multiple-page document had come through, so long that a few
pages had fluttered to the floor. One sat, curled upon the white Berber carpet, rolling gently in the breeze from the open door to the balcony. No, he definitely had not even come near to read the text from afar.
“Manuel Ortega, my associate I told you about this morning, just sent this. Wow.
Wow. ” She skimmed the report. Stopped dead in her tracks. “It’s the dossier on our attacker last night.”
He said nothing, but stood slicing green peppers, watching her.
Okay. No reaction? You’re allowing me to share or not.
She returned to read in depth. “Adolpho Boretsky. Age thirty. Nationality, half
Russian from daddy and half Italian, from mama. Sicilian, no less. That’s a scary
combination, right?”
Raul snorted and measured out rice in a glass cup.
56
Until Noon
All right. Be silent. Listen then . “Priors include assault in Genoa, age eighteen.
Charges dismissed. Cocaine possession in Casablanca, eight years ago. Oh, boy, that got him four years in one of Morocco’s sumptuously appointed prisons. Then last year, oh
wow, listen to this…” She flipped the page. “He felt up a woman in a convenience store in the Gothic Quarter here in Barcelona and got off with a week in jail and a warning.
What do you think?”
“Tame stuff.”
So why attack us, huh? Pilar put the report on the counter and poured some of the bubbly for the two of them. Handing Raul a flute, she picked up the papers again and
walked to her counter, then sat on a stool to read to him. Listening there, Raul?
“Current employment. AS Export-Import Company, headquarters Sevastopol, the
Crimea. Local headquarters, Genoa, Italy. And the owner of the conglomerate is—”
She flipped another page. Oh, hell. She dropped the papers to the counter and stared at Raul.
“Who?”
She swallowed. “Dmitry Arsov.”
His dark eyes narrowed in concern, but his shook his head. “I don’t know this
company. Who is Dmitry Arsov and tell me exactly why we care?”
She shook so badly, she had to take a drink. She gulped the fine white cava back.
“Dmitry Arsov and wife Sonja head a cartel that controls most of the Russian oil
dealings. His cartel provides thirty-one percent of oil to Spain.”
“So a little more would be a fine addition to the company’s coffers,” Raul
concluded, his eyes dead, his body taut.
“Exactly.” Swallowing down her concerns, she waved a hand at him. “Turn off the
stove. Take off your apron. We’re leaving.”
He blinked, frowning. “Where are we going?”
“To the maritime commission.”
Raul chuckled. “It is nearly nine o’clock, cara . No one is at home at the commission at this time of night.”
“No, we’re—we—Oh, hell, Raul!” She ran both hands through her hair. “I don’t
think this can wait. I know the Russians. I’ve seen the evil things they do. They have no respect for life when they want something. If they have definitely targeted Roca Oil we need to let people know. ”
He arched a long brow. “Darling, I’m afraid nothing can be done tonight. Check the
time. There is no one to contact in the commission at this hour.”
“But—”
He pointed his long wooden spoon at his large pan of rice, shrimp and vegetables
on the stove. “If you think I am leaving my paella with all those good aphrodisiac
ingredients to go to waste, you are, Señorita , very wrong.”
57
Desiree Holt & Cerise DeLand
“Oh, but Raul.” She waved her hands in frustration.
“Listen to me, Pilar. We need to find out more about what they might have planned
and when. We will contact the commission tomorrow. Believe me, I’m not about to sit
around if people will be in danger.”
“I know. But—”
“Besides,” he whispered, as he moved forward and took her flush against him, his
hands covering her ass. “I have better things to do with our time tonight than chase
ghosts.”
“You do, eh?”
“Yes. As I
pages had fluttered to the floor. One sat, curled upon the white Berber carpet, rolling gently in the breeze from the open door to the balcony. No, he definitely had not even come near to read the text from afar.
“Manuel Ortega, my associate I told you about this morning, just sent this. Wow.
Wow. ” She skimmed the report. Stopped dead in her tracks. “It’s the dossier on our attacker last night.”
He said nothing, but stood slicing green peppers, watching her.
Okay. No reaction? You’re allowing me to share or not.
She returned to read in depth. “Adolpho Boretsky. Age thirty. Nationality, half
Russian from daddy and half Italian, from mama. Sicilian, no less. That’s a scary
combination, right?”
Raul snorted and measured out rice in a glass cup.
56
Until Noon
All right. Be silent. Listen then . “Priors include assault in Genoa, age eighteen.
Charges dismissed. Cocaine possession in Casablanca, eight years ago. Oh, boy, that got him four years in one of Morocco’s sumptuously appointed prisons. Then last year, oh
wow, listen to this…” She flipped the page. “He felt up a woman in a convenience store in the Gothic Quarter here in Barcelona and got off with a week in jail and a warning.
What do you think?”
“Tame stuff.”
So why attack us, huh? Pilar put the report on the counter and poured some of the bubbly for the two of them. Handing Raul a flute, she picked up the papers again and
walked to her counter, then sat on a stool to read to him. Listening there, Raul?
“Current employment. AS Export-Import Company, headquarters Sevastopol, the
Crimea. Local headquarters, Genoa, Italy. And the owner of the conglomerate is—”
She flipped another page. Oh, hell. She dropped the papers to the counter and stared at Raul.
“Who?”
She swallowed. “Dmitry Arsov.”
His dark eyes narrowed in concern, but his shook his head. “I don’t know this
company. Who is Dmitry Arsov and tell me exactly why we care?”
She shook so badly, she had to take a drink. She gulped the fine white cava back.
“Dmitry Arsov and wife Sonja head a cartel that controls most of the Russian oil
dealings. His cartel provides thirty-one percent of oil to Spain.”
“So a little more would be a fine addition to the company’s coffers,” Raul
concluded, his eyes dead, his body taut.
“Exactly.” Swallowing down her concerns, she waved a hand at him. “Turn off the
stove. Take off your apron. We’re leaving.”
He blinked, frowning. “Where are we going?”
“To the maritime commission.”
Raul chuckled. “It is nearly nine o’clock, cara . No one is at home at the commission at this time of night.”
“No, we’re—we—Oh, hell, Raul!” She ran both hands through her hair. “I don’t
think this can wait. I know the Russians. I’ve seen the evil things they do. They have no respect for life when they want something. If they have definitely targeted Roca Oil we need to let people know. ”
He arched a long brow. “Darling, I’m afraid nothing can be done tonight. Check the
time. There is no one to contact in the commission at this hour.”
“But—”
He pointed his long wooden spoon at his large pan of rice, shrimp and vegetables
on the stove. “If you think I am leaving my paella with all those good aphrodisiac
ingredients to go to waste, you are, Señorita , very wrong.”
57
Desiree Holt & Cerise DeLand
“Oh, but Raul.” She waved her hands in frustration.
“Listen to me, Pilar. We need to find out more about what they might have planned
and when. We will contact the commission tomorrow. Believe me, I’m not about to sit
around if people will be in danger.”
“I know. But—”
“Besides,” he whispered, as he moved forward and took her flush against him, his
hands covering her ass. “I have better things to do with our time tonight than chase
ghosts.”
“You do, eh?”
“Yes. As I
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