The Negotiator Page 4

  "That's an umbrella term."

  "Mine is an umbrella business."

  "So, you, what, take a percentage of all illegal dealings? In exchange for protection?"

  "For the most part, yes."

  "Who deals heroin in your country?"

  "No one from here. It sneaks in. So many boats, so many faces, it is impossible to keep track."

  "So you don't condone any drug trade?"

  "I said I don't have a hand in heroin. There are other drugs, less destructive drugs, and those I allow. Those have dealers who I have agreements with."

  "So it would be safe to assume that Atanas Chernev is likely who has been having people sneak in. He's finding a market for it. He's getting greedy. He wants you to let him corner that market."

  "Yes."

  "Was he planning on giving you a cut?"

  "Originally, yes. Thirty percent. As is standard."

  "How long ago was this?"

  "Six months. Eight, possibly."

  "Was he angry?"

  "Chernev doesn't show such weakness. He told me he understood my hesitance. I didn't hear from him again. I figured he had moved onto Turkey or Romania. Even Italy. I had no reason to suspect he was a threat."

  "Except that everyone is a threat when they want something from you that they are not getting."

  "This is true," I allowed.

  "Okay. Well, what is Alexander like?"

  "Much like me at that age. Except perhaps smarter. More sly even."

  "So not someone who is likely to cower and beg to be released," she guessed.

  "I can't imagine him doing either of those things."

  "Is he reckless? Will he do something to screw up negotiations?"

  "Anything is possible. I think, if he knows you are involved, he will be smart, try to let things play out."

  "I will demand proof of life. He will know I am involved. Do you and Alexander have any sort of code?"

  "Code?" I asked, brows furrowing.

  "Yes, code. For a situation such as this. My crew and I all have turns of phrase, little sayings that, when said in a high-pressure situation such as kidnapping or hostage-holding, we can use to communicate details of the situation."

  "Unfortunately, I had not thought of that before."

  "When he gets home, that is something you will want to implement. Even if you plan to ramp up security. This is the nature of your business. It comes with certain risks, and preparing for them is important. Now, what are you willing to give him? Because, Mr. Adamos, you are going to have to give him something."

  "Athens, Mykonos, and Lindos."

  "You would give up Athens with your brother schooling there?"

  "My brother will learn to endure homeschooling in the future."

  "Probably smart. And those are a good start. But you know he is going to want Santorini. It's one of the biggest tourist spots."

  "He can't have Santorini."

  "Because you live here? Because it will make you look weak to everyone who answers to you?"

  "Yes. You want to see chaos, let the employees think the boss will let them do whatever they want. My brother will not stand a chance. Neither will I. Some order must be kept. He can't have Santorini."

  "Okay," she said, exhaling hard. "I will see what I can do. Is there anything else I need to know?"

  "Chernev will not forget your face," I warned her. "And he makes one hell of an enemy."

  To that, a slow, cocky smirk pulled at her lips. "Haven't you heard, Mr. Adamos? I've made powerful allies all over this world. I've had Easter dinner with the likes of men that would make even Atanas Chernev piss his pants. He puts a mark on my head, he puts a mark on his own."

  "Is that a threat, Miller?" I asked, feeling my lips twitch up ever so slightly.

  "It is an important piece of information to have."

  She reached across the table, taking my frappe that I hadn't touched, taking a long sip of it herself.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  I reached for it, finding a message.

  "What?" she asked, reading my reaction.

  "Bellamy. He says he has a job. And has bought me a week with your boss."

  "He left me here."

  It wasn't a question.

  I answered anyway.

  "It's just you and me."

  It was supposed to be a threat.

  It sounded a hell of a lot like a promise.

  FOUR

  Miller

  I guess I couldn't have expected a nice little bed and breakfast. Or even to move further from shore and stay at a hotel.

  Nope.

  I probably should have anticipated being grabbed by the arm again and led up the endless stairs of Santorini, feeling my thighs burn mercilessly while Christopher seemed not to notice the strain on his muscles at all.

  "Okay, enough," I grumbled, yanking my arm roughly away, surprising Christopher enough to release me.

  I worked out.

  Grudgingly.

  Not nearly as much as some of my teammates.

  But I did it.

  I made a promise to my poor, aching lungs to do more of it once I got back home.

  Because I was sweaty and half-bent forward, hands on my knees, trying to get some air.

  "Don't give me that look," I demanded.

  "You can't even see me to know what look I may or may not be giving you."

  "I can feel it," I insisted.

  "You'll get used to the stairs," he assured me, a hint of what seemed suspiciously like humor in his voice.

  "I understand the donkeys now," I said, having scoffed at them just twenty minutes before.

  Really, I just needed a minute. I was still dehydrated and hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep. I wasn't in my best form.

  But either Christopher doubted my abilities to pull it together, or he simply grew impatient.

  Because the next thing I knew, an arm was under my knees, another across my back, and I was yanked up off my feet, and pulled to Christopher's chest.

  "Put me down," I demanded, but I wasn't entirely sure how much conviction was even in my voice.

  Now, whether that was from exhaustion or that it was surprisingly nice to be held in a strong, gorgeous man's arms was anyone's guess.

  But, of course, I was going to assure myself it was the former.

  "You won't make it up another set. And we have five more to go."

  "You live at the very top of the hill, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Of course you do," I mumbled, trying not to get too mesmerized studying his jaw. It could cut glass, it was so sharp.

  "It has tactical advantages."

  "Like your enemies dying of heart attacks attempting to reach you."

  "There is that," he agreed, lips twitching. "And me and my men can see everything going on below us. No one can sneak up. It is the safest place on the island."

  If I was going to be a hostage, at least I knew I was going to be safe from outside threats.

  And, let's face it, men who meant you harm generally didn't carry you up several flights of stairs.

  I was of value.

  I would only cease to be if I couldn't save his brother.

  And, well, even being a bit of a hostage, I wanted to help. It was a pet peeve of mine when men such as Chernev got innocent children involved in their puny drug wars. The money was an added benefit.

  Alexander Adamos was the priority.

  Even knowing that, though, I was all too aware of the way his arms cradled me, the hard muscles of his chest, and the way he carried me like it was no strain at all.

  Sure, I was relatively short and compact, but I doubted anyone would call me waifish or dainty. Men just didn't carry me around.

  It was a surprisingly comforting sensation.

  It had to be something primeval, something encoded in my DNA. Wanting a big, strong man to make me feel small and soft, while at the same time protected, safe.

  Maybe it was why I was always so d
amn attracted to dangerous men.

  I mean, not that I was attracted to Christopher Adamos, of course. It would be a whole new level of fucked up if I was into a guy who would not hesitate to lock me up to get what he needed out of me.

  It was just, you know, nice. To be held. To be carried.

  I would never admit that out loud.

  But I was digging it.

  "You can put me down now," I told him as we reached the final step.

  A long, low, stark white garden wall with a bright blue gate was before us, two men standing guard beside it.

  "When we're safely behind the gate, yes," he agreed, nodding his chin toward his men who moved to open the gate, allowing us through.

  Christopher's home was like most of the other cave houses we'd passed on the way up, but massive, long, low and sprawling. Up this high, set against the bright sun and the blue sky, the white was almost painful to look at, it took a long moment for my eyes to adjust.

  A few feet inside the front garden, my weight finally shifted, my feet meeting the ground.

  And, well, my poor, underused thighs? Yeah, they kind of gave up on me, making my arm shoot out, grabbing Christopher's arm, holding on to keep my balance as I willed my legs to just bear with me for a few more moments. Just allow me the dignity of making it to a chair, then they could weep and fail me all they wanted. Hell, I might weep along with them. And I was not someone who cried easily. What can I say, it had been a trying twenty-four hours. My body and mind were all over the place.

  I needed some sleep.

  I would be in better shape in the morning.

  "Come on," he offered, grabbing me at the elbow, helping me toward the door.

  The inside of the house was much like the outside: exposed walls, whiteness. The floor was a warm sandy stone, the furniture to the room on the left the same shade of blue as the garden gate and the front door.

  There wasn't art on the walls or much by the way of decoration. It should have been cold. Instead, I found it oddly homey. The lack of stimulation was simple. And simple was comforting in its own way.

  I never expected to think that.

  My home was a mismatch of all the things I loved. I had crowded shelves full of knick-knacks from all the places I had traveled. My furniture was oversized and plush. I had a ton of pillows, none of which matched. There were colorful blankets draped over the back of the couch.

  I liked soft and cozy. Likely because I spent so much time in hotels, places that pretended to be those things, but always managed to fail.

  I shouldn't have been so into this cave house.

  But as we walked past a dining room that had a long, empty table—no candles, no runner, no ornate China cabinet against the wall boasting great-grandma's favorite tea cups and spoons—I felt oddly at home.

  "Cora," he called, leading me into the kitchen- arguably the smallest room we'd passed through so far. There was a short span of countertop—white with white cabinets—that butted up against the fridge and stove. There was an undersized island where Christopher led me, pulling out a stool for me to sit on top of.

  "Christopher," a woman called, voice warm, loving. Not the lady of the house in terms of wife, but more like a mother figure.

  Cora was a woman likely in her early sixties in a simple, somewhat baggy blue dress with a floral apron. Her short, dark hair was curled. Her lightly lined face spoke to many years of reasons to laugh and smile.

  And right then, she was smiling at Christopher as she walked up to him, patting his jaw.

  "You missed breakfast," she tut-tutted, shaking her head at him.

  "I had early business," he told her, voice still rather formal despite her warmness, making me figure he simply wasn't capable of that kind of soft and sweet. Despite carrying me up the stairs.

  He'd simply been taking care of his asset.

  It hadn't been sweet.

  "And you bring home a woman," she said, and I could hear a hint of disapproval in her tone as her gaze moved to me, looking me over like a cow at market.

  "Miss Miller will be helping me bring Alexander home," he explained.

  Sadness crossed Cora's face for a moment before her gaze went to me again, showing hope.

  "She's good, yes?"

  "She's the best," Christopher corrected. "But she's been on a long journey. And is thirsty and hungry and in want of a bed. Can you make her something to eat while I talk to my men?"

  "Yes, yes of course. Miss Miller is in good hands, you know that," she said, waving him away.

  "I'll see you to your room in an hour."

  That sounded a lot like a threat.

  As though I would attempt to overpower poor Cora and escape.

  Like my legs would even get on board with such an idea.

  "I will be counting down the moments," I told him with an eye roll, getting rewarded with one of those lip twitches of his.

  "Miss Miller," Cora said as I watched Christopher's retreating form. "You are hungry, yes?" she asked, drawing my attention back to her.

  "Yes," I agreed, putting a hand to my grumbling stomach. "Can I have some water?" I asked. "I would get it myself, but my legs took objection to all the stairs to get here. I think I would fall over if I tried to get it myself," I admitted.

  "Of course, of course. Water. Then food. You're very thin," she told me, clucking her tongue.

  My lips curved up at that. "I don't think anyone has ever said that to me before. But I will take it as a compliment."

  "You have a husband?" she asked, filling a glass with water, passing it to me over the counter.

  "Nope. No man."

  "No? Why not?"

  "I work a lot," I admitted.

  "Work. Work is good. So is family. A husband. Children. Also very important."

  "I'm still young," I defended, not sure why I even felt defensive. I guess because I had no practice against judgmental maternal figures. I didn't have a mother. Or aunts. No one to lecture me about my clock ticking.

  "Eh, not so young," she said, shrugging as she went to the fridge, pulling out ingredients. "Pretty, though. Good hips."

  Oh, goodness.

  Good hips.

  I knew what that meant.

  Good childbearing hips.

  What a strange day I was having.

  Just a few short minutes later, a small bowl was in front of me.

  Lettuce, olives, tomatoes, cucumbers, feta crumbles.

  I knew Greece just well enough to know Choriatiki when it was in front of me.

  I have to admit, I was not, as a whole, a salad person. But knowing that this was simply an appetizer to hold me over to a bigger meal, I dug into it, watching as Cora moved around the space with the calm efficiency of a woman who had been cooking and providing meals with love for a very long time.

  Which was an odd thing for me even to think since I had absolutely no experience with such things. But, hey, I'd seen TV and movies. I had cinematic experience. It could almost count as real. You know, if you lied to yourself well enough.

  A short while later, my bowl was taken away, replaced with a white plate.

  "Dolmadakia," she said. "Eat," she added, turning away, cleaning up after herself.

  Dolmadakia.

  Which appeared to be grape leaves stuffed with beef and rice and maybe some vegetables.

  Very healthy.

  Very unlike me.

  But it smelled good.

  My stomach, half full from the salad, grumbled, demanding I dig in.

  Already, my head was feeling clearer, the final traces of the drugs seeming to leave my system, even if I still had a giant black hole of the events of the day before.

  "That's good, yes?" she asked, clearly not needing to ask since I had cleared my plate, just barely stopping myself from licking it clean.

  "Very good," I corrected, watching as she put leftovers onto a plate, then placing it into the fridge. Likely for Christopher. "Thank you," I told her, offering a genuine smile as she took my plate.


  "You'll bring Alexander back, yes?"

  "I will do everything in my power to," I told her, not comfortable with promises. I'd been on too many jobs, had seen too many things go sideways, to ever hand those out willy-nilly again.

  "He's a good boy."

  "He's a terror, and you know it, Cora," Christopher corrected, coming in at my side.

  "Reminds me of someone," she added, wiggling her brows at him, daring him to contradict her.

  "I've never denied being that," he agreed, eyes warm.

  "Remember to eat," Cora told him, giving him another sweet smile, then making her way out of the kitchen.

  "She's very nice. She thinks I'm too skinny," I added. "I've never had a maternal figure cluck over me like that. It was sweet.

  Why was I telling him private details about my life? Yes, that was a good question. For which I had no satisfactory answers. I was just going to keep blaming Bellamy for it.

  "Are you tired?" he asked, side-stepping my little reveal. Which I was grateful for.

  "Unbelievably," I admitted, gritting my teeth as I planted my hands on the counter, pushing the chair back, getting to my feet.

  "Come," he demanded, smooth voice softer than I had been anticipating, something that sent a little ripple of desire through my system. Further proving how tired I was.

  I fell into step with him, following him back out toward the living area, down a hallway that opened up a bit in the back like a mudroom, clearly what was meant to be the exit. Only it wasn't. It was the start of a massive addition built off of the back of the cave house; a little more modern with its clean lines and abundance of gleaming windows.

  We stepped into a lounge area, colors in darker blues than the front of the house, just a little more masculine, seeming to suit their owner better. There was a bathroom, an office, and then a hallway of doors. Bedrooms, one could imagine. More of them than seemed necessary unless Cora and some of his security people needed places to crash aside from him and his brother.

  I was led to the end of the hall, across from what was clearly the master, based on the size compared to the others.

  "You can stay here," he told me, pushing open the door to yet another white room with cream and light blue accents on the full bed. "There is a bathroom through here," he told me, walking over to the doorway, flicking on a light. "Feel free to roam around inside the house if you can not sleep," he told me. On the surface, it sounded like a nice thing to say. Except I was reading below that, hearing that while I could roam the house, maybe get myself a cold drink or a snack should I need it, I was not allowed to go outside. I imagined that if I tried, a guard would be all too happy to escort me back inside.