Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) by Katherine Stark Read Free Book Online Page B

down the dress, but it’s nowhere near reaching my knees. I swear, I’m the only person here who doesn’t get a facial for her legs.
    I approach the hostess counter and toss my curls to one shoulder as I lean over the stand. “I’m here for the . . . Drakonov party,” I whisper, trying not to let the other waiting guests hear. Sergei didn’t say so explicitly, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want the whole world knowing we’re here.
    “Sorry,” the hostess chirps. “I don’t have any reservations under that name.”
    I rock back on my high heels. For one brief moment, I imagine the past few days have all been an elaborate prank someone’s pulled on me. Of course I haven’t actually caught the eye of Saint Sergei, the Russian Dragon. Who do I think I am, stomping into Pluribus on these ridiculous heels I never wear, cutting in front of all these high-paid lobbyists and senators? But then it hits me.
    “Try Pushkin,” I say, grinning to myself.
    The hostess reaches for a menu and hands it off to the nearest server. “Right this way, miss.”
    She leads me through the dimly lit main dining hall, aglow with the soft mood lighting and candles and a wall of lights that dazzle and undulate, separating the diners from the kitchen, and up a narrow staircase. We step out into an open-air brick courtyard on top of the main restaurant, split into a labyrinth of private alcoves. As we pass them, only the faintest sounds of conversation and scraping plates escapes; I can’t see the faces of any of the diners, which I’m sure is the point. An arbor of vines hangs low overhead, threaded through with elegant strands of light, permitting only the occasional glimpse of the star-spangled Washington night sky.
    “Here we are. The Jefferson table.”
    She stops at one edge of the courtyard. On two and a half sides it’s surrounded by brick walls, one of which sports a quietly gurgling fountain beside the wooden table for two. The fourth side of the private room is wide open, spilling out onto a breathtaking vista of Washington: the White House, the Washington Monument, and the spires of the Smithsonian Castle in the distance. I suck in my breath. Unless I’m crashing at Monique’s pad, my view usually consists of waterstained drywall and shoe-level sidewalk views from my basement studio.
    “I hope it’s to your liking?” the server asks, her face smooth as butter. She moves and sounds like a robot set to Pleasant but Detached.
    “It’s perfect,” I manage to say, around the bundle of nerves lodged in my throat. “Thank you.”
    She takes my drink order—some wildly delicious- and alcoholic-sounding cocktail of honey and bourbon and other liquors I can’t pronounce—and vanishes into the night.
    I set my purse beside me on the wooden bench and settle in. My purse just looks embarrassing in this setting—battered black, the leather veneer peeled and cracking, the off-brand logo long since worn away. I reach in and check my phone to make sure it’s recording.
    Then wait.
    And wait.
    I cross my legs one way, then switch to the other way when they start to go numb. The server brings my drink. It tastes like an autumn harvest in my mouth, it’s so freaking good, but I’m afraid to have more than a sip without knowing how long I’m going to be waiting. The Secret Service agents scurry like little black ants along the roof of the White House; the National Mall twinkles with hundreds of headlights as the sky melts from indigo to black.
    Have I been stood up? I check my phone; no texts from Sergei or anyone else. Maybe I should call Frederica and let her know what’s happening. I press my face into one hand. The only thing worse than having to lead Sergei on on behalf of the FBI is to fail at leading Sergei on on behalf of the FBI.
    “ Bozhe moi. I am so, so sorry. I look like a tremendous asshole.”
    Sergei Drakonov rushes into the private alcove, a hoodie slung over his head and dark sunglasses swallowing up his