Daddy In Charge Read online

  “Yeah,” I lamented.

  “But…?”

  “But there’s a bigger problem…”

  “Which is?”

  There was a long silence and a hint of crackling irritation in Julius’ expression. I realized in that moment why I felt so relaxed in his company, and why I had so freely confessed my lust for Mitch. Julius was raw and uncensored. He was forthright, blunt, quirky, crude, and brutally honest. He wasn’t a Washington politician who guarded his words and he wasn’t a threat to my career. He was just himself; brash and abrasive, but also a sweet, caring soul.

  “I need money,” I said softly.

  Julius became serious. His camp mannerisms drifted away on the cold frigid air. “How much?”

  My face became forlorn. “Lots. Fifty-thousand dollars at least.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  The bread arrived. As the waiter leaned past us to place the basket on the table, Julius blew the young man a flirtatious kiss.

  “Naslazhdat’sya,” the waiter muttered and walked quickly back inside the café. Julius shrugged then fixed me with his gaze.

  “Spill,” he demanded.

  And so I told him. I told him about my grandmother and the financial trauma she was facing. I told him about my childhood – growing up without my parents – and how I spent my afternoons in the backroom of the bookstore reading everything I could find. I confessed to the guilt I was carrying for leaving my grandmother’s side and moving to Washington, and how I felt I was to blame for her money worries because the downturn in the business had coincided with the time I had moved away. And then, when it was all said and out there, I admitted the biggest secret of all.

  “And I can’t just throw myself at Mitch Stuyversant, even if I wanted to,” I said in a tremble. “Because I’m… I’m a virgin, Julius. I wouldn’t even know how to seduce him.”

  When I had finished talking I dropped my eyes to my coffee, expecting a gale of riotous laughter. But Julius was silent and when I looked at him at last I noticed the profound change in the way he was gazing at me. It could have been a look of shock, wonder, or incredulity.

  Or it could have been a look of sympathetic compassion and new understanding.

  “Can you get a personal loan and then give the money to your grandmother?”

  I shook my head. “No one will accept me,” I said. “I’m just a temporary assistant to Mitch, filling in for one of his regular staff. This isn’t a full-time job, so no bank will look at me.”

  Julius was frowning. He started to say something then bit his tongue.

  “What?” I urged.

  He shrugged his shoulders and then swished the braid of his ponytail. “You could ask Stuyversant for the money…” he offered.

  “No,” I shook my head emphatically. “I’m sure there are laws against that, and even if there aren’t it would be improper.”

  I sighed.

  Julius sighed.

  “I’m fucked,” I said.

  Chapter 5

  Mitch

  The embassy limousine drove us through the Moscow night and pulled up in front of a well-known restaurant on Teatrainy Drive, just before seven o’clock.

  The night was cold but clear. Connie was wearing a knee-length white dress, cut perfectly to the curves and contours of her slim figure. She had let her hair out and it shimmered like a champagne cloud across her shoulders. Her eyes were bright with girlish wonder. When the limousine slowed to a stately halt, the driver came around and opened the door.

  I leaned towards Connie to issue one last gentle caution. Our bodies pressed together, our faces so close that I only needed to whisper to be heard. Her eyes lifted to mine, and her lips were moist and slightly parted. Something yearning moved in her gaze, liquid and solemn, and I realized with a small shock of sudden clarity that she was truly beautiful.

  “Remember to guard your words tonight,” I smiled. I could smell her perfume. Connie nodded.

  For a moment longer I looked into her eyes, searching for signs of conceit or spite or meanness, but I saw only determination and intelligence.

  I watched Connie climb from the car and my eyes wandered appreciatively from the toned length of her calf to the perfect firm roundness of her ass. She had an exquisite figure, the attraction of her made all the more alluring by the fact that she never behaved like she knew she was beautiful. She was devoid of vanity or narcissism.

  I felt a deep pang of regret.

  If only I was twenty years younger…

  The biting cold of the night gnawed at us as we stood on the sidewalk, bathed in the lights that spilled through the restaurant’s plate glass windows.

  “Connie will call you and arrange for you to pick us up later tonight,” I instructed the limousine driver. He nodded, climbed back into the warmth of the car, and pulled sedately away from the curb without a word.

  I turned on the sidewalk. Traffic was passing in a steady flow of muted noise and great clouds of steaming exhaust smoke.

  “That’s Red Square,” I said to Connie and pointed across the way. “It’s one of Moscow’s great landmarks.”

  “Red Square?” Connie’s voice was small and brittle in the cold.

  I nodded. “It’s considered the central square of Moscow because the city’s major streets all originate from there. It’s always been a significant part of the city, reaching right back through the centuries.”

  I was stalling, idling away a few seconds on the sidewalk to see whether the embassy car had a Russian trailing vehicle. I saw no other cars following the limousine as it drove into the darkened night and I allowed myself to relax. I turned back to Connie and took her arm.

  Sergey Volostok was waiting for us inside the front door of the restaurant, looking as vast and menacing as any bouncer. He threw his arms wide in a gesture of welcome and the smile on his face was unaffected friendliness. We shook hands and held eye contact. The smile broadened on his lips, when he turned his attention to Connie.

  “Greetings to you both,” his big voice seemed even louder in the subdued ambience of the restaurant. He took Connie’s hand and bowed to kiss it in an act of clumsy gallantry. “So very pleased you decided to accept my invitation. Come!” he waved us past the concierge’s desk. “I have a table waiting in the back.”

  The restaurant was a splendor of floor-to-ceiling columns, wall-length mirrors and a décor of dark wood and marble. An elegant winding staircase with gold-painted balustrade led to a second floor. The lighting was dimmed to create darkened private corners. Waiters glided efficiently back and forth through the double doors that led to the kitchens.

  Our table was set in a small alcove near the back, where we would not be disturbed or overlooked by other patrons. Sergey had apparently arranged for a personal waiter; a young man was standing beside the table with his back straight and his hands clasped demurely in front of his hips. When he saw us approaching he pulled Connie’s chair out for her and she sat like a beautiful bird settling on a perch.

  She was shimmering and radiant. The light caught the highlights in her hair and turned them into a golden halo.

  Sergey was a magnanimous host and the food was a collection of superb traditional Russian dishes. I made sure to drink sparingly, but Sergey had no such inhibitions. The man could drink like a fish!

  After the entrée the mood became more subdued. Sergey’s gaze kept shifting to catch Connie from the corner of his eye. There were doubtful little crinkles across his brow and a change in the set of his mouth that I read as worry or perhaps concern. I leaned across the table.

  “Sergey, you can speak freely,” I assured him and glanced at Connie with a look that was fraught with significance. “Nothing you say will leave this table.”

  The big Russian nodded, and his eyes became hooded for a moment. At last he sat back in his chair.

  “The trade negotiations,” he began. “They have reached a critical point, yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed. The dealing be
tween our governments had begun almost two frustrating years ago, but such are the ways of diplomacy that very little real progress had since been made. Global negotiations were like that; one side stated its position for weeks while the other side refused to budge from its own stance. Ultimately a small amount of ground was conceded by one of the parties, and for the ensuing weeks the stalemate returned once again. It was like laying siege to a city. Both sides were so terrified of making a bad deal, that they risked making no deal at all. And no deal would be bad business for both our governments.

  “But there are obstacles…”

  “Yes,” I said again, and then took a calculated risk. “Our government cannot accept the grain concession subsidy that Moscow is proposing, Sergey. It’s just too much to ask.”

  The burly Russian looked aggrieved. He launched into a sudden impassioned speech.

  Although his English faltered occasionally, Sergey was eloquent and persuasive, speaking with passion. He gesticulated with his hands, talking with a spontaneous glow of commitment that radiated from him in every movement and expression.

  He was a skilled orator, mixing genuine fervor with staged theatrical gestures and expressions. But through it all, one thing became clear: Russia needed to quickly finalize this trade deal.

  When he was finished speaking, Sergey slumped back in his chair and lapsed into contemplative silence like a big balloon that had deflated.

  I waited a full minute before I finally spoke.

  “Sergey are you the kind of man with the kind of connections who can make the final decisions on this deal?” I phrased my words carefully, concealing the point of the question under a thin veil.

  “Yes,” he said emphatically.

  I sat back. We were both the same kind of man, with the same mission I realized. Sergey had a direct line to his president and the power to force an agreement.

  Connie

  Moscow sparkled in the night as the car swept through the streets of the city and finally stopped in front of a restaurant.

  I was nervous and anxious, delighting in the joy of being alone and so close to Mitch, while in my mind my thoughts were a turmoil of lurid fantasies.

  The driver got out of the car and came to open the door. I tightened my grip on my purse and braced myself for the bite of the cold night air.

  Then suddenly Mitch was leaning in close to me.

  I felt the press of his leg and muscled arm against my side and my breath hitched in my throat. I turned my face slowly to his, and my whole body seemed to melt.

  “Remember to guard your words tonight,” he said in a gentle tone that was wrapped around a smile.

  I nodded.

  His voice felt like the teasing caress of fingers across my cheek. I sensed the fine hair along my arms and at the nape of my neck rise, and a sudden flush of warmth spilled down my chest and turned my nipples hard.

  Oh, God!

  I wanted him to touch me. The ache for him was obsessive. I imagined his hands gently but insistently pushing my knees apart and the thought of it made my legs tremble. The wedge between my clenched thighs cramped into a knot of wet desire. I could barely breathe.

  Touch me! I willed him.

  Kiss me! My lips parted, glistening and moist.

  Mitch was searching my eyes. My chest swelled with the pain of my frustration. I secretly leaned myself against him, soaking in the heat of his body and inhaling the intoxicating man-smell of him.

  Touch me, please! my mind cried out in desperation. Dominate me with your hands and your mouth. Take me for your pleasure. Can’t you see how badly I want you?

  Then I heard the car door opening behind me. Mitch stirred, straightening in his seat… and the fragile intimate spell between us was broken.

  I climbed out of the limousine and stepped, trembling, onto the sidewalk.

  The restaurant was elegant and the food full of peculiar and fascinating flavors. As we ate, Mitch and the Russian jousted across the dinner table, speaking in friendly tones and hidden meanings.

  I confess, I remember not a word of what was said. My thoughts were still in the limousine, going over every instant of that moment before the driver had opened the door. I was in state of quivering mayhem. My panties were soaked and I gently stirred my hips as we ate to spread the melting burn of my arousal throughout my entire lower body.

  When at last Mitch and the Russian began to stand, I looked up, my face a mask of bewilderment.

  “Sorry,” I blurted. “I wasn’t listening.”

  Mitch smiled and went behind me to draw back my chair. “We’re going,” he said kindly. “Sergey wants to show us a nightclub on the next corner of the block.”

  “A nightclub?”

  Mitch nodded. “I told him I wanted to see a glimpse of the real Moscow, remember?”

  Chapter 6

  Mitch

  We rounded the corner and walked towards the end of the street where I could see a cluster of milling people amidst strobes of rainbow-colored light. Sergey and I walked with Connie between us, and we shivered with the cold. The road was wet and slick, splashed with a yellow glow from the street lamps. Overhead the stars were just pale pricks in a black moonless sky.

  “This is a well-known nightclub,” Sergey looked like the kind of man who had never visited such a place. He didn’t exactly have the build nor grace for dancing. “Many young people come here and it also caters to western tourists,” he explained as we drew closer. The clusters of people took individual form as we neared; there were lots of young women in short glittering dresses, their faces masked with layers of makeup, tottering precariously on the ice-slick sidewalk in high heels. Many of them were smoking, waiting in roped-off lines that led to a closed door guarded by bouncers. The security men wore crew-cuts and were dressed in black leather jackets and jeans. They were rugged, muscle-bound thugs with dead gray eyes and anvil jaws.

  The beat of thumping music was like a living pulse, humming on the air and increasing every time the door was opened to accept more patrons. I glanced sideways at Sergey.

  “We’re going in here?” I asked.

  “Da,” he said with a shrug. “You wanted to see the city.”

  I shook my head. “The real city,” I said. “This looks like a place for foreigners and kids with rich parents.” I cast a look around. The block of buildings was gray and bleak, but on the opposite side of the road I saw a high-rise building and another crowd of dark figures on the sidewalk. There was a green neon sign above the glass doors that gave entry into the high-rise, and at ground level, on one side of the building, ran a narrow alleyway where another neon sign blazed. It was red.

  I pointed. “What’s that building?”

  Sergey looked pained. “That is a hotel,” he said, pointing to the green sign above the door.

  “And what’s that?” I asked, pointing to the red neon sign in the alleyway.

  “It’s a nightclub called ‘Underground’,” he said mournfully.

  “Let’s go there,” I said.

  Sergey looked suddenly alarmed. He seized my arm and drew me away from Connie.

  “That is very bad place,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Russian mafia. They own the hotel and the nightclub. There will be unsavory people,” he wrinkled his nose to make sure I understood his meaning. “It is not a fit place to take the young girl.”

  As he had been trying to dissuade me, his voice had become louder.

  Connie was staring at us, her arms folded, shivering. Her temper flashed. “I’m not a young girl,” she interrupted, thrusting out her jaw with determination and defiance.

  Sergey flinched like he had been slapped in the face. I stared into his dark eyes.

  “Do you know these Russian mafia types?” I asked.

  “Da, of course,” he said. “That is why I know it is not a secure place, yes?”

  I smiled and started for the curb. “If you know them, Sergey… and if you really have the political power I suspect you have, then we should be perf
ectly safe.”

  We waited for a break in traffic and crossed the road. Sergey was frowning, his big bear face darkened by an unhappy scowl. Connie was brooding, perhaps stung by Sergey’s inference that she was too young to frequent such an establishment.

  I was smugly satisfied.

  I had no doubt that the restaurant had been crawling with listening devices, and I suspected the night club he had wanted to take us to had been similarly prepared – maybe with security cameras, or sprinkled with Russian intelligence operatives disguised as dancers. My insistence had caught him off-balance.

  Mafia or not, the ‘Underground’ would be a place where this Russian and I could – at last – talk openly.

  The group of figures who gathered at the entrance to the place were insolent grim-faced youths. Sergey approached the doorway and spoke to them in barking Russian. One of the men looked past his shoulder and ran a curious eye over Connie and me.

  There was a brief commotion, followed by another strident outburst from Sergey before the group of young men finally parted and the door to the nightclub was swung open. Sergey turned and gestured us inside.

  The ‘Underground’ was a dark seedy hole that had once been the hotel’s basement. The air smelled of stale alcohol, pungent cigarette smoke and sweat. The stained carpet was sticky underfoot, and the lighting was low and gloomy. Across one wall of the nightclub was a bar counter and a mirrored backdrop. Red lights hung suspended from the ceiling beams, tendrils of thick smoke writhing in their glow.

  The main room was filled with closely packed men and women, milling about a small circular stage that stood before a tattered red curtain. The men were middle-aged and oily and the girls were young and pale, wearing short dresses.

  Sergey cleared a path to the bar, pushing through the crowds like a bulldozer for Connie and I to follow in his wake. The people parted sullenly and then pressed back close around us, scowling and muttering darkly at our intrusion.