Skye slipped her arm through his, and they left the suite. As they stepped out of the elevator, the clank and clatter, bells, whistles, and flashing lights of gaming machines, along with the roar of the crowds at the dice tables, followed them toward the front door. If Petrov was at the Four Winds tonight, they could launch their campaign.

If not, they would find another way to reach him.

Edge thought of the big bed waiting for them when they got back to the hotel—assuming they managed to stay alive—and his blood rushed south. Either way, the night would not be boring.

The hotel limo dropped them off at the Four Winds Supper Club, which was even more stylish than advertised on its web page. The two-story, free-standing building was designed with an art deco theme, the interior entirely done in black and white.

The restaurant itself was a circular room with linen-draped tables on raised daises surrounding a glossy-black dance floor. A three-piece orchestra played 1940s music, and a bar ran the length of one curved wall.

Edge set a hand at Skye’s waist to guide her over to the bar, then helped her up on a stool with a curved black leather back. The waiters all wore tuxedoes, including the bartender who arrived in front of them.

“What can I get you?” He was mid-forties, dark-haired with a neatly trimmed mustache and pointed goatee.

“I’ll have a vodka martini,” Skye said. “Two olives. Beluga, please. Gold if you have it.”

Top-line Russian vodka. Edge flashed her a look of approval. She was casting a lure for Petrov, and as beautiful as she looked tonight, it might just work.

The bartender made a brief nod of his head. “No problem.” He turned to Edge. “And for you, sir?”

“Glenfiddich. Neat.” The bartender slipped silently away, and a few minutes later, reappeared. He set their drinks on the bar in front of them.

Skye took a sip of her long-stemmed, chilled martini. “Delicious. I love martinis, but I rarely drink them. I like to save them for special occasions.”

Edge thought of what he had in mind for her in the suite later that night—hopefully after they’d made contact with Petrov. He definitely intended to make it special.

The restaurant was packed, every white-draped table filled with elegantly dressed men and women. It was a mixed crowd of older and younger successful businessmen and women, and hip, monied late-twenty, early-thirty-year-olds in outrageously expensive designer clothing.

Edge spotted a couple of muscle-heads in white dinner jackets who looked more like cage fighters than doormen. Skye’s gaze followed his, and she cast him a knowing look. These were the same type of goons who’d worked for Henson.

Her glance slid off to one side. “Edge, we’ve got company.”