were trained on the door as he downed the first fiery taste of whiskey. Without pausing, he poured a second shot. His mind was working out all the alternatives.
He’d learned to think on his feet at an early age, just as he’d learned to use his feet to run if that was the best solution. He didn’t mind a fight, but he liked to have the odds in his favor. He could deal straight, or he could skim over the finer points of honesty—depending on what was the most profitable.
What he had strapped to his chest could be the answer to his taste for luxury and easy living—the taste he’d always wanted to cultivate. What was outside, combing the streets for him, could be a quick end to living at all. Weighing one against the other, Doug opted to shoot for the pot of gold.
The couple beside him were discussing the latest Mailer novel in earnest voices. Another group tossed around the idea of heading to a club for jazz and cheaper booze. The crowd at the bar was mostly single, he decided, here to drink off the tension of a business day and show themselves to other singles. There were leather skirts, three-piece suits, and high-topped sneakers. Satisfied, Doug pulled out a cigarette. He could have chosen a worse place to hide.
A blonde in a dove gray suit slid onto the stool beside him and flicked her lighter at the end of his cigarette. She smelled of Chanel and vodka. Crossing her legs, she downed the rest of her drink.
“Haven’t seen you in here before.”
Doug gave her a brief look—enough to take in the slightly blurred vision and the predatory smile. Another time, he’d have appreciated it. “No.” He poured another shot.
“My office is a couple of blocks from here.” Even after three Stolichnayas, she recognized something arrogant, something dangerous in the man beside her. Interested, she swiveled a little closer. “I’m an architect.”
The hair on the back of his neck stood up when they walked in. The three of them looked neat and successful. Shifting, he looked over the blonde’s shoulder as they separated. One of them stood idly by the door. The only way out.
Attracted rather than discouraged by his lack of response, the blonde laid a hand on Doug’s arm. “And what do you do?”
He let the whiskey lie in his mouth for just a moment before he swallowed and sent it spreading through his system. “I steal,” he told her because people rarely believe the truth.
She smiled as she took out a cigarette, then handed him her lighter and waited for Doug to flick it on for her. “Fascinating, I’m sure.” She blew out a quick, thin stream of smoke and plucked the lighter from his fingers. “Why don’t you buy me a drink and tell me all about it?”
A pity he’d never tried that line before since it seemed to work so well. A pity the timing was all wrong, because she filled out the little suit neater than a CPA filled out a 1099. “Not tonight, sugar.”
Keeping his mind on business, Doug poured more whiskey and stayed out of the light. The impromptu disguise might work. He felt the pressure of a gun barrel against his ribs. Then again, it might not.
“Outside, Lord. Mr. Dimitri’s upset that you didn’t keep your appointment.”
“Yeah?” Casually, he swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Thought I’d have a couple of drinks first, Remo— must’ve lost track of time.”
The barrel dug into his ribs again. “Mr. Dimitri likes his employees to be prompt.”
Doug downed the whiskey, watching in the mirror behind the bar as the two other men took position behind him. Already the blonde was backing off to look for an easier mark. “Am I fired?” He poured another glass and figured the odds. Three to one—they were armed, he wasn’t. But then, of the three of them, only Remo had what could pass for a brain.
“Mr. Dimitri likes to fire his employees in person.” Remo grinned and showed perfectly capped teeth under a pencil-thin moustache. “And he wants to give you real special attention.”
“Okay.” Doug placed one hand on the whiskey bottle, the other on the glass. “How about a drink first?”
“Mr. Dimitri doesn’t like drinking on the job. And you’re late, Lord. Real late.”
“Yeah. Well, it’s a shame to waste good booze.” Whirling, he tossed the whiskey into Remo’s eyes and swung the bottle into the face of the suited man at his right. With