information Denny had given her in addition to preparing for the meeting with his shark of an agent.
Denny was certain there was a connection there, but she still hadn't seen it. Was there really? Maybe meeting the agent would help. And if there was a connection...? She wasn't sure yet how, but she was going to find out.
**
Bobbi was sick to her stomach and doing all she could not to show it as she sat back in the oversized chair and watched the scene in front of her. Nikolai had been given a multi-page contract to sign. He had barely been given any details, hadn't asked any questions. He sat there, the contract on the shiny glass desk in front of him, and watched his agent with a broad, empty smile.
It was a great deal, Walter Jacobs had assured him in a smooth voice, all but dismissing her as soon as Nikolai introduced them. The endorsement was a lucrative one, the company was offering solid terms. All Nikolai had to do was wear a particular brand of skates for a few weeks and pose for some pictures while he was wearing them.
And, oh yeah, sign on the bottom line.
My God, Nikolai hadn't even asked how much it was for!
She glanced at his agent, sitting smugly behind the massive chrome and glass desk, nestled in this oversized opulent office with a breathtaking view of the Inner Harbor. His suit and loafers were high-dollar Italian, his hands were manicured, and his complexion the result of regular facials. She'd bet any amount of money that he drove something flashy, expensive, and inappropriate.
Bobbi closed her eyes and pictured Nikolai's row home, economically furnished, basic. She opened her eyes as he reached for the gold pen—real gold, of that she was certain—and held it between his strong, calloused fingers. He flipped to the last page of the contract and positioned the pen at the bottom line, putting the point against the crisp white sheet.
Bobbi shot from the chair.
"No!" She yanked the pen out of his hand and sat back down, clutching it tightly in front of her, her heart hammering in her chest. Walter Jacobs nearly jumped out of his own chair and lunged across the desk, his shock obvious before he stopped himself and sat back down. Nikolai merely looked at her, one brow raised in calm question.
"You do not like this, moe krasivejshee ?" His voice was as casual as if he had been asking about the weather, while she was still shaking on the inside.
She shook her head, her fist still closed in a death grip around the pen. "No. No, I don't."
Nikolai leaned back in his chair, an amused smile on his face, the contract all but forgotten on the desk in front of him. "You...how you say...do not like these skates?"
Bobbi wanted to kick him, and shot him a look that let him know she was annoyed with the deepening Old Country act. "No. I... how you say ...don't care about these skates! What I care about is the contract."
Nikolai quickly looked down, hiding his smile at her obvious sarcasm. Walter Jacobs, however, looked like he was close to having a massive coronary. His full face had the unhealthy glow of an overripe tomato, and his dark eyes bulged as he stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. Bobbi truly wished he would keel over, right then and there.
"Now see here, Miss. This is a solid, lucrative agreement. I have been Mr. Petrovich's agent for eight years, and only have his best interest at stake."
Bobbi clenched her fists in her lap and refrained from lunging across the desk and tearing his lying lips right off his face. The conniving little bastard. But she couldn't.
Because she didn't know what she knew. Hell, she didn't know anything. Not for certain. And there was nothing she could do. Not here, not now. She had already said and done too much, could have possibly risked everything with her careless, impulsive
Denny was certain there was a connection there, but she still hadn't seen it. Was there really? Maybe meeting the agent would help. And if there was a connection...? She wasn't sure yet how, but she was going to find out.
**
Bobbi was sick to her stomach and doing all she could not to show it as she sat back in the oversized chair and watched the scene in front of her. Nikolai had been given a multi-page contract to sign. He had barely been given any details, hadn't asked any questions. He sat there, the contract on the shiny glass desk in front of him, and watched his agent with a broad, empty smile.
It was a great deal, Walter Jacobs had assured him in a smooth voice, all but dismissing her as soon as Nikolai introduced them. The endorsement was a lucrative one, the company was offering solid terms. All Nikolai had to do was wear a particular brand of skates for a few weeks and pose for some pictures while he was wearing them.
And, oh yeah, sign on the bottom line.
My God, Nikolai hadn't even asked how much it was for!
She glanced at his agent, sitting smugly behind the massive chrome and glass desk, nestled in this oversized opulent office with a breathtaking view of the Inner Harbor. His suit and loafers were high-dollar Italian, his hands were manicured, and his complexion the result of regular facials. She'd bet any amount of money that he drove something flashy, expensive, and inappropriate.
Bobbi closed her eyes and pictured Nikolai's row home, economically furnished, basic. She opened her eyes as he reached for the gold pen—real gold, of that she was certain—and held it between his strong, calloused fingers. He flipped to the last page of the contract and positioned the pen at the bottom line, putting the point against the crisp white sheet.
Bobbi shot from the chair.
"No!" She yanked the pen out of his hand and sat back down, clutching it tightly in front of her, her heart hammering in her chest. Walter Jacobs nearly jumped out of his own chair and lunged across the desk, his shock obvious before he stopped himself and sat back down. Nikolai merely looked at her, one brow raised in calm question.
"You do not like this, moe krasivejshee ?" His voice was as casual as if he had been asking about the weather, while she was still shaking on the inside.
She shook her head, her fist still closed in a death grip around the pen. "No. No, I don't."
Nikolai leaned back in his chair, an amused smile on his face, the contract all but forgotten on the desk in front of him. "You...how you say...do not like these skates?"
Bobbi wanted to kick him, and shot him a look that let him know she was annoyed with the deepening Old Country act. "No. I... how you say ...don't care about these skates! What I care about is the contract."
Nikolai quickly looked down, hiding his smile at her obvious sarcasm. Walter Jacobs, however, looked like he was close to having a massive coronary. His full face had the unhealthy glow of an overripe tomato, and his dark eyes bulged as he stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. Bobbi truly wished he would keel over, right then and there.
"Now see here, Miss. This is a solid, lucrative agreement. I have been Mr. Petrovich's agent for eight years, and only have his best interest at stake."
Bobbi clenched her fists in her lap and refrained from lunging across the desk and tearing his lying lips right off his face. The conniving little bastard. But she couldn't.
Because she didn't know what she knew. Hell, she didn't know anything. Not for certain. And there was nothing she could do. Not here, not now. She had already said and done too much, could have possibly risked everything with her careless, impulsive
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