Deceptive Innocence by Kyra Davis Page A

his face. Romenov is known to have some illegal dealings, although he’s never been busted for anything. He’s one of those criminals that has a mystique about him, the kind that people like Travis Gable find awe-inspiring rather than repellant. Most importantly, everybody knows that if you’re working for Romenov in any capacity, even at the lowest level, you have to be good at holding your tongue, turning a blind eye, and, in a weird way, being completely trustworthy. No one steals or betrays Romenov.
    Which makes me quite a valuable employee.
    “He was a friend of Mr. George and he was doing me a favor. I just needed to earn an income while I looked for work in my field.”
    I’m momentarily startled by the ringing of the landline, but Travis doesn’t show any sign of registering the sound. “I like you,” he says.
    “Glad to hear it, Mr. Gable.” The phone stops ringing and the sudden silence emphasizes the intimacy of this meeting, taking place in a penthouse, not an office . . . and his wife nowhere to be seen.
    “Lloyd, Jessica’s last personal assistant, was good at his job . . . or at least we thought he was, we both thought he was,” Travis emphasizes, as if to highlight the shared responsibility for the last assistant’s hiring. “Turns out he had a drug problem. I can’t have that. People say things they shouldn’t to people they shouldn’t when they’re under the influence. I already have to monitor my wife, so I don’t want to have to worry about some assistant too. Are you a big drinker, Bell? Abuse any substance at all?”
    “I don’t do drugs and I always stop after my second glass.”
    “That’s good. Very good.” He presses his fingers to his lips. Studies me a little longer. “And I like your outfit,” he finally adds. “It flatters you.”
    “I try to dress to impress.”
    There’s a sound as the front door opens and closes, then the light click of heels moving down the hardwood floor of the hall.
    Travis never takes his eyes off me. “I’m going to give you a chance. You’ll mostly be here with Jessica, but remember, if I’m the one who’s given you a task, I’m the one you’ll be reporting back to on how it went. You will not leave word with my wife or anyone else. Understand?”
    “I understand.” I lower my head submissively. “I’m truly grateful for this opportunity.”
    When he only answers with a smile I get up, keeping my eyes on the polished floor. “When shall I start?”
    “Monday. Be here at eight.”
    I nod and turn to leave, and nearly collide with a woman sporting strawberry-blonde hair arranged in a low bun. Her dress is a cinch-waisted, full-skirted brocade number. I know she’s pushing thirty, but she has that ageless quality that the rich sometimes do when they purchase their sophistication and elegance from Ralph Lauren and Dior. She looks a little like the kind of doll you collect and never take out of the box for fear of decreasing its value . . . except for her bloodshot eyes, which are trained on Travis.
    “Hello, darling,” she says, looking past me, trying to catch Travis’s eye. But he’s occupied with his phone. He doesn’t even really acknowledge her . . . similar to how she’s not directly acknowledging me.
    “I just spoke to Lander,” she says, now pulling on her fingers nervously. “He’ll be here in a few minutes to drop off the piece for the charity auction.”
    There’s a weird dynamic going on between these two, but I can’t really dwell on it now. Lander’s discovery of my latest career move has to be carefully controlled. Which means I can’t be here when he arrives.
    “I’ll be leaving, then,” I say quickly, turning back to Travis. “I’ll be here on Monday at eight a.m. sharp. If you need me to work over the weekend, just give me a call.”
    I move to leave, but Jessica grabs my arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “I don’t understand,” she says, her voice much weaker than her grip.