him since.”
“What was he commissioned to find, and who commissioned him?”
“The auction house has no idea,” she replied. “You see, he’s an independent broker, and the commission didn’t come through the house. For the last week before he disappeared, he went into the Who Do Voodoo on a daily basis. As if he’d gotten a job there—which makes no sense at all. The day he disappeared, the name of the club was written down in his appointment book, too.”
“Who was the last person to see him?”
“I found the taxi driver who dropped him off there that night. He says he didn’t see Max meet or speak to anyone. He just went inside the club.”
“What does Max look like?” he asked.
“Six feet tall. Athletic. Brown hair. Blue eyes. I have a picture of him if you want to see it.”
“That would be great.”
She jumped up and went into the bedroom. He heard a drawer squeak open and closed, and then she was coming back toward him. Transfixed, he watched her slow, sensuous return. Her body was slender, and she moved like a dancer. She was still wearing those sexy stockings with their hot little bows, but she’d kicked off the high heels and was padding around in her stocking feet, which was almost sexier. Her feet were elegantly shaped, and her toenails were painted a sassy shade of red beneath the black fishnet. Jeez, it had been way too long since he’d had a woman if some girl’s feet were a turn-on.
“Here’s a picture of Max.”
No wonder she was stalking the guy. He exuded breezy, classy charm, and it was just a damned picture. Ashe memorized Max’s face carefully while he snapped a picture of the photo with his cell phone. He took a moment to encrypt the picture so a casual search of his phone wouldn’t show the image. If he was dealing with former KGB types, he couldn’t afford to leave any trace of his real purpose lying around to be found.
Because he was, of course, going to help this girl find her lost lover or whoever the guy was to her. She was completely unequipped to deal with mobsters, let alone mobsters of this ilk. And he was a sucker for damsels in distress.
He placed a call to his SEAL team’s ops center. It was a 24/7/365 outfit equipped to do just about anything a SEAL team could think up by way of support, from pulling in real-time intel, to tapping satellite feeds, to getting oddball-caliber ammo delivered to hellholes halfway around the globe on a moment’s notice. Illegally. And without being detected.
A familiar female voice answered the phone. Awesome. Jennie Finch was one of the best ops specialists in the outfit. “Hey, Jen. I need you to run a name. Vitaly Parenko, which is likely an alias. Former KGB type. Russian Navy submariner. Living in New Orleans now. In his midforties.”
“I thought you were supposed to be on vacation, Hollywood.”
Ashe sighed in response. God knew Jen had helped him and his guys out enough times to rate using his team nickname. He often asked for her specifically to run point in ops on his missions because she was smart as hell, had a knack for anticipating what he was going to need and had it waiting for him by the time he asked for it.
“Are you running an op I didn’t hear about?” she demanded, a shade indignantly.
“Something like that.”
“Why didn’t Perriman brief it to us here in ops?”
He grimaced. “Perriman doesn’t know about it yet. I want to get my ducks in a row before I brief him.”
“Oooh, you’re gonna be in big truh-ble when he finds out you’re working during your shore leave.”
“Don’t rat me out, okay?”
“If you’ll promise that I get to watch the fireworks when he finds out, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“Deal,” he said.
“Okay. Vitaly Parenko doesn’t exist before the year 2005.”
She must’ve had her computer searching for data while they bantered back and forth. “What does that mean, he doesn’t exist?” he asked.
“Your guess that the name is an alias is correct. You got a picture I can work off?”
“Not yet. But I’ll get you one. Speaking of pictures, I need you to see what you can find out on another guy. Name’s Max. Lemme send you the image now.”
While he pulled the phone away from his ear to send the image to Jennie, he glanced up at Hank. “What’s Max’s last name?”
“Kuznetsov.”
He put the phone back to his ear. “Last name Kuznetsov. Went missing around—”
Hank supplied, “June tenth of this year.”
“—June tenth.” Almost three months ago. The trail had to be getting damned cold by now. He relayed the other information Hank had shared with him to Jennie and ended with, “And I need you to check out a strip joint called the Who Do Voodoo in New Orleans. Parenko nominally owns the place, but someone else is pulling out most of the cash it makes. And be quiet about it. I don’t want to tip off the Russian mob that I’m poking around.”
“Would I do it any other way?” Jennie challenged him.
“Nah. You’re the best.”
“Get me a picture of this Parenko guy if you can.”
“Roger that. Gimme till tomorrow night.”
“Okay. I’ll work on this other stuff in the meantime.”
Ashe disconnected the call to find Hank glaring at him. “Who was that? You didn’t just drag the authorities into this, did you?”
“Nah. That’s just Jennie. She researches stuff for me from time to time.”
Hank’s expression fell. Yeah, he knew the feeling. He’d felt a spark of interest for her, too, until he’d found out she was willing to risk her life to track down some ex-boyfriend she was still carrying a torch for.
It was for the best that she thought Jennie was some sort of romantic interest of his. If nothing else, it made him look a little less pathetic for having been interested in her when she was still in love with this Max guy. Too bad her heart was given elsewhere. He sensed that the two of them could’ve been good together. Really good.
He asked in resignation, “You gonna be okay tonight, or do you need me to crash on your couch?”
A combination of heat and alarm raced across her lovely, mobile features. She really was a pretty girl beneath the cheap, gaudy makeup. The kind of genuine pretty that would age with grace and grow more elegant with time. Her skin was smooth and soft and fair. It matched her light-haired, blue-eyed Nordic looks...
And she was not for him.
He rose to his feet and moved swiftly to her windows, checking the locks before he headed to the door. “Lock this after me. I’ll stand outside until I hear the dead bolt thrown home.”
She nodded, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a note of fear pinged in her gaze. She wanted him to stay but wasn’t going to ask it of him. He didn’t know whether to label her brave or just stubborn. Probably a little of both.
Knowing Bastien LeBlanc, the guy would spend the rest of the night hanging out in this neighborhood, keeping an eye on it. Hank would be plenty safe tonight. Bastien had been on the teams with Ashe for years and was a hell of a soldier, not to mention a loyal friend. Since Ashe had asked for help, Bastien would lend a hand and more.
“Be careful, Hank. You’re in way deeper than you know. Please reconsider and don’t go back to that place.”
“Thanks for your help earlier and for your concern. But I know what I’m doing.”
No. She didn’t. But it was an argument