The Negotiator (Professionals 7)

So this had to work.

“I grew up digging through trash for food, wearing too-small clothes to school. We had shit. We had less and less each time my mother had another child. I told myself I would never be poor again once I could control it. That is what I made happen. My brothers threatened that. They had to go. Better by me than a slow, torturous death by my enemies.”

“That is true. A little mercy,” I agreed, nodding.

“Do you have siblings, Miss Miller?”

Suddenly I was very, very thankful that I did not. Aside from the fact that my childhood had been hard enough all alone, and adding more kids would have only made it even more hellish, it made my professional life a lot less risky.

“I don’t,” I admitted, shrugging.

“And you’re not married?”

“I’m not. I travel a lot for work. I am never in the same place long enough to get to know anyone.”

“Women are too into their careers these days,” he said, shaking his head. “My mother never worked.”

I’d imagine there might have been more food for all of those kids if she had. But there was no arguing against an illogical statement about gender roles.

“It was the only way to make sure my stomach stayed full when I became an adult,” I told him, shrugging. “Whether I liked it or not.”

The clock told me that eight more minutes had passed. Christopher should have been getting close, barring no complications. And, seeing as he seemed pretty damn connected in this country, I imagined he had his people making sure there were none while he made his way across the ocean.

“There had to have been men in your school.”

“Boys, Mr. Chernev. There were boys in my school. Ones that couldn’t figure out how to pull up their pants all the way, let alone know how to provide for a family.”

“That’s true. I was already making pocket change in my business venture by the time I was sixteen.”

“But not many young men are that smart or entrepreneurial.”

Another pro tip: men in powerful positions often had no goddamn idea when you were blowing smoke up their asses. They had such an inflated sense of self that they figured everyone else thought they were amazing as well.

It was obnoxious, but it worked in your favor when you were trying to schmooze them for some reason or another.

“I have done well for myself,” he agreed, nodding, his chest puffing out a bit. “I plan to continue to do well. Which is why I need to expand my empire. Where is Mr. Adamos?” he asked, eyes moving across the screen, trying to spot him.

Good luck with that, buddy. The next time you see him, he’ll be holding a gun to your head.

“Probably running the steps. Or bitching to his housekeeper,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“You don’t like him. Why do you work for him then?”

“Because he is paying me,” I told him, leaving out the kidnapping part.

“I can pay you more.”

“Maybe, but you don’t have a job for me, Mr. Chernev.”

“I can find a job for you,” he said, voice getting thick, making my stomach roll.

It took about every ounce of self-control I had not to say ‘ew’ right then and there. There was not enough money in the world for that.

Five more minutes had passed.

Where the hell was Christopher?

“What kind of job is that?” I asked, letting my voice go a little sultry, a little teasing even.

When all else failed, coquettish worked wonders with most men.

“Oh, I can think of—” he started, then his brows furrowed at a dinging sound, his gaze moving to something out of sight.

My stomach knotted as he turned, went toward the sliding glass doors.

With him diverted, I tried to motion to Alexander to knock his chair over.

“You bitch. You fucking bitch,” Chernev howled as he turned back, enraged face filling the screen.

There was a loud thunk, giving me a small bit of hope.

“You fucking bitch. You will pay for this. Do you hear me? You will pay for this.”

Then with that and nothing more, he disappeared, leaving the connection open.

No gunshot.

“Alexander?” I called, knowing he was gagged, but hoping for any sound. “Alexander, your brother should be there any second, okay? Just hold on.”

There were several bumping noises, a grunt, a shuffling.

And then there he was, still ripping the gag out of his mouth, looking at my face.

He looked a lot like his brother—tall and fit with dark hair, dark eyes. His jaw lacked the sharpness of Christopher’s, but I figured that might come with age.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“We can talk about that later. Alexander, why don’t you get in the closet for a moment? Just until we know your brother is there, okay?”

“I’m not hiding,” he said, spitting the word like it was a curse. And that, well, that was a lot like his brother too, wasn’t it?