Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1) Page 7

  Marielle shook her head and turned toward her bedroom. “Life is short, Sam. Don’t waste your time with something you don’t want.”

  *

  *

  There’s one thing that a cell phone alarm requires to work: a charged battery. The apartment was dead quiet when Samantha opened her eyes. The room was bathed in the foreboding gray light of the dreary day to come. Her phone rested in its usual place on her night table. She swung her legs over the side of her warm bed and reached for the dangling charger cord plugged in next to her bed. She’d never forgotten to affix it before.

  She sagged, falling like a sack of bricks into the soft plume of down billowing around her. Her phone booted up. She didn’t let the cheery electronic melody fool her. It didn’t have good news. Looking back at the screen would only confirm what she already knew. She’d overslept. It was nine twenty-five, and she’d missed her eight o’clock class along with the mid-term exam that went with it.

  What now? Get yourself to school and beg for a makeup date you idiot. Samantha played out the conversation in her mind. She’d need a doctor’s note, one that gave her a really good excuse for not being present for the test. Cramps? No. Her professor was a middle-aged woman and nothing short of a spontaneous hysterectomy would convince her that an unusually rogue period was justification for missing her exam. The right excuse would be something that sounded serious, but nothing hospital worthy. For that, she’d need a doctor she could ask for a favor. Samantha was in the shower when Marielle came home from her early class.

  She hurried into her towel and ambushed Marielle in the kitchen. “Isn’t that guy Henri a doctor?”

  She placed a bag of groceries onto the counter. “He’s in his surgical residency. Why?”

  Samantha chewed softly on her lip and decided whether to come clean about oversleeping. Marielle had been so judgy lately. Did she really want another lecture?

  “Maybe he can refer someone good to remove this mole on my shoulder.” She pointed to the small brown dot. “I mean, you can never be too careful about skin cancer.”

  “He’s a surgeon, not a dermatologist.” She removed a box of granola from the bag. “That mole is not the kind that’s cancerous, anyway.”

  “Oh, so now you’re the doctor?” Sam crossed her arms over her chest. “Please, I’m seriously worried.” Well, at least that was the truth.

  Marielle rolled her eyes. “Fine, then.” She pulled a pencil and notepad from the drawer next to the sink and her phone from her purse. “I’m giving you his number, because there is no way in hell I’m calling him. It’s really better that I put that whole part of my life behind me.” She ripped the page sharply from the pad and handed it to Samantha. “Just be careful, he can be dangerous. They all can…and I don’t mean physically.”

  Samantha took the small piece of paper and folded it. “I will. Thank you.”

  “I’m not even sure you should thank me. He’s probably not going to be able to help.”

  Samantha shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

  Marielle shook her head in defeat. “Did you decide if you are coming with me to Nice for spring break?”

  “Protesting your father’s offices isn’t exactly my idea of a fun vacation.”

  “What are you going to do here all by yourself?”

  She shrugged, and yet she was pretty positive for the first time since she’d landed in Paris that she wouldn’t be bored.

  In less than a half hour, she was dressed and walking the busy street toward the café on the corner where she could sip a café au lait and call Henri without the chance of Marielle overhearing.

  Straight to voicemail. “Uh… Hello, this is Samantha, Marielle’s friend from the other night. I was hoping that you could help me with something…a doctor’s note for school.” She rolled her eyes at how ridiculous that sounded. “Okay…so, please call me back when you get this.”

  Sam ended the call and placed her phone on the table. No sooner had she stirred the sugar into her coffee did it start to chirp.

  The number was restricted. “Hello?” she asked.

  “I never pick up unfamiliar numbers. Neither should you.”

  Henri’s voice delivered a thick French accent that encased his English like a dark chocolate truffle. The comment was a peculiar mix of wit and war.

  “Thank you for returning my call.”

  “How could I not? As a physician, it’s my duty to help where help is needed.” She listened as he swallowed something. “Where are you?”

  “In the 10th.”

  “Come to the hospital on Rue Boudreau. I can see you if you get here within the hour.”

  “Perfect! I’m on my way.” Samantha took one large gulp of her coffee and set the white porcelain cup down with a clank before tossing a few bills on the table. The warm liquid settled in her belly, but it didn’t drown the flutter there. Samantha recognized that sensation. It was the same way she felt just before a roller coaster took that first big drop. There was always a moment when she asked herself how she’d ended up on the edge of destruction and then remembered she’d put herself there of her own free will.

  Chapter 8

  It was odd to reconcile the colorful character she had met so briefly in Club Duval with the neat young man standing in scrubs before her. He smiled easily, and Sam could instantly understand why Marielle had called him dangerous.

  “I can write you a note that states you have been under my care for acute tonsillitis. However, you will not be able to speak louder than a whisper if you want your professor to believe you.” He looked extremely entertained as he wrote the note. “I have to say, you don’t seem like the type to whisper.”

  Samantha reached to take the note from him when he was finished, but he flicked it high above her, holding it out of her reach.

  “Not so fast. What do I get out of this?”

  “What?” Samantha asked. “Nothing. You said you wanted to help.”

  “I said that I would help. But you have got to help me too.”

  She frowned. “If you think I’m going to do any of the things I think you’re imagining for a favor from you, you don’t know jack shit.”

  “I’m very certain you want this note.” He pursed his lips. “Why do you need it so badly anyway?”

  She chewed her lip, the burn of her temper prickling her scalp as she decided if she should tell him the truth. In the end she could think of a good alternative. She blew clipped huff and lowered her gaze to his Italian loafers. “I overslept and missed my exam, okay. I screwed up.”

  “Pretty amateurish,” he said.

  “Come on, everyone oversleeps sometimes.”

  “No, I mean your skill for sounding contrite.”

  Samantha’s head shot back up. She frowned. “I’m contrite.”

  “You’re not taking responsibility.”

  “I said that I screwed up. What do you want from me? Blood?”

  He laughed, and the chuckle trailed off into a sigh. “The question is what do you want?”

  “What is this? Some kind of mind game? Are you going to give me the note or not?”

  He laughed softly at a joke that he didn’t share. “Spend a day with my friend Oleg, and I’ll give you the note this evening.”

  “Come again?”

  He narrowed his eyes and leaned toward her. “Decide a day isn’t long enough, and I’ll give you a reason to miss the whole rest of your semester.”

  “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Vestibular disorder causes chronic vertigo and nausea. It’s a perfectly plausible reason to be given a sanctioned break from school.” He tilted his head. “If that’s what you would like.”

  Sam tried not to acknowledge how good that sounded. No more homework, no more books…and all the time in the world to sketch her fantasy designs. She bit back a smile. “And how does any of this benefit you?”

  “I want my friend to have what he wants, and right now, I can tell that he wants you.”

&n
bsp; “But he’s engaged.”

  “Don’t make it sound like a fairytale romance. I assure you, it is not.” He folded the note and placed it in the pocket of his lab coat. Samantha noticed the ID card clipped there, labeling this man in front of her as Dr. Henri Gérard. He pulled his notepad from his side pocket once more. “This is his office address. Make a decision. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  She hesitated, certain it wasn’t smart to show up on that particular man’s doorstep. Not that she was afraid he wouldn’t want to see her. She worried the soon-to-be-in-an-arrangement walking complication would. She was already a walking complication. Did she really need competition on that front? Henri pulled his hand back, and she reached out and snatched it before it too disappeared into his breast pocket.

  “Okay, fine. I’ll go.”

  He held on to the paper as she tried to take it. “You can always just go to your professor and face the mess you’ve made.”

  “Do you have to make me feel like crap?”

  “How you feel has nothing to do with me.” He let the paper go and walked away.

  *

  The handshake was honest. Oleg was certain about that. Firm and steady, transparent even. The man standing at the threshold of his office was all those things, and yet Oleg was tasked with finding his weak spot.

  “You should know, Oleg, this meeting is not a guarantee that I will want to partner with your…ehem…organization.”

  “Adrian, I respect your instinct for caution,” Oleg said, his tone buttery smooth, as if speaking to an old friend instead of a man he’d only just met face-to-face moments ago. “But you should know that I am a man of my word, and when I tell you there will be no trail to the source of these funds, you should simply smile and count your blessings.”

  “I’ll need a few days to think about this.”

  “Don’t take too long. It isn’t as if you are the only builder here who has bit off more than he can chew. Besides, I am sure you’d rather sleep well at night knowing you can pay your Romani workers. Gypsies might be cheap, but they aren’t particularly forgiving.”

  Adrian nodded, his lips pressed thin. “A few days,” he said again and left through the open door.

  Before Oleg could close it, the kitten appeared on the threshold. Interesting. He appraised her for just long enough for her to squirm in place.

  “I don’t normally enjoy surprises.”

  “I don’t normally do surprises,” Samantha said.

  He smiled, not something he’d done a lot of lately. “Come in,” he said and eyed her as she practically pranced through the doorway.

  “How did you know where my office is?”

  She blinked a few times, and the way her apple cheeks turned red made him wonder if she’d have the courage to fess up about whatever was behind that display.

  “Would you believe your friend Henri dared me to come?”

  “Dare, Henri, come…those words definitely go together.” He gestured toward one of the two chairs at the corner of the office.

  She pulled on her long ponytail, smoothing it over her shoulder. “He meant come over here…obviously.”

  “Not so obviously.” His smile set well into his cheeks. “I thought we might not see each other again.”

  Samantha took a deep breath. “What is it you do, anyway?”

  “In a few words, I move money. Move it from one investment to another, from one business to another.”

  “I should say that sounds interesting, but I’m sorry, it doesn’t.” Samantha giggled through a smirk.

  Oleg laughed at her boldness. “Not to worry. I have plenty of other interesting aspects to my life.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “Henri said you’d want to see me.”

  Oleg narrowed his gaze at her. “Henri was correct. But I’m sorry to say that my schedule is a bit tight this afternoon.”

  Samantha bit her lip. “I could just hang out here until you’re done.”

  “Why would you want to do that?” He turned to a small table with two crystal decanters holding clear liquid. He chose one and poured a half-full glass.

  “It’s not that I want to. I…need something.”

  “From me?”

  “From Henri.” She shook her head. “It’s a long story…a long and stupid story.”

  “Try me.”

  Samantha threw her hands up. “You know, this was a ridiculous idea. I’m going to go now.” She turned around.

  “Stop,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t belong here.”

  Oleg stepped forward and wrapped her ponytail in his grasp. He didn’t pull, but she stopped in her tracks. “Just a moment.”

  “Let go of me.”

  Her voice was wispy, like air through a lace curtain. “What if I asked you to have a seat and be very quiet while I hold my next meeting? Would you be able to do that?”

  “Let go first,” she said after a hard swallow.

  He loosened his grasp and traded her silky blond hair for her slender neck. This time, the touch he delivered with his fingers was feather soft. Perhaps there was some time to be found. “Sit quietly for me, and afterward, we can do whatever you like.”

  She turned her elegant neck and aligned her heart-shaped jaw to her shoulder, looking at him only from the periphery of her gaze. “I thought you said you had a busy afternoon.”

  “I get the feeling the best way to invest my time today will be with you.”

  Samantha took the seat he motioned to at the corner of the room. “How long will your meeting take?”

  “Not very long.” He handed her a notepad and a pen from his desk drawer. “You can be my assistant.”

  She took it with a frown. “Do I look like a secretary?”

  “In my experience, appearances are usually deceiving.” A noise from the reception area drew his attention. “Besides, I haven’t had the chance to hire someone yet.”

  He walked away from her and checked his watch. Trent was early. Perhaps eager was a better description. Oleg expected to see the wiry, salt-and-pepper-coiffed developer entering with his proverbial hat in hand. Their last discussion had revealed just how much the Balashov’s deep pockets were needed. But the name Durchenko came up more than once. He seemed to be struggling with the choices on the table, afraid the consequences of denying them the same arrangement would be catastrophic. Oleg was tasked with offering him both discrete financing and protection. One long stroke of his thumbs over his lapels, and he strode forward to greet him.

  Stillness held the adjacent room like an unexpected pause in time. Only an envelope placed on the floor at the door confirmed someone had been there. He picked it up, curious as to why it didn’t feel like just documents inside. There was no address on the envelope, return or otherwise. The entry door wasn’t quite closed all the way, and Oleg pulled it open with a brusque sweep of his hand. Only the subtle buzz of a failing fluorescent light disturbed the quiet hallway of his nondescript office building. Still combing the hall with his gaze, Oleg reached into the envelope. Beyond the papers, something sticky inside startled him. The entire thing almost dropped from his fingers. He stepped back into the office and shook the contents onto the vacant reception desk. First, a stack of papers slid forth; a list of typed names crossed out by hand appearing on top. The page was smudged dark red. Tumbling out soon after, like the prize in a cereal box, a platinum wedding band glinted through a clot of blood. Oleg shook his head and sighed. If he’d had any misguided conceptions that he’d been able to clean the muddy waters of this dirty business, they’d left with whoever dropped off this envelope. Oleg dropped the envelope on the table and hurried to try to get a look at the stealthy courier. Outside, nothing seemed out of order, just a group of construction workers settled on the curb eating their lunch and a few errant sallow-eyed waifs lingering at the lamp post.

  “Did you see anyone leave her
e?” he asked them.

  Both young men shrugged and went back to sharing their cigarette. He returned to his waiting area to find that Samantha had clearly no ability to follow a direct request. She peered over the desk to where the ring and the papers lay, her hands behind her back as if not touching them provided her cover.

  “I told you to stay put,” he said, snatching up the stack of papers with one hand and reaching for the ring with the other. Samantha beat him to it and plucked it from the desk.

  “Is this blood?” she asked.

  “If it is, do you want your fingerprints on it?” He held out his hand.

  She was quick to place it there.

  “Sit,” he said in constrained annoyance. “There,” he continued, pointing to the reception area sofa.

  Samantha frowned for just a moment but obliged. Once seated, she opened her mouth to speak.

  “Quiet,” he said softly. He was certain she knew he wasn’t to be ignored.

  Oleg took a closer look at the papers. They contained a list of the five developers the Harakians and the Balashovs had agreed to target. Three of the names were crossed out. There were the two men Oleg had already struck an agreement with, and the last marked name was Trent Lefroy. Behind the list, the ink on Trent’s signed contract with the Balashov dummy equity firm was probably still wet. He shoved all the contents back into the envelope.

  He looked at Samantha. “Let’s get out of here. Where would you like to go to eat lunch?”

  “Oh, so now I get to speak?”

  Oleg’s lip quirked in a bit of appreciation for her spunky tone. “Yes, it’s time for you to speak…and to move. My appointment seems to have canceled, and I now have some additional time on my hands.”

  “Are you going to tell me what that is all about?” She pointed to the envelope.

  “I’m sure you realize that it’s not your business.”

  Samantha folded her arms. “Yeah, that’s the thing. It didn’t look like business at all.”

  Oleg narrowed his eyes at her. “If you have it all figured out, Samantha, then don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.” He strode over to the closet and pulled out his overcoat, then shrugged it on in one swift motion. He nodded toward her wool parker she’d left on the side of the sofa. “Whether you are coming with me or not, we are both leaving here.”