himself," she said.
He knew she was taking him in, from the crown of his said down to his boots that were probably tracking spring mud all over her clean floors. "Errand boy? What, you think this is a trip to the post office? There was almost half a million worth of steel in that truck."
"I know. Tryg doesn't exactly do small potatoes."
“You act like you know him.”
"I make it my business to know all of the one-percenters around here. Force of habit, I guess. I grew up around them back in Cleveland. Can I offer you something or not?"
"Yeah," said Nick, eyeing the wheeled rosewood liquor cabinet, his eyes gleaming a bit hungrily. What the hell? "Scotch."
"Brilliant idea," she said, going to cabinet and taking out two glasses and a bottle of Lagavulin.
Nick had never had it, but he'd been to enough liquor stores to know that one bottle of that stuff cost more than he made in a month. "You drink Scotch at nine in the morning?" he asked, slightly amused.
"You’re the one who suggested it."
"I didn't think you'd actually say yes."
She didn't reply, merely plopped two ice cubes in the glass with little silver tongs and handed it to him, its peaty aroma strong enough to send him reeling. He drank it greedily, relishing the taste of something they didn't serve back at the Black Sparks clubhouse.
"I've known for some time that my husband is mixed up in some dangerous stuff," she said as she led him out onto the lawn. She started down stone steps built into the hillside. Nick trotted at her heels, patting his back pocket to reassure himself the gun was there if she tried anything, though he didn’t yet know what that might be. Below them, a small lake glistened, its water open except for a tiny island of ice that still sat in the center. A rowboat sat on the landing.
A schnauzer bounded back with a pinecone in his mouth, dropping it at Nick's feet with a look of expectation that was almost entitled. He couldn't hide a grin as he bent down to pick it up, grateful for the distraction, and to mitigate his discomfort in this strange milieu. Helena made no move to stop him as he lobbed it like a baseball pitcher, as far as it would go, watching the dog take off like a slingshot.
"He won't be back for a while," she laughed. "He's no retriever. Anyway, my husband came back from Russia last year after meeting with the arms dealers. I don't like these people; they scare me, in fact. But I don't have a lot of say in it. Back when I lived in Cleveland, my dad was a semi-legitimate businessman who took out a loan from the Vipers, using me as collateral." She stopped speaking, as if the even the memory jolted her.
"He didn't pay it back, did he?" asked Nick after a beat.
"When Dad got me back from the Vipers, he asked me to describe where I was, but I told him there wasn't much a view from the plastic bag over my head." She stared down at her feet and, as she blinked, Nick could see the fragility in her eyes. All of a sudden, he saw a reflection of the frightened girl she'd been, used as merely a tool in her father's dreams of power.
It was a look that was strangely familiar to him. Liana briefly flitted across his mind, though he quickly forced her out. She didn't deserve his sympathy--and Helena Kinski probably didn't either.
"But it was okay. He turned to Liam, and Liam got me out. Well not so much Liam, but his money." She kicked a splinter of wood into the lake with the toe of her sandal. "Even if I divorce him, I don't get a dime. He ensured that when he made me sign. I'm less a resident in this house than a piece of the furniture. Even the housekeeper doesn't listen to me." She laughed.
"Are you sure she speaks English?" asked Nick slyly.
"You know, I'm going to have to check on that," chuckled Helena. "I've got Rory, though," she said patting the dog who had grown bored with waiting for someone to come chase him and decided to come back with a