Gift From The Bad Boy

He nodded soberly, then continued, “That is the right thing, yes. And that is why I am here.”

“You know something? Tell me,” I demanded. “Tell me what you know.”

As I glowered at him, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a slip of paper. “Here,” he said. “Go find this man. He knows something about Olaf.”

I took the paper from him and looked at it. It was a photograph of a thin white man, balding, with a wispy mustache. He had on a checkered, open-necked shirt and khakis. The photo looked like it had been taken without the man’s knowledge. Scrawled in messy handwriting across the bottom was a name: John Robinson.

“Who is this?”

“We do not know. But Ivan’s friends say that he knows something that will be of interest to you. I suggest you find him and ask him what it is he has seen or heard.” The man stood up from the stool and shrugged his jacket into place on his shoulders. “Ivan would like very much for you to mourn Olaf properly. As I said, he was very fond of him.”

I stared at the photo as he turned to leave. The man had ratty eyes, but he seemed normal enough. He certainly didn’t have that squinty gaze that most of the Bratva had, the kind of shifty, looking-over-my-shoulder-to-see-who’s-trying-to-kill-me expression that they all picked up sooner or later. They were a bloodthirsty crew, those Russians. But they had honor. I liked that about them. Ivan had done me a solid by finding this tip. He was a man worthy of respect, in spite of his proclivities for drugs and whores.

“Oh, and one more thing,” the man said, pivoting back around for a moment. “Ivan also says congratulations on your new wife. He is happy you have found a woman, although he would have suggested that you stay far away from the married life.”

I laughed and thought of Ivan berating his poor son. “Tell him I said thanks,” I replied. “And that I appreciate his friendship.”

The man nodded. “I will tell him.” Then he walked out the door, whistling.

I looked back at the photograph after he had gone. “I’m gonna find you, John Robinson,” I whispered. “And you’re going to tell me what happened to my friend.”

Chapter Seventeen

Carmen

I was alone when I woke up. It took me a minute to realize where the heck I was. I thought I’d fallen asleep on the couch last night, but now I was in a bed. I racked my brain trying to figure out how I’d managed to get up and walk without realizing it, when I remembered a blurry scene I’d thought at the time was a dream of Ben picking me up and tucking me gently into bed. I guessed it must have been real. Weird. The way I remembered it, he was so soft and careful, almost tender with his touch. I shook my head to clear the cobwebs. That was not Ben’s way at all. More likely, he’d slung me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and dropped me off here.

Speaking of Ben, I wondered where he was. The other half of the bed looked like it had been slept in, but now it was cold. Either I was wrong and he hadn’t slept here at all, or he’d been gone for a long time, a few hours at least.

I sat up and swung my legs over the side. My feet came to rest on the cold floorboards, sending shivers up my spine. This place needed a rug. As a matter of fact, this place needed a lot of things. The way it was set up now, it felt more like a morgue than a home. If I were going to be living here, I would want to get some decorations, put things on the walls—anything I could do to keep it from resembling an abnormally roomy jail cell.

That would have to wait until Ben got back from wherever he was, though. For now, all I wanted was a shower. I felt crusty with sleep and yesterday’s makeup. I’d fallen asleep without washing my face, and now I could feel the raccoon eyes from my mascara smudging against the pillows. Some hot water would do me justice. Getting out of this wedding dress wouldn’t be so bad either.

I stood up but immediately collapsed back down. My legs felt weak and shaky for some reason, and the sudden motion had brought a sickening wave of nausea crashing over me. I put a hand on my stomach and felt it gurgling. It had been almost a week since I’d last noticed any kicking or had morning sickness. I’d almost forgotten all about the baby.

I closed my eyes and breathed carefully until the nausea passed and I felt my pulse settle down to normal again. When it had, I took to my feet slowly, keeping a palm flat on the bedside table for support. This time, I didn’t feel sick, thankfully.