Um, h-h-hi,” Sophie stammered, closing the door behind her. Meeting her gaze were crystal eyes like blue shards of glass.
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His voice as smooth as silk, Grant started into his standard crowd-pleaser: Sinatra’s 'My Kind of Town.
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I’m glad I went to prison," Grant rasped in Sophie’s ear, so quietly only she could hear. "Because then I found you.
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Aren’t those vegetables sexy, Rog?” Grant cooed, trying to hold in laughter. “Sexy, sexy veggies. You two need to go on lots of dates together.
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I met Ana doing free weights,” Roger said. “This hard-body señorita was putting me to shame on squats, and I asked her how she got such a tight ass —”
“And then she decked you.”
“Nah, she loved it! She’s real proud of that butt — she should be. She took me to one of her classes, and I got hooked. She’s a Zumba instructor.”
Grant absorbed that information for a moment. “You do...Zumba?”
“It’s great! Much more fun than PT. You just get going...” He did a little two-step maneuver on the city street, dancing to an unknown Latin beat. “Cha cha cha. Heeuh? Ana does this a little better than me...”
Grant tried to hold it in. He really did. But his body quivered, his shoulders shook, and soon a whooping laugh erupted — which lasted quite a few seconds.
Roger abruptly stopped his dance. “You judge, Madsen. Not cool.
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Okay, I’ve got the hidden microphones with GPS here,” Agent Bounter said. “Let’s get one on you.”
“Now, sir?”
“The Russians are on the radar. It’s time.”
As Bounter turned to pick up the tiny button-size microphone, Grant clenched his hands into fists, his anticipation building.
It’s time.
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Vladimir leaned forward. “Never dilute vodka. Is sin.
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Speaking of banging, when’s McSailor getting home?” Kirsten’s smirk was the size of Texas.
Sophie had to smile. “Crude. You’re crude, roomie.
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Her recoil confirmed the disgust Grant felt inside. Who was he kidding, trying to put Vladimir and Andrei behind bars? He was no different from his father. Then he remembered Sophie’s words.
“You’re not like them. You’re my McSailor.”
A soft touch made him smile, thinking of Bonnie, before he realized it was Innochka’s hand stroking his face. The touch of a mobster’s girlfriend. He leaped back, still crouched on his feet.
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Grant glanced down at his khaki jacket. Since he’d slipped on the US Navy uniform in Agent Bounter’s office, he’d felt a confident swagger possess him. His spine lengthened, and his shoulders retracted. He should’ve been wearing this every day, not the stupid dress shirt and slacks of a lounge singer.
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