasted, actually. Criminals don’t admit to doing jerky things because criminals don’t realize that they’re in the wrong. Hell, almost any other regular guy would consider that a pass, seeing as we barely know each other. And yet Luke came right out with it, those beautiful baby-blue eyes staring at me in earnest.

“What a f*cking lie, though, that he didn’t bang that broad.”

“Yeah.” But Luke was telling me the truth. I know it was the truth.

What I can’t believe is that he could read me in the first place. That I walked in prepared to act like nothing was wrong, like I didn’t want to punch him in the face for the not-small twinge of disappointment stirring in my gut. That I couldn’t hide my true feelings. That I even have true feelings.

“You played it up perfectly. Not too upset but just enough.”

Played it up, that’s exactly what I did.

And the massive relief I felt when he said he didn’t screw that whore? Also not real. Not at all.

Chapter 21

LUKE

A Jaguar sits to my left and a high-end Volvo sits to my right.

I’m not out of place here, I think to myself, smiling as I hit the “arm” button. My Porsche chirps. My f*cking beautiful Porsche.

Man, I’m so lucky to have Rust in my life.

I stroll through the downtown parking lot, my keys swinging casually by my finger, a cover for the nervous knots twisting in my stomach as I head toward the building Aref instructed me to go to. I’ve talked to him several times since Sunday. Sometimes about business, other times just to shoot the shit. I can see why Rust likes him. I like him. For all the money he’s got and as arrogant as he is, he’s still a cool guy. And making the arrangements for this Ferrari? Piece of cake. I’ve done nothing besides make a few phone calls to Dmitri and Nikolai. There’s been virtually no risk to me.

Not until now.

“Gold Bonds,” I say to the security guard behind the desk, and he waves me through, directing me to the fourth floor without another look.

I’ve never stepped inside a jewelry wholesaler business, so I don’t know if the security level is normal. All I know is that it’s tight. Four cameras, two armed guards, three bulletproof security doors, and one metal detector later, I’m heading down a narrow, sterile hallway to the office of Jerry Rosenthal.

Anyone paying Aref, anyone taking money from Aref, gets it through this guy. He doesn’t do dark motel parking lot drops. He’s too classy—and too smart—for that. Apparently that’s been a bone of contention with the Russians, but the simple fact is they need Aref’s ships. He doesn’t need them for anything.

“Sit.” Rosenthal waves his stubby hand toward to the chair across from him before dialing his phone. “He’s here,” he mutters into the phone. “Yes . . . okay.” Shrewd gray eyes glare at me. “Address?”

I dig the folded sheet of paper out of my pocket and slide it across the desk. The one with detailed instructions to the garage where the Ferrari’s sitting, waiting to be driven into a moving truck trailer and taken away by Aref’s guys. They’re already in the general neighborhood, but Rust told me not to hand over the address until I was sitting in front of Rosenthal. Just in case. This is our first deal like this with Aref and, while I don’t think he’s going to screw us over . . . I’m going to trust Rust.

Rosenthal reads the address and then throws the page in the shredder and hangs up.

“What now?”

“Now . . .” He strums his fingers, each one decorated in a gaudy gold ring, an unfriendly look on his face. “. . . we wait for the phone call.”

I let my eyes wander over his desk, which is clear except for one neat stack of papers in the top-right corner and a strange metal contraption with various metal rings hanging off it. I can’t help but eye it, thoughts of mobsters and cigar cutters and missing fingers flashing through my mind.

“Give me your hand,” he demands abruptly.

As much as I don’t want to, I don’t know what else to do, so I humor him. He picks up that weird metal thing and slips one ring over my fourth ringer. “You’re a size eleven. Would you like to see the latest wedding bands that just arrived?”