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“I—I...” She ran a hand through her blond hair, and then she snapped her mouth closed and narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing here? At least I work here.”
He couldn’t bluff the previously giggly, apologetic waitress so easily, so he let his lashes fall half-mast over his eyes and growled, “How do you know I don’t work here?”
She flinched, and he felt a stab of guilt. He’d laid it on too thick.
“I was just... I don’t have a place to stay, and I thought I could crash at the bar for a few nights.”
The back door of the club scraped open, and Alexei lunged for the office door and pulled it closed.
The waitress hissed at him. “It’s not going to lock.”
He put his finger to his lips as he took a step forward. Placing both hands on the waitress’s shoulders, he pushed down, urging her back beneath the desk.
She scrambled for cover.
Alexei pulled out his weapon. Coiling his muscles, he flattened his body on the other side of the door and waited. If the door wouldn’t lock, he’d better be ready for whoever came through it.
A man’s footsteps thumped against the carpet and then scuffed on the wood floor in the bar area. The footsteps seemed to recede or had stopped altogether. Soft clinking noises carried down the hallway, and then a few minutes later the man’s boots clumped on the wood again and were muffled by the carpet as he walked toward the office.
Alexei watched the door handle, his hand wrapped around the barrel of his gun, ready to strike. The steps carried on. The back door opened and shut.
The woman beneath the desk sighed and whispered, “Is it safe to come out now?”
“For now, unless he comes back in.”
She crawled from beneath the desk and brushed off her short black skirt as Alexei averted his gaze from the smooth expanse of her thigh.
Wedging her hands on her hips, she said, “You don’t work here.”
“Maybe not, but Sergei’s not going to be happy when he finds out you were searching his office.”
“You can’t tell him that without revealing you broke into the club.” She jutted out her chin and crossed her arms, daring him.
“An anonymous phone call would do the trick. He’s a suspicious guy.”
She tossed her head, flicking a swath of hair over her shoulder. “I won’t tell on you if you don’t tell on me. I don’t care why you broke in here tonight, but I’m not going to be blamed if you decide to rob the place.”
“That’s where we differ.” He raised one eyebrow. “I do care why you’re here after hours, and don’t give me that story about needing a place to stay. You didn’t need to be in Sergei’s office for that.”
“I—I thought he might have a couch in here.”
Alexei held up his hand. “Save it. You do realize we’re both on camera, don’t you?”
“Where?” The waitress widened her eyes and cranked her head back and forth. “How?”
“I’m not sure where all the cameras are, but he has one in that corner.” He pointed to a camera perched on top of a tall bookshelf. “He probably has one at the back door, too.”
“Then we’re both in trouble if Sergei decides to review the footage.” She twisted her fingers in front of her. “I can’t lose this job.”
Alexei tilted his head, his gaze sweeping the woman from head to toe. Why did she care so much about a job as a cocktail waitress in a dumpy topless bar in Hollywood—or did she care about being in this club specifically? If so, he needed to find out why.
“I have no intention of either of us being caught.” Alexei pulled his phone from his pocket and accessed the club’s video files that his friend at the CIA had hacked for him. A few taps later, he accessed the night’s footage. He paused it as an African American man used a key to get through the back door.
“This is the guy who was just in here.” He held out the phone for the woman. “Do you recognize him?”
She nodded. “That’s Jerome Carter, one of the bartenders. How did you get—”
“Never mind.” Alexei tapped into a different camera and dragged his finger along the counter until Jerome appeared at the bar. “What do you think he’s doing?”
Leaning in, her hair tickling the back of his hand, the waitress squinted at the display. “He’s doing something behind the bar. The camera isn’t picking it up.”
“Do you think he’s stealing something?” He jabbed his finger at the screen of his phone. “Looks like he’s shoving something in his pocket, but that might be his phone.”
“If Jerome has keys to the bar...and Sergei’s office, I’m pretty sure he knows about the security cameras.” She circled her finger above his phone. “I’m also pretty sure he doesn’t have the ability to hack into the security footage. How—”
“You’re right. Maybe he just forgot something. Has Sergei had any problems with Jerome in the past?”
“You’re asking me?” Her voice squeaked as she drove a thumb into her chest. “This is my first night working here.”
Alexei’s pulse jumped. A cocktail waitress snooping around her boss’s office her first night on the job?
“Well, whatever Jerome was doing here, it’s his lucky night. Sergei’s not going to find out about it.” He selected each of the four camera views and deleted the footage.
“Isn’t Sergei going to be suspicious that he has no footage from tonight?”
“But he will.” Alexei made a few more selections on his phone. “Just none showing any activity in the club after hours.”
“Whew.” She hugged the small purse hanging across her body. “Then I guess I’m glad I ran into you tonight. Thanks.”
She made a move toward the door, and Alexei put his hand on her arm. “Not so fast. Since I saved your...behind, I want something from you in return.”
A pink flush crept into her cheeks as she glanced at his fingers curled around her upper arm.
He released his hold and cleared his throat. “I want to know what you were doing here tonight. You already know I’m not going to rat you out to Sergei...or the police.”
“Police?” She put a hand to her throat. “I wasn’t here to steal.”
“I believe you.”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because I hold all the cards.”
She opened her mouth and then snapped it shut. A furrow formed between her eyebrows. “I’m not staying here another minute.”
“I agree. It’s Hollywood. There’s a twenty-four-hour diner halfway down the block. Let’s talk there.”
Taking a step back, she reached for the doorknob behind her. “I’m not going anywhere with you. You could be some crazed killer or something.”
“If I’d wanted to kill you, I would’ve done it already.” He touched the gun in his waistband. “What reason would I have to kill you? As far as I can tell, we’re on the same side.”
“Side?” Her gaze flicked to his weapon and back to his face. “There are sides?”
“If you’re worried, you drive over in your own car and I’ll meet you there. Do you know the restaurant I’m talking about?”
“Half a block down on this side of the street.” She dragged a keychain from her purse and dug some putty out of the lock on the doorjamb with a key.
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that how you got into the office?”
“Yep.” She squeezed past him into the hallway, and her light perfume lingered beneath the smells of the club that still clung to her clothes and hair.
She turned suddenly, bumping his shoulder as he locked Sergei’s office. “What would stop me from driving right home?”
“The fact that I can still call Sergei and tell him to keep an eye on his new waitress.” He watched her green eyes darken to chips of glass. “And your own curiosity.”
A pink flush washed into her cheeks. “You’re mistaken. I don’t care what you were doing here. I was just trying to find a quick place to bunk tonight.”
“Really? You just asked me what would stop you from driving home.” He touched the end of her pert nose with his finger. “If you’re going to be in the espionage business, you’re going to have to learn to lie better, moya solnishka.”
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Alexei pushed through the glass door of Mel’s 24/7 Diner. The homeless guy in the corner nursing a cup of coffee didn’t even look up. The couple at the counter, who looked as if they’d stumbled in after a bender on the Sunset Strip, gave him a quick glance and went back to stuffing their faces.
Only the cocktail waitress looked up and eyed him as he approached her table. He’d need to get a name out of her before the end of the evening...and the truth. If she were actively working against Sergei, he liked her already. He also liked the way her green eyes glittered and changed color with every passing emotion. And that hair, like a mass of sunshine.
He slid into the vinyl booth across from her and extended his hand. “I’m Alexei Ivanov.”
Those eyes widened, and her mouth formed an O. “You’re Russian.”
“I’m American, born and bred. My parents are Russian.”
“Is that why you’re sneaking around the club?”
“Yes and no.”
“Are you KGB?” She put a hand over her mouth. “Is Sergei some kind of criminal?”
Alexei toyed with the edge of the plastic menu. She was figuring this out a lot faster than he wanted her to, and he still didn’t know why she’d been hiding in Sergei’s office.
He tapped the edge of the menu on the table. “The KGB doesn’t exist anymore.”
The coffee-shop waitress parked herself next to their table, raising her brows and the coffeepot. “What can I get you?”
Turning his coffee cup over, Alexei tipped his head across the table toward the other waitress.
“Umm.” She ran her finger down the breakfast side of the menu. “Two eggs, scrambled, bacon and wheat toast...and coffee, please.”
Alexei ordered some French toast, and when the waitress left, he hunched forward. “What’s your name, and what were you doing in the club after hours?”
She searched his face as if trying to read signs there. “My name’s Britt Jansen, but the club knows me as Barbie Jones.”
His pulse jumped. She’d lied to the club about her identity. Anyone who could put one over on Sergei had his respect.
“And?” He circled his finger in the air.
Once the waitress had poured the coffee and left, Britt dumped three packets of cream into her cup and watched the milky swirls create a pattern on the surface of her coffee. “I’m looking for someone.”
“At the club?”
“Yes—no.” She picked up her cup with a trembling hand and slurped a sip. “I’m looking for someone who worked at the club but doesn’t anymore.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m looking for someone who—” Britt leaned forward and whispered “—disappeared.”
The one word, hissed at him in the nearly empty coffee shop by a woman clearly afraid, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and quiver.
“You’re looking for someone who worked at the Tattle-Tale, and you think the club holds some key to her disappearance?”
“I do, only because Sergei told the police that my...the woman quit, left LA with a boyfriend.”
“Maybe she did. She’s an adult, and people do quit jobs and move, sometimes without telling their friends.”
Britt smacked the table, and his spoon jumped from the saucer. “She wasn’t just a friend. She was my sister, and there’s no way she would leave for parts unknown without telling me first. I tried to communicate that to the police, but they just shrugged their shoulders and said there was no foul play.”
Alexei picked up his spoon and drew invisible patterns on the Formica tabletop. He had no doubt women in Sergei’s employ vanished occasionally, but usually not American women with families who’d notice their absence.
“You called the LAPD when you couldn’t reach your sister?”
Britt nodded, and her green eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“What did they tell you?”
“First they told me I had to wait because she was an adult. When they did a welfare check at her apartment, they told me that while she had left some personal items at her place, it looked like clothes were missing and her car was gone. Then they talked to Sergei, and he claimed she’d told him after work one night that she was finished, leaving town with a boyfriend, and the cops told me it was over. They had no reason to investigate further.”
“But you did. Is it just that she didn’t tell you she was leaving? Are you and your sister close?”
“We...” Britt dragged a hand through her hair. “We weren’t that close. We’d just gotten back in touch.”
“So she could’ve left without telling you.”
“French toast and eggs.” The waitress delivered their food with a clatter of plates.
Britt waited until the waitress ambled back to the couple at the counter. “She could’ve, but I don’t believe it. In the last voice mail she left me, she talked about being in trouble.”
“What did the cops make of that?”
She lifted her shoulders and poked at her eggs. “My sister had some financial issues—unpaid bills, delinquent rent. That’s what they interpreted as her trouble.”
