He spotted the red-haired, red-bearded man walking toward them. Dutch. The guy knew who they were. He had been in Blancha Springs, as well as New Mexico. Two of Petrov’s thugs fell in behind him as Dutch skirted the dance floor, made his way to the bar, and stopped right in front of them.

Edge just smiled. “Well, look who’s here. If it isn’t our old friend, Dutch.”

He was as tall as Edge, with wide, thick shoulders. Skye tipped her head back to look at him. “You never know who you you’re going to run into in a place like this,” she said.

A knot bunched in Dutch’s cheek. “Mr. Petrov wants to see you.”

Well, that didn’t take long. Hell, they hadn’t even gotten to finish their drinks.

Edge took a sip of his scotch. “Tell him we’d love to have him join us. Tell him we’ll buy him a drink.”

“Let’s go,” Dutch said. The other two men moved closer, boxing them in. “Now.”

Edge stood up and helped Skye down from the barstool. In one way, he couldn’t have planned it better. He figured Cross would be doing a happy dance. In another way, they were walking a very thin line.

According to Cross, the DEA had people in place in the restaurant, but at this point there was no way to contact them. He hoped wherever they were, they were prepared to step in if the whole thing went south.

“This way.” Dutch led them up the center aisle into the impressive, black-and-white, marble-floored entry. A staircase wound up the wall on the right.

“Upstairs.”

They headed in that direction, reached the landing at the top, and started down the hall. Dutch paused in front of a pair of closed, ten-foot-tall doors and did a quick pat down, found the gun in Edge’s shoulder holster, removed it.

“Got anything else?” Dutch asked.

“Nothing you’d be interested in.” Which wasn’t exactly true since he had a knife strapped to his calf just above his ankle.

“What about her?” Dutch asked.

Edge’s gaze ran over Skye’s shapely curves outlined by the body-hugging, sleek bronze dress. He cocked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Dutch turned and rapped on the door, then reached for the knob and opened it. “Go on in.”

Edge walked past Dutch into the room, then stood back to allow Skye to enter. Petrov’s office, complete with wide mahogany desk, green-shaded lamps, ornate bookcases filled with gilt-trimmed, leather-bound volumes and tufted, red-leather chairs, might have belonged to an old-time cattle baron.

“Have a seat.” The big Russian looked exactly like his photo: linebacker shoulders, slicked-back black hair, a hard face that looked as if it had been pounded with a meat tenderizer.

Dutch shoved Edge down in one of the two, high-backed red-leather chairs in front of the desk, and Skye sat down beside him in the other one.