Chapter 8 — SATURDAY — Plusses and Minuses
Michelle Park tossed her long, glossy hair over one shoulder and stretched her toned body to the limit. Her black, sleeveless tee rose with the movement, betraying the flat band of olive-hued skin around her midriff. She smiled at Jenn Finney, well aware that the beautiful brunette couldn't help but sneak a furtive look.
The area around the hotel's rooftop pool was out of bounds to everyone other than the two of them this afternoon. Nikky Volkov had seen to that. That left her plenty of time to complete her task.
During their telephone conversation late last night, the Russian had surprised her with the news that Jennifer Finney was an undercover cop. She was a detective with the London Metropolitan Police, sent to Dubai as part of an investigation into his activities.
All he wanted, he'd rasped, was for her establish what the cop knew about him and then seduce her. The cameras hidden around the pool area would do the rest. Do that, he'd persuasively explained, and he had big plans for Michelle. He always rewarded loyalty.
The problem was that she wasn't sure if she could trust him. That meant she had to think things through very carefully.
His voice had been agitated when they'd spoken. She could tell that Boris's murder had rattled him. It had shocked her, too. What the fuck was going on? First, it was Tony Yamamura. Now, Boris. The two deaths had to be connected and that worried her, too. If Nikky Volkov ever sussed out her involvement with Tony then she could be next...
For the moment, she decided that going along with him was the best approach. The file she and Tony had complied on his illicit activities could be her way out if he tried anything, but she had to find a way of using that without being implicated.
Perhaps Volkov himself had given her the answer? The undercover cop beside her might hold the key.
She'd called Jenn Finney first thing this morning and arranged for them to meet at lunchtime. The brunette had eagerly agreed and Michelle knew why. She wanted information on Volkov. But that wasn't the only reason. The woman was attracted to her. She'd seen it in her eyes at the photoshoot and had confirmed it with the kiss.
She intended to use that attraction to her advantage.
Making sure that Jenn was watching, she grasped the bottom of her tee, crossing her arms in the process, and peeled it over her head. Her tiny, black string bikini top barely housed her perky breasts, and the skimpy matching thong left little to the imagination. She looked hot...
The young brunette did, too. The woman was adorable. Like a living doll with her big brown eyes and stunning face. And that turquoise blue, haltered bikini displayed her fabulous body to perfection. How could someone with a body made for sin be that shy? Or was that all a pretence? She intended to find out during the next few hours.
Glancing sideways at Jenn, she sauntered to the edge of the glass-still pool and winked at her before diving majestically into the water. She swam a fluid lap before returning to the lip of the pool and pulling herself up so that she could sit on the edge.
"I love the sun," she said, stretching again as the water cascaded from her fabulous body. "It always makes me feel horny.
With an exaggerated smile, she reached behind her and untied her bikini top. Her gaze found Jenn's again as she dropped the wet garment on the hot deck surface beside her.
"Come and sit here with me," she huskily told the brunette. "I think it's about time you and I bonded."
*
Jack Palmer had fingered the ghosted mobile in his pocket throughout the morning. He hadn't been able to stop. It was like a compulsion, as if it would fall out and he'd lose it if he didn't check it on a regular basis.
Sandra Wilson had agreed for the Met to fund the device and Taffy Boyd had acted instantly on receiving Jack's call confirming they were to go ahead. The Welshman had promised the mobile would be waiting for him at the front desk before breakfast, and it had been.
The whole thing felt very James Bond to Palmer. In his days there, undercover operations in Vice usually involved nothing more than growing a beard and wearing a wire. Very occasionally, they'd get a GPS tag to follow a car, but funds were always an issue. So possessing a phone that not only tapped into Nikky Volkov's personal mobile, but also behaved like his without the outgoing signal, was something else.
He had escorted Roxanne to the television studio for her appointment, satisfying himself that everything was kosher before leaving her. She wasn't sure how long the filming of her episode of Supermodel would take, but with an early afternoon start and dinner scheduled in, it was likely to be another long day. In the unlikely event of Nikky Volkov turning up— Supermodel had nothing to do with him, but who could be sure?—Roxie was to phone him immediately.
To his annoyance, Jenn had left a message on his mobile phone earlier to say she was following up a lead. She'd be back at the hotel sometime later, she'd said. That made him nervous. He'd told her not to go anywhere without letting him know, but she was desperate to make a name for herself. That spelt trouble...
Meanwhile, the absence of the two women left him with some free time. He intended to use it to the full.
*
Nikky Volkov pushed a hand through his close-cropped hair as he paced up and down the room in his spacious suite. He had no idea who had killed Boris, or why, but he wasn't going to stand for it. It had taken a long time to build up his business empire, and if anyone thought they were going to fuck with him, they were badly mistaken.
They'd end up like Tony Yamamura.
Volkov couldn't work out a motive for Boris's death. Nothing had been taken, not his credit cards or even the money in his wallet. That suggested it was either personal—it was easy to make enemies in that business—or that Boris had been targeted...
The Russian swallowed the remaining contents from his glass, feeling the bourbon burn his throat. He stopped his pacing to pour another and then took a large Havana cigar from the top drawer of the drinks cabinet. He unwrapped the cellophane slowly before snipping the end and lighting up. With each twirl of his fingers, it began to burn evenly. Only then did he take a long draw and allow the smoke to spiral upwards as it escaped from his nostrils.
His free hand slammed down on the top of the cabinet. Why now, when he was so close to pulling off the biggest business deal of his life? Everything was going so well and he was about to expand his influence into the Middle East—the most lucrative market of all.
He'd taken care of Yamamura's threat and had plans to quickly cut Roxanne and that boyfriend of hers down to size. And he'd soon be able to blackmail the undercover cop. After Michelle completed her task, she'd do exactly what she was told if she wanted to preserve her own and the London Met's reputation.
He glanced down at one of her photographs infront of him, taken at the Clinique shoot. For a cop, the woman was stacked. Oiling those fabulous tits up and fucking them was the first thing he was going to do with her. It wouldn't be the last.
He sat down on the large couch beside the huge window. Taking another long sip of bourbon from his glass, he threw his head back and savoured the taste. Okay, he needed to decide what his next steps were. The obvious action was to contact Sheikh Amir bin Khalid, but the last thing he wanted was for his new business partner to interpret that as a sign of weakness. That contact would be a last resort.
He had a couple of security people he could rely on during the rest of his time in Dubai. Neither of them was in the same league as Boris, of course, but together they would provide adequate support.
His phone rang and he grunted to himself as he picked it up. He'd instructed his new bodyguards to head straight across to his suite for a briefing and it seemed they'd arrived.
