Finding Lyla: Book Ten In The Bodyguards Of L.A. County Series Read online

“Finishing dinner?”

  “I am,” he said over his mouthful.

  “What did you have?”

  “Borscht and a thick slice of homemade bread.”

  She paused, paying closer attention. “Oksana’s homemade rye?”

  Her father’s grin filled her screen. “You bet.”

  “She spoils you.”

  “She does.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “It’s colder than hell. I needed something to warm up these old bones, so Oksana suggested soup.”

  She scoffed at his comment. He was hardly old—barely fifty-five, and he easily looked a decade younger. “It’s thirty here.”

  “A heat wave by Russian standards.”

  She chuckled as she secured the tie at the end of her braid. “True. So what’s up?”

  “Nothing much. I was hoping to catch you before your interview.”

  She winged up her eyebrows as she met her father’s gaze. Thousands of miles separated them, but she knew his intentions weren’t quite as casual as his tone. “You were hoping to catch me, huh? Somehow I can imagine you were sitting right there with your meal, counting down the minutes until I would more than likely be back in my dressing room.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Maybe.”

  She laughed. “Definitely.”

  Some of the humor left his eyes. “This is important, Ly-Ly. I need to make sure we’re clear—”

  “We’re clear, Dad. I’m going to tell Roman I’m postponing my visit for a few weeks until I’m finished with Geoffrey’s show, then I’ll come over.”

  “If it’s safe.”

  She fastened simple diamond studs in her ears. “I can’t stay away forever.”

  “There are bomb scares almost daily. One of these times it’s going to be real, I’m afraid. I want you staying in New York.”

  She sighed as her light mood fell away, thinking of the horrific bombing that killed fifty people in Saint Petersburg on New Year’s Eve. The Russian city was several hours away from her father’s home in Moscow, but the terrorist group responsible for the attack had struck in the capital before. It was highly likely they would again. “I worry about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I worry anyway.” She struggled with the clasp on her favorite necklace as she secured it in place.

  “Everything’s under control.”

  Yet he wanted her to stay away. “Right.” She held back another sigh.

  “You’re wearing your mother’s jewelry.”

  She pressed her hand to the golden charm settled against her skin. “I am. I just need to change, then I’ll be ready. How do I look?” She batted her lashes.

  “Beautiful as always.”

  “Thank you.” She rested her chin on her palm. “So, since I’m not coming to Russia, when are you coming home to see me?”

  “As soon as I can—when the US position stabilizes. I had a meeting with the President earlier today.”

  With the tensions between Russia and the US constantly growing worse, she had a feeling she wouldn’t be hugging her father for quite some time. “Well, I can’t wait to have you here.”

  “I’m going to miss your birthday.”

  “That’s okay,” she reassured with a small smile when she heard the regret in his voice. “You can watch me blow out my candles via Skype.”

  “Twenty-five’s a big deal.”

  “We’ll make it work.”

  “Have Moses take you out.”

  “He’s busy getting ready for his new production.”

  He sighed. “Are you helping him?”

  “When I can.”

  “How’s your ankle?”

  She suppressed a grimace as she attempted to move it in the frigid water. “Much better. No complaints to speak of.”

  “Not that you would even if there were. You work too much, push yourself too hard.”

  She grinned. “What’s that saying about the pot calling the kettle black, Ambassador Avery?”

  He chuckled. “You got me.”

  She glanced at her watch. “I hate to cut this short, but I need to get dressed.”

  “Call me when you’re finished.”

  “It’ll be late. It’s already past eight on your end. You know how Roman loves to talk.”

  “More like grill you. Don’t let Roman bully you.”

  “I have everything under control.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Trust me.” She winked.

  “There’s no one I trust more. Call me.”

  “Okay.” She kissed her fingers and touched the lens. “Love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  She disconnected and pulled her leg from the water, cursing her stiff foot as she hobbled to the closet. She stripped out of her robe and put on underwear, then her creamy tailored slacks and a pale blue sweater. She wearily eyed her two-inch pumps, well aware they would do nothing good for her ankle, and slid her feet into them anyway. Dismissing the nagging discomfort, she grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen on the shelf, swallowed two tablets down with a glass of water, and gave herself a final eagle-eyed appraisal in the mirror—calm, friendly, and completely in control. Perfect.

  Lifting her chin, she opened the door, ready to face the press—one of her least favorite things to do. She walked down the hall, smiling when she spotted Roman waiting for her. “Roman,” she extended her hands to the tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and a graying mustache and kissed his cheek as he returned her embrace.

  “Lyla, how are you?”

  “Very well,” she answered in fluent Russian.

  “Thank you for meeting with me during such a busy time.”

  “I always have time for friends,” she continued in her mother’s native tongue.

  He smiled.

  “Come sit and we’ll talk,” she invited, gesturing to the chairs closest to the spectacular view of Lincoln Center’s grounds.

  “Thank you.”

  She settled in, as Roman did, folding her hands in her lap, ready to begin.

  “We should get right down to it, as I know your free moments are rare.”

  She touched his hand, wanting to soothe the typically intense man. “There’s no rush.”

  “All right.” He pressed record on his pocket-sized player and set it on the circular table. “I’d like to document our conversations, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Sure.”

  He sat back, his eyes sharpening as if they were locking on his prey. “How have you been?”

  “Very good. Thank you.” She would ask him the same but knew the time for pleasantries had past.

  “You spent time in Australia during the fall, dancing Firebird and more recently you completed Swan Lake in Boston.”

  “Yes. It’s been busy. The troupe and I have been back for about three weeks now.”

  “You suffered problems with your right ankle that kept you off stage.”

  “I did, but everything’s fine now.”

  “I’m glad you’re well again, especially when it has been suggested that you started back to work before you were given the all-clear by your doctors.”

  “No. I’m back to full health.” She rolled her ankle for his view, clenching her jaw when she felt the sharp ache.

  “Congratulations on a full recovery.”

  “Thank you.

  “I know injuries can be quite a scare in your profession.”

  “If they’re serious, yes, but I’m lucky mine wasn’t.”

  “Are you up to traveling again so soon after such demanding performances?”

  “Travel is a huge part of my job.” An aspect of her career she was growing tired of, but she turned up the wattage on her smile as she dismissed her pessimistic thought. “It’s an honor to share the gift of dance around the globe.”

  Roman nodded. “Your visit this year will be different than most.”

  “Actually—”

  “Tensions continue to grow between Russia and the United States,” Roma
n interrupted. “Where do you stand on the current policies?”

  Roman was never one to tiptoe around the big issues. “I love both of my countries.”

  “One more than the other?”

  She shook her head. “Both are my home.”

  “You live in the United States for all but three weeks. Your father sides with the United States.”

  She clenched her fingers tighter, unwilling to rise to Roman’s bait. “My father is the United States Ambassador to Russia. He sides with the best interests of the two countries he has dedicated most of his life to.”

  Roman narrowed his eyes, clearly unsatisfied with her answer. “Recently Ambassador Avery was heavily criticized for supporting more US sanctions against The Federation. Are you not bothered by this? Do you feel that your mother would stand by this?”

  She couldn’t say one way or the other. Her mother was an image she only knew through stories and television footage. “I stick to ballet, to perfecting my techniques and giving the best performances I can.”

  “Many want to know why it is that you have yet to perform in a country you profess to love? Why is it, Lyla Markovik-Avery, that you travel the world sharing your gifts, yet you refuse to share them with Russia?”

  Apparently she was going to spend the next several minutes dancing in the fire, but at least the heat was off her father. “I—”

  “Perhaps this is your father’s influence—the will of the United States?”

  Or maybe not. She swallowed, remembering Dad’s warnings of the rising tensions. This hostile interview was a clear indication of the strain. “My choice not to dance has nothing to do with my father. It’s mine alone.”

  “So you alone turn your back on Russia?”

  She crossed her legs, the picture of calm, even as her temples began to pound with the sudden headache. “I’ve turned my back on nothing. Dance is personal. My reasons are personal, but I can assure you nothing would make me happier than to see peace restored between the two countries I call home.”

  “And you will help with this?”

  She frowned. “Help restore peace? Roman, you overestimate my influence.”

  “Perhaps you underestimate your power. Are you not Mina Markovik’s daughter? Have you not followed in her footsteps?”

  God knows she’d tried. “I will never be my mother.”

  “But you are ‘Russia’s Princess.’”

  But she wasn’t. The weight on her shoulders grew exponentially—as it did every year when the title she’d never asked for was thrown in her face.

  “This comes with great responsibility,” Roman continued, staring at her, clearly waiting for her response.

  She consciously relaxed her hands when she realized her knuckles were white. As their gazes held, she swallowed. How was she supposed to tell him she had canceled her plans to travel east? By honoring her father’s requests to stay in New York, she disgraced the woman who’d died giving her life. With an inner sigh, she sat up straighter, remembering that she owed the beautiful woman who perished nearly twenty-five years ago. “I understand my responsibilities. I accept my duties.”

  “Russia has heard nothing from you since the tragic bombing in Saint Petersburg almost two weeks ago.”

  Another request from her father: to distance herself from the politics of extremists and deadly acts against the Russian Federation. “Of course I’m deeply saddened and disturbed by such a horrible tragedy.”

  “Your father wasn’t shy about his condemnation of the attack. He’s quoted as calling them guerrilla tactics that cannot be tolerated by the United States any more than they are the Russian Federation.”

  “Yes. My father is very troubled by the violence.”

  “Rumor has it your father is discouraging your travels to the Mother Land for fear of your safety.”

  Her spine snapped straight at such a clear invasion of her privacy. How could anyone know that? She discussed her personal issues with very few people. “The rumors you hear are wrong.”

  “Ambassador Avery hasn’t pressured you into staying home safe and sound in New York?”

  “No, he has not.”

  “So you won’t be postponing your trip to Russia?”

  “No, I will not. I’ll be coming for my three-week holiday as I always do, and I’ll be performing The Markovik Number at the Bolshoi Theater.”

  Roman gaped. “You’ll dance The Markovik Number?”

  “Yes.”

  He edged closer in his seat. “It’s never been seen before. The choreography is unknown to all but a few.”

  “Yes,” she repeated.

  “This dance is a pas de deux?”

  She nodded while her mind raced as she dug herself deeper into her current mess. Not only was she now going to Russia, she was also committing herself to imitating the steps of a true legend. Many had compared her to Mina through the years, but that was nostalgia. No one would ever hold a candle to Mina Markovik on stage.

  “Who will you partner with?”

  “Sergei Ploeski,” she decided. As soon as word spread, there was no doubt Russia’s best male ballet dancer would be committed to learning the choreography.

  Roman’s eyes grew wider. “You will dance with Sergei Ploeski?”

  “Mmm. A token of goodwill between two beautiful countries.”

  Roman all but rubbed his hands together. “The headlines will be wild. “Ploeski and Markovik-Avery: History.”

  “It will be an honor.”

  “Your father knows of this?”

  “He encouraged me to reach out to Sergei, to bring my mother’s last dance to life during such uncertain times,” she lied without qualm, knowing such a statement would put her father in a positive light.

  “This is fantastic, Lyla.”

  “I’m excited,” she fibbed again as she struggled not to fidget.

  “And your visit at Orphan House Ten, will you still meet with the children?”

  “I plan to carry on with my usual schedule.” Which would drive Dad crazy.

  “With added security and precautions no doubt.”

  She shook her head. “No. You know I don’t use security.”

  “Surely your father will insist.”

  “My father and I both believe that we must be cautious with the new threats, but we must also live our lives. I plan to carry on in Russia as I always have—drive my own car, walk the streets without being flanked by any sort of protective personnel, eat out with friends and family.”

  “You can’t exactly call yourself a normal citizen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Normal citizens aren’t from the womb of great dancers. Few can call themselves the daughter of an American ambassador.”

  “I am both of these things, and I’ve never wanted to be treated any differently than anyone else.”

  “There is certainly truth in that, Princess.” Roman shut off his recorder and stood abruptly. “Thank you for sitting down with me.” He bent forward, absently pressing a kiss to Lyla’s cheek. “We’ll catch up when you land in Russia next week. I want an exclusive.”

  “Of course,” she muttered, waiting for him to disappear around the corner before she let her head settle against the back of the seat. Closing her eyes, she groaned as she rubbed at the throbbing in her temples. What had she done? Dad was going to lose it when she explained what had just happened. She stood and started back toward her dressing room, not looking forward to the call she was about to make. But there was no turning back now. Every word she’d spoken was on Roman’s handy little tape recorder.

  Chapter Three

  Collin spotted his black suitcase making its way down the belt in baggage claim. “Excuse me,” he said as he skirted around two women to grab it. He shouldered the thick strap and made his way to his buddy, who was dressed similarly in blue jeans and a white Ethan Cooke Security t-shirt, standing among the chaos of two hundred other passengers waiting for their stuff.

  “You ready?” Chase asked him as he
shoved his cell phone in his pocket and picked up his luggage sitting at his feet.

  “Yeah. Thanks for waiting.”

  “No problem.” They started down the hall toward the parking garage. “I just spoke to Jules. She wants you to come over for dinner.”

  Cashing in on a hot, home-cooked meal after a long-ass week of travel sounded like an excellent idea, but he shook his head. “Next time, man. We just got home.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re supposed to go see your fiancé, have wild ‘I haven’t seen you for a week’ sex, and eat by yourselves—most likely in bed.”

  Chase grinned. “Jules and I’ll get around to having sex—trust me. But I can eat first. I’m flexible like that.”

  Chuckling, Collin shook his head, glancing toward the winter-darkened skies through the massive panes of glass, dreading the idea of going back to his empty apartment. During the week he and Chase had been on assignment in Iraq, Sydney was supposed to have gotten the rest of her stuff out of his place. “Tell Julie thanks. I’ll definitely take you guys up on the offer next time.”

  “How about a beer first?” Chase slowed his step, gesturing to the tavern as they passed.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’ll buy.”

  He sighed, realizing he’d done a shitty job of keeping his personal life personal over the last few days. He hadn’t said anything to Chase about Sydney, but he and his pal knew each other too well not to notice when something was off. Clearly Chase and Julie were on a mission to cheer him up, which he appreciated but didn’t need. “I’ll get this round.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.”

  They took their seats at the bar in the simple, dimly lit space.

  “What can I get you boys?” the older woman asked from behind the counter.

  Collin studied the full sleeve of angels tattooed down her left arm. “I’ll take a pale ale.”

  “Make that two,” Chase added.

  “Let me see a couple of photo IDs and I’ll get them to you.”

  Collin leaned to the left and grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, showing her his California license as Chase did the same.

  “Thanks. Give me just a minute.” She turned and poured two perfect draughts, then set them down on napkins and slid the pints in front of them.