Hard Target by Marquita Valentine Page A

I’ve emerged.”
    “You trust me.”
    “Naturally.”
    My gun slides easily from my holster and into my hand. Is this a trap? Or is she working for the Wraith organization. “How can you be so sure?”
    “Because your first question was to ask my part in it, not how much could you buy it for.” She pushes the flash drive back into the side of her watch. “I have a plan, but I’m in over my head on this one.”
    “I am as well. I cannot figure out who the middleman is. The buyer is of no importance, of course. There will always be buyers.”
    She nods. “I agree.”
    “So who can spy on the unspyable?”
    “In this new world order, I’m afraid that there is no such thing.”
    “There is always such a thing until that technology gets leaked,” I disagree. “But in the meantime, is there any way for you to make the vaccine in large quantities if needed?”
    “Give me facilities with a multi-million dollar lab and a state-of-the-art production line, and sure, I can make that happen. I already have the two vials made. Farooq is keeping them safe for us. However, they can be easily replicated.”
    Stark relief flows through me. “I was supposed to drop the flash drive off in Paris over two days ago. No one has contacted me, not even via an attempt on my life.”
    Yet hangs in the air between us. At any time, someone could bomb this place, poison my drink… the possibilities are endless.
    Tansy stands, her hands smoothing down the material of her dress. “Do be a dear and give me a call when you figure out your next move.”
    My gaze roams her, but it’s all an act. “To keep you waiting would be a crime.”
    Tansy. “Be sure to tell Morgan that I’m glad she won the wager. I had a fiver on her.”
    “Am I the only one who didn’t know about the bloody wager?”
    “Men are always the last to know.” Her smile is serene.
    Gathering my things, I wait for Tansy to leave before I do the same.
    It’s time I travel to Grandfather’s to collect my woman.

Chapter Ten
    Morgan
    St. Petersburg, Russia. Romanov Compound
    One week later
    B en’s grandfather lives in a palace, a real palace made of marble. Of course it’s made of other stuff too, but he takes great pride in telling me all about the history of the Romanovs. The first time I met him, he kissed me on the lips and swore I was Aphrodite incarnate. It’s easy to see where Ben inherited his considerably charm.
    His grandfather, who insists I call him Dmitri, has it oozing from his pores. Smells a million times better than the cologne most guys my age wear.
    Ben is the exception of course. He has his own brand.
    Ugh. Stop thinking about him. He’s the one who left you here to… live in the lap of luxury while puts his life on the line. But it’s hard not to be reminded of him.
    Every Romanov male looks almost exactly alike. I’ve never seen so many black haired, pale blue-eyed men in my life. They’re all dressed in suits, packing heat, and are inked.
    It strikes me as odd that Benjamin has no tattoos.
    Most of them avoid eye contact, but that doesn’t stop me from staring. Who wouldn’t stare at a multi-generational family with amazing looks? Even though I’m still pissed off at Ben for sending me away, I can say that he’s the best looking of all of them.
    “If you don’t mind me asking, is Dmitry named for you?”
    “ Da. His father and I are brothers. Only the spelling is different.”
    “That’s not confusing,” I mutter, then raise my voice. “Who is Ben named for?”
    “I believe his mother named him for the Christian martyr who was tortured with reeds shoved under his nails until his death.”
    “That’s a lovely story.”
    His mouth quirks. “In Russian, his name is Venyamin, and he is no martyr.”
    “I’m more of a fan of Ben, except I’m not a fan of him at all right now.” I give Dmitri an apologetic look. “Sorry, but he was a jerk.”
    “Because he sent you to me.”
    “No, because he promised not to keep me in