Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(13)

Reaching out to touch Priscilla’s shoulder with a degree of gentleness that he didn’t show his wife just a moment ago, Viktor rattles off something to her. She answers him with a coy smile and a nod, obviously understanding him. I don’t miss the smirk she throws toward his wife before turning and leaving, her h*ps swaying way more than they did when she walked away from our table earlier. I’m guessing a guy like Viktor would be right up her alley.

I’m also guessing Viktor’s already been up her alley. Something about this guy—and what I just witnessed between him and his wife—tells me he’s not above f**king around on her, no matter how beautiful and young she is.

And, I’ll admit, Viktor’s wife is definitely beautiful.

“It was good to meet you.”

It takes an elbow from Boone in the bicep to realize that Viktor’s standing over me, looking down at me, talking to me.

“Uh, yeah. You too.” Not really, but what the hell else do I say?

“Perhaps we can discuss my business proposition another night.”

I shrug. “All right.”

That cold, steely gaze weighs down on me for a split second and then he leaves, dragging his preschool trophy with him by her wrist.

Fucking weird people. And f**k Boone for bringing me here.

Boone leans in and whispers, “Are you an idiot? Do you know who that guy is?”

“A rich, foreign ass**le?” I don’t do well with arrogance or authority. Probably why having a sheriff for a father hasn’t worked out well for me. Then again, maybe it’s because I have a sheriff for a father that I don’t do well with arrogance or authority.

Boone’s eyes flash as he scans around us, a hiss of warning sailing through his teeth. “That’s Viktor Petrova.”

“That name means exactly nothing to me.”

“Whatever.” Boone rolls his eyes. “The dude just picked up your tab.”

With a frown, I glance over my shoulder. Priscilla is already at the bar, collecting drinks for someone else. “How do you know he grabbed my tab?”

“Do we even know each other? I’m part Russian. I understand some.”

My face screws up. “Really? ‘Boone’ is Russian?” Russian. So, that’s what that sharp-sounding language is.

“No, my mom’s side. Her father didn’t speak a word of English. I learned from him.”

I seek out Viktor and find him standing with Rust and another well-dressed, middle-aged man. Whatever had him heated earlier seems to have blown over, because he’s smiling.

But why the hell would he pick up my drink tab? He’s either trying to butter me up for this “business proposition” or he’s just showing his money off. Rich people and people who want to pretend that they’re rich like to do that. “What did you say he does again?”

“I didn’t say.” Boone’s focus shifts to the glass in his hand, pausing for a moment. Like he’s making a decision. “Officially, him, Rust, and two other guys own an international car sales company together.” Then he leans in, dropping his voice to a low murmur. “Unofficially . . . if you want a car—any kind of car—Viktor is the guy who can get it for you. Well, not him. But he’ll arrange it.”

“So he sells stolen cars. Is that what you’re saying?” My dad would go ballistic if he knew I’ve been sitting at a table with a guy like that.

“Jesus, Welles!” Boone barks, scanning the area around us again. “Don’t ever bring that shit up with anyone. I’m only telling you because it looks like he wants to make some sort of deal with you.”

“Like I would.” I glance over my shoulder at them again. A blue sparkle catches my eye. His wife is standing in a corner now, released from Viktor’s ironclad grip. She’s much taller than I would have guessed. And thin, her curves subtle and delicate. That dress of hers barely covers her ass, making her long, slender legs that much longer. “How old is his wife?”

“Dunno. Old enough to land herself a rich husband who buys her all kinds of stuff. She’s been in here before. Never says a word to anyone. I think her face might crack if she smiled.”

“If I were married to someone who slapped me around, I probably wouldn’t be smiling either.”

Boone helps himself to another drink from the bottle on the table. “Slaps her . . . f**ks around on her . . . and she’s not going anywhere. I guess the diamonds and fancy clothes are hard to walk away from.”

“Yeah.” I turn my back to her and dump the rest of that smooth-tasting free Russian vodka down my throat.

SIX

Jane Doe

now

“A psychological amnesia with a global loss.” I repeat what the hospital psychologist—a tall, thin British woman who wears glasses on the bridge of her nose—told me as Dr. Alwood takes a seat in the chair next to my bed. “She said she wants to do further assessments, but that is what she suspects. And it’s extremely rare.”

“Yes, I spoke to her this morning,” Dr. Alwood admits, hitting the automatic button on my bed’s handrail. The upper half of my body slowly rises. “I know it doesn’t sound like it, but this is very good news. It gives us hope that you’ll remember something.”

That’s what the psychologist said. But she also said I may not. Or I may remember just bits and pieces. I may remember them next week. Or next year.