Kostya Page 2

  “All right. Thanks again, Kostya.”

  “Anytime, Holly.”

  As I ended the call and slipped my phone into the back pocket of my black skinny jeans, I noticed Lana’s curious look. “He’s my neighbor,” I explained. “We’re friends.”

  Her blue eyes glinted with skepticism. She didn’t believe me anymore than I believed myself. Friends? Sure. We were friends—but I wanted so much more with him.

  And it drove me crazy that Kostya seemed completely oblivious. I’d finally discovered the one man I couldn’t charm with my Texas sass and flirty smile. It didn’t seem fair that he lived next door, tempting and taunting and frustrating me all at once.

  Catching myself toying with the bracelet again, I forced my fingers to go still and focused all of my attention on Lana. “I’m going to make sure you have a wonderful experience in my salon. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Great.” I motioned toward the color bar. “Let’s get started.”

  While she headed for the closest chair, I bent down to grab a cape from the basket under the counter. When I turned around, I had to stifle the shocked gasp that threatened to escape my throat. Lana had taken off her cardigan, probably to keep it free from any of the bleach that might drip down her neck during the rinsing process. The spaghetti straps of her dress revealed bare shoulders and a neck mottled with bruises in varying stages of healing. The bones in her arms and shoulders were so prominent, and I could only wonder at how many nights she had gone to bed hungry or been beaten.

  Refusing to make her uncomfortable, I schooled my features and draped the cape around her shoulders. I figured she had probably had enough of people digging into her business and asking her uncomfortable questions. For the few hours that she was in my salon, I wanted her to be able to escape the awful memories of what she had survived.

  I was careful not to touch her or move quickly as I evaluated her hair and formulated a plan to give her the shiniest, iciest platinum white possible. Typically, I made sure my clients understood that going so pale meant a lot of upkeep and expense but I had already decided that this girl was getting whatever she wanted and on my dime.

  As I worked on her hair, I was close enough to notice just how young she seemed. More and more, I worried that she might be too young. A sick feeling invaded my stomach. What if this poor girl hadn’t willingly come to Houston? There had been so many trafficking busts in Houston and the surrounding counties over the last couple of years. A lot of those women came from Southeast Asia, but I had seen a recent news report about girls from Eastern Europe and Russia being at a high risk for trafficking.

  But how in the world did I approach a subject so sensitive? Would Lana even tell me if I could figure out a way to talk to her? What could be done if my suspicions were proven true? She was in a safe place now—but was she safe enough? Shelters had security, but the kind of people who would traffic a young woman were the kind of people who wouldn’t let a couple of rent-a-cops slow them down.

  Kostya was the obvious choice here. Not only was he someone who shared her background and language, but he made a living as a very successful security systems consultant. His business was keeping people safe. Surely, he could figure out a way to keep Lana out of harm’s way if she needed help.

  Besides, more than once, I had heard rumors that he was the man in Houston to approach if someone needed information of a sensitive nature or needed help getting out of trouble. I tried not to pay attention to the other rumors I’d heard about him, but it was difficult not to worry about him when I heard dark things about his friendship with Nikolai Kalasnikov.

  People whispered words like mafia and mobster and gangster about that small group of men. I wasn’t sure what to believe. From the outside, Kostya and his friends—Nikolai Kalasnikov, Ivan Markovic, Sergei Sakharov, Besian Beciraj, Alexei Sarnov—seemed like upstanding, successful members of the community. But I had heard things. Things that made me bite my lip with concern. Things that made me wonder if I really knew my neighbor that well…

  “I like very much,” Lana remarked with a grin as she checked out her feisty white-blonde hair in the mirror. It was still damp from a final rinse but it looked fantastic.

  “Just wait ’til we get it cut and styled!” I finished squeezing the last bit of excess water from her hair before spritzing her strands with a styling product that worked well with her new ultra-blonde color. I slowly worked my way through her hair with a comb and then used a few clips to hold up short twists of hair. I gently manipulated her head into the right position. “Can you look down please?”

  She did as asked while I picked up my cutting comb and shears. The haircut was a simple one to achieve. I had been wearing my hair styled in a long bob with messy, loose waves and curls for the last few weeks and loved it. I had a feeling Lana was going to enjoy the versatility of the cut and the ease of styling.

  While I was cross-checking my cut, Billie wandered over with a broom and dustpan to sweep up the floor. I caught her eye for a second. “Hey, Billie, can you grab my cell phone out of my pocket and send a quick text to my friend?”

  “Sure.” She picked my phone out of my back pocket and typed in the text as I dictated it to her. I needed Kostya to translate the hair upkeep instructions for Lana in an email that Billie could print. She made a big production of tapping my screen before tucking my phone back in my pocket. “Sent. Anything else?”

  “Go to the front and grab my favorite hair products. Shampoo, conditioner, toning shampoo, hair mask, blonde-friendly styling products…”

  “Will do.” She finished sweeping up the last bits of hair from the floor before heading off to complete her task.

  My cut complete, I dabbed a little more styling product on Lana’s hair and reached up on tiptoes to grab the blow dryer dangling over my station. I finger combed her hair as I blasted it with some heat to dry away the lingering moisture. She paid close attention as I worked with a small straightener to achieve the right look, pulling down and curling just a tiny bit at the end to develop an easy, loose curl.

  After putting away my tools, I unclipped the cape and offered her a mirror so she could see the back of her hair. The happiness lighting up her face convinced me I had given her exactly what she wanted. We had found a common language—fashion and beauty—and no longer needed a translator.

  “Beautiful.” Lana primped happily. “I like very much.”

  “You look fantastic.” I folded up the cape and draped it over the chair. “This is a good look for you.” I gestured for her to follow me. “Let’s go play at the makeup counter.”

  Like two little girls sneaking around in our mother’s makeup stash, we dug through the colorful drawers and displays until we found the perfect shades of blush, eyeshadow and lipstick. As I watched her apply makeup, I confirmed my earlier suspicion. If this girl was a day over eighteen, I would do cartwheels in the parking lot. She was a kid, just barely this side of childhood, and it pained me to think of the misery and suffering she had known. It wasn’t right, and she deserved better.

  As our appointment drew to its close, I started thinking of ways to keep in touch with Lana. Women at the shelter were known to disappear, either returning home to their abusive partners or running away in fear. My instincts screamed Lana was still in trouble. She needed people she could trust. She needed a safe place that wasn’t the shelter.

  I caught sight of her beautiful manicure and an idea struck—but I’d need some time to pull it off. “Listen, Lana,” I stopped her before we reached the reception counter, “how would you like to come work for me?”

  Her face reflected comprehension and then surprise. “Work?” She gestured around the salon. “Here?”

  “Yes. Here.”

  She winced. “My English…”

  I cut her off before she could sell herself short. “We’ll figure something out.”

  She started to protest but the ear-piercing squawk of the security system interrupted her. We both jumped, a
nd I scowled at the ceiling. This was the fourth time in the last two weeks this frustrating thing had just randomly blasted us during business hours.

  “Lana,” I touched her arm to get her attention and had to shout over the siren, “come see me tomorrow.” I glanced at the reception desk where Billie stood with her hands clapped over her ears to drown out the siren. “Billie, make sure Lana gets her bag and the instructions for upkeep.”

  Billie shot me a thumbs up and then answered the ringing phone. “Security guys,” she mouthed while pointing at the phone.

  “Tell them to shut this thing off!” I quickly turned on my heel and sprinted to the back of the salon where I found Savannah smacking and cursing at the box mounted on the wall there. “What set it off this time?”

  “Hell if I know!” She slapped the keypad twice and growled. “I was looking over our notes for the Monday morning staff meeting, and this thing just flipped out and started screeching. Now I can’t get it to take our code.”

  Figuring she was about two seconds from ripping it off the wall, I gently shouldered her aside. “Let me try.”

  “It’s all yours!” She threw her hands up in the air and stormed away in a huff.

  I fished my phone out of my pocket and quickly dialed the security company’s support line while trying to reset the system manually. If Billie couldn’t get them to shut it off, I wanted to be already on the line with a representative. I was still waiting on hold when I managed to get the system to accept our override code. I stayed on the line for another twenty-seven minutes troubleshooting the ongoing issues with the representative who answered.

  When the representative couldn’t offer an explanation for why our system was on the fritz, I hung up in frustration. Using a nationwide company was proving to be a pain in my ass. More and more, I wondered if choosing a local security company wasn’t the better choice. Conveniently enough, I had an expert in security living right next door.

  Speaking of doors…

  I noticed the double doors to our main supply closet were open and walked over to close it. Savannah must not have seen it when she was back here beating on the security system keypad. If she had, my phone would be vibrating with a new email alert because she would have sent out a company-wide email reminding everyone to close doors, turn off electronics and flip light switches. As the salon’s money maven, she watched our utility bills like a hawk and was fanatical about conserving energy.

  Standing alone in the back hall near the rear entrance, I suddenly had the strangest sensation of not being alone. It was an odd flutter in my stomach that spread into my chest. Hand on the supply closet door, I held my breath and listened for…well. I wasn’t sure what I was listening for actually.

  Quit being such a baby! There’s nothing in there but shampoo and towels.

  When I heard nothing, I rolled my eyes and shut the door. Feeling silly for letting my imagination run wild, I headed back to the salon’s main floor. Lana had disappeared along with the last few straggler clients. Billie was shutting down our registers and books for the night while Savannah wiped down the makeup counter. Nisha glanced up at me and smiled as she straightened up her station. I went to my own and went through my usual end of night routine so I could start my morning off right.

  By sunset, only Savannah and I remained at the salon. I wandered back to my office and kicked off my heels before sinking into my desk chair to tackle the backlog of paperwork waiting for my attention. There were vacation requests to sort, new stylist applications to pick through and vendor literature piling up to be read.

  “Hey, Holly?” Savannah called out to me as she stepped into my office. “You busy?”

  “No.” I swiveled around in my desk chair and discovered Savannah leaning against the door frame. I grinned at the sight of the mannequin head clamped under her arm. “Is Nisha starting her Halloween pranks a few weeks early?”

  Laughing at the reminder of Nisha’s ghoulish pranks, she gave the male mannequin a little shake. “No, I found Harry in the conference room and thought he looked lonely.” She sauntered across my office and plunked the practice mannequin down onto my desk. With a saucy wink, she flashed her whiskey brown eyes at me and said, “I’m embracing my inner matchmaker. I think Harry is the perfect guy for you.”

  I snorted softly. “How’s that, Savvy?”

  “For one, he doesn’t talk back. And look!” She gestured to him. “He doesn’t have hands so we don’t have to worry about him getting grabby or overstepping the line, right? Plus, he has fabulous hair.” She ran her fingers though Harry’s wavy dark locks. “See? You love a man with thick, wavy hair, right?”

  I shook my head at her silliness. “I love you, Savvy. Don’t ever change.”

  “I’m too stubborn for that.” She leaned back against my desk and crossed her arms. My envious gaze settled on her ample bust and killer curves. Even dressed in simple skinny jeans and a flirty high ponytail, she was a knockout. “You, on the other hand, could use a little change in your life.”

  I rolled my eyes and sagged in my chair. “Not this again.”

  “Yes. This. Again.” She nudged my leg with the toe of her red ballet flat. “We missed you last night at the wedding reception. You should have come.”

  “You know I don’t like receptions.”

  “It’s not about liking or not liking them. This was about networking and building our business and being a good friend to Bianca. She and her mother own the most successful bridal boutique in this city. They see a lot of brides and recommend our salon to those bridal parties. We see a lot of word-of-mouth business because of them.”

  The financial and marketing brains behind the salon, Savannah framed the issue in a way that hit home for me. Chagrined, I nodded contritely. “You’re right. I should have gone and pulled my weight as an owner of the salon.”

  “It’s more than that, Holly. Bianca and her mother have been clients at this salon since we opened our doors. We’re all friends and colleagues. You even came in on your day off to help with the bridal party’s hair and makeup. I thought for sure you would stick around after the ceremony, but when we got to the reception, I looked everywhere and couldn’t find you.”

  I shifted uncomfortably beneath her perturbed stare. “I didn’t have a date.”

  “So?”

  “So, I hate being the single girl at the wedding.”

  Savannah rolled her eyes. “There were plenty of ladies there without a plus-one, and there were so many great single guys there last night. Hot single guys,” she added with a saucy smile. “All those big, delicious, sexy fighters from Sergei’s gym were there.” She fanned herself. “You missed a hell of a party!”

  “Apparently,” I said giving her an appraising glance. “And which one of those fighters did you take home?”

  “Now, now,” she replied rather primly, “you know me. I’m a good Catholic girl.”

  I leveled a look her way. “Mmmhmm.”

  “Hush.” She playfully chastised. Then, more serious, she said, “Holly, you’re one of the prettiest women in this whole city. You’re sweet, smart and funny. You own the most popular salon and spa in Houston. Men are tripping over their feet to get in front of you so you’ll notice them. If you weren’t so dang picky, you could have any man in Houston.”

  “I don’t want just any man in Houston,” I replied rather indignantly.

  She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Is this about him?”

  “Him?” A nervous burst of energy rippled through my belly. “Who?”

  She saw right through my act. “You know damned well I mean that Russian fox who lives next door to you.” She exhaled in frustration. “You’re still pining after Kostya Antonovich.”

  I huffed at her. “I’m not pining.”

  She gave me a look. “Oh really?”

  “It’s not pining,” I insisted defensively. “Pining is what happens after a break-up. I haven’t even gotten as much as a date with him!”

  “And whose fa
ult is that?’

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” She hitched her shoulders up as if itching to argue. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want your honest answer.”

  “All right.” I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what I heard next.

  “Do you really want this man, Holly?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I’ve heard things about Kostya. Things that make me nervous for you,” she added with concern.

  “What things?”

  “Holly…”

  “Savannah.” I sat up straighter and held her gaze. “What things? If it’s those mob rumors, I’ve heard them and they’re all nonsense.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not nonsense. Come on, Holly! Open your eyes. What the heck was that attack that happened last year? The one where Vivian was dragged out of a car and Nikolai was beaten half to death? Doesn’t that sound a little mobbed-up to you?”

  “The paper said it was because of her dad. You saw the news coverage when he got away from those US Marshals.”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Okay. We’ll chalk that one up to dear old dad, but don’t you think it’s a little suspicious that Vivian’s husband is that rich just from owning a restaurant and some other small businesses?”

  “Maybe he came here with a little money in his pocket and made some good investments,” I offered. “There was a lot of money to be made in Russia. Look at Yuri Novakovsky and some of the other oligarchs. It’s plausible that Nikolai got his hands on some of that money.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you that one, too. But what about Erin Markovic’s husband? The guy was a straight-up brawler, Holly. I’ve heard he even used to beat people up to collect money and fought underground in cage matches! And have you seen the tattoos on his hands?” Her eyes widened with something very close to fear. “When Erin was in here for her mani-pedi, he dropped her off and came in to wait for her. He paid her bill, and I got a good look at the ink on his hands. Those tattoos scared the shit out of me. That ink means something, Holly. It means something bad.”