He dropped it into the honeycombed rubber pocket, then used his pocketknife to embed it deeper in the sole. Testing the transmitter’s security, he tipped the shoe sideways and banged it hard on the window ledge.
It remained stuck inside the rubber.
Satisfied he’d at least put some thought into a backup plan, Alexei returned her shoe to its mate. As he turned to check on her once more, the rumble of a motorcycle gave him pause. Head cocked, he stared at the window, listening as the motor drew closer, into the hotel’s parking lot, then shut off.
That
distinct rumble was a Harley.
No. Fucking. Way.
Motorcycles were common in Italy, but Harleys weren’t, to say the least. Only one person would guarantee he had one available for his use. Misha.
A slow smile broke out on Alexei’s face as he went to the window. He pushed the lightweight curtains aside to see Misha Petrovin swing a leg onto the pavement and pull a black half-helmet off his head. Alexei was too far away to see the helmet clearly, but he knew it would bear Old Glory and the almost indiscernible stamp of seal between the bars on the flag.
God bless Natalya. Two years had passed since Alexei had last talked to Misha, and he hadn’t seen his original partner and mentor in a good five or six. Maybe it was seven. Hell, he didn’t know. But it was damned good to see Misha. They understood each other on uncalculatable levels.
He was already at the phone when it rang, a grin intact. “They haven’t killed you yet, huh?”
Misha let out a hearty laugh. “Fuck that. Sounds like you’ve got a foot in the grave though.”
“Always do. Keycard’s at the VIP desk.”
“Be there in a few.”
Finally someone Alexei could trust wholeheartedly. Someone who’d give his life, if it came down to that, to safeguard the mission. To protect Sasha.
A
s the sun began its slow descent into the horizon, Alexei leaned back in the sofa, arms braced behind his head, feet propped on the coffee table. Across from him, Misha snubbed out a cigarette and folded his hands together with his elbows resting on his knees. From Kadir to Grigoriy, Alexei had told Misha everything. Everything except his inappropriate attachment to Sasha.
English crackled through the low volume on the television set, heavily laced with a Ukrainian accent. Alexei turned his attention to the flat screen in time to see Yakiv Zablosky’s rotund face fill the frame. He leaned forward, picked up the remote, and turned the volume up.
“I am grateful for the efforts the American and British governments have put forth in returning my daughter.”
The camera panned backward, revealing the fist Yakiv pressed over his heart. He tapped his chest.
“My heart is full now. It has been empty for so many years.”
As the newscaster cut in again, the picture faded and Italian dominated, the woman enthusiastically supporting Yakiv’s heartfelt efforts
at locating his daughter. Confronted with the reality of a father’s love, Alexei frowned at the screen. He had no right to consider taking Sasha away from that. He’d already stolen her away from family once.
“So that’s her father,” Misha observed.
Alexei nodded. His frown deepening into a scowl, he flipped the television off. He was fooling himself by entertaining the idea of something long-term with Sasha. Her father was respectable. Revered internationally. No way in hell would she tie herself up with Alexei. His past would embarrass her entire family.
“He’s gone to a lot of work to get her back,” Misha continued.
Alexei gave him a blank look and nodded.
Thoughtful blue eyes studied Alexei. After several long seconds, Misha asked cautiously, “What’s in this for you?”
Alexei blinked. “For me?”
“Yeah.” Tossing one ankle over a knee, Misha kicked back in the chair. “There’s a time when the objective no longer warrants the risk. You aren’t foolish. Never have been. You were sent to extract
a girl
whose daddy’s crying. She doesn’t exactly fit the description of
key asset
. If Kadir wants to make her his whore, why are you so hell-bent on getting her to London at the expense of your hide?”
Shit.
Not the topic Alexei wanted to discuss. He tried to dodge it with a rote response. “I never fail at a mission. You taught me to never give up.”
“No.” Misha’s foot thumped to the floor, and he leaned forward once more to pick up his pack of smokes. He fiddled with a loose cellophane edge. “You didn’t know the meaning of giving up when you were running with the Triad. I know what you were fighting for then. What are you fighting for now?”
What was he fighting for—the heartache that inevitably waited? A frivolous dream of being something he could never be?
Unable to answer, Alexei gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. “Let’s just leave this alone. I have to take her to London. You’re either with me, or you aren’t.”
He didn’t wait for Misha to respond before he stalked to the bathroom and shut his mentor’s perceptions out with the slamming of the door.
I
saak jammed his index finger on the keyboard, shutting down his e-mail client. In four days, Symon would have his retribution, and Isaak couldn’t get a confirmation on Sasha’s status. Damn it, he’d made a deal. Compromised the country that had offered him so many freedoms. All he wanted was follow-through. The same commitment from Symon that Isaak had willingly given.
He flipped open his phone and dialed for the fourth time since the sun had set. As he waited for the expected voicemail, he stared out the wide picture window of his flat at the exquisite architecture of Central Hall Westminster that would soon be bits of rubble and ash.
Sasha would be saved from that prolonged end. Even he couldn’t make a child suffer through that agonizing death. And no matter what she had done, she was still a child.
Besides, the shock that would widen her eyes when she realized the true depths of a father’s love would be worth extending her life a while longer. When she realized how deeply her wrongs cut, and that he had never forgotten the way she ran, refusing to admit her errors, denying responsibility, he would find satisfaction.
To Isaak’s surprise, Symon answered, his bark as gruff as a grizzly’s. “What is it you want, Isaak? Have I not given you enough?”
“Enough?” He almost screeched the word. Composing himself quickly, he lowered his voice. “Tell me, Symon, what have you given me? Sasha is not here. You promised she would be.”
“My most loyal security officer is dead over this girl. The Opal killed him this afternoon. The same Opal who betrayed the
Bratva
six months ago. I was told he would not be a problem.”
“The
problem
is with your incompetent gun. If he’d done his job from the outset, he’d still be alive.” Isaak slammed a balled fist against
the nearby tabletop, making a glass of water jump. “I have fulfilled my end of our arrangement. You failed at yours! I want Sasha here. Immediately.”
Silence ensued. Then, in a low, threatening tone, Symon answered simply, “No.”
“No?” Isaak’s voice thundered through his flat. “What do you mean,
no
?”
“I agreed to provide a man for your use. I have lost that man. I cannot afford to lose others of his caliber by sending them after one like Alexei Nikanova and the Arab who still chases her. I will not be so foolish. You will have my full cooperation once she has reached London. But I will not send another to a needless death.” He terminated the call without further argument.
Isaak resisted the urge to throw his cell phone across the room. He had depended on Symon. Foolishly perhaps, but depended all the same. It was too late to undo the acts he’d carried out on Symon’s behalf—no doubt a fact Symon knew well. Isaak should have known better than to put faith in the
Bratva
. It wasn’t the first time they failed to carry through.
He tossed his phone onto the tabletop and moved to the hearth, studying the low flames of the gas fire he burned more for comfort than for heat. Very well, he would finish this alone. He’d learned the folly of impatience, and he had come this far on his own. The entire world knew the lengths he had gone to for Sasha, and he wouldn’t destroy that by hurrying the inevitable conclusion. He would wait Alexei out.
After all, Alexei was bringing Sasha exactly where Isaak wanted her. Home. For a bittersweet reunion.
Then he would grieve the loss of the child he loved.
O
n her second attempt, Sasha’s eyes opened and stayed open. She tensed the instant full wakefulness hit her. Above her head, a wide window near the ceiling offered no hint of light, telling her she’d slept well into nightfall. Beneath her was the softest bed she’d ever known. Even better than the huge thing she’d slept in with Alexei the night before.
Did that mean he was here? Or had Kadir caught up with her? Worse…had one of her father’s so-called friends tracked her down?
Slowly, she rolled over, squinting in the dim light, trying to make sense of her surroundings. At the top of a quaint staircase near the foot of the bed, another light burned. Brighter than the ambient glow from the lamp on the nightstand. Brighter still than the light that filtered through the partially open bathroom door.
A door closed somewhere up there.
She sat up and scrubbed at her eyes. Her mind still felt thick. Her fingers and toes were cold.
She glanced down at her bare feet, making the association that someone had been thoughtful enough to think about her comfort. Which meant it must be Alexei moving around up there. Her heart skipped a beat, momentary fear for his safety flickering at the base of her brain. If it wasn’t him, maybe she’d be better off pretending to still be asleep. If her father was up there, she could wrench that window open and escape before he would realize she’d gone.
Sasha shook her head, dismissing the notion as foolish. If her father
had her, he wouldn’t put her in a bed suitable for a king. Maybe once upon a time. Not now. Not after she’d betrayed her own blood.
The shuffling feet overhead had to belong to Alexei. And she wanted answers—what the hell had happened in that vineyard? Who would have blown up the car? Who drugged her? No, that was obvious. The only person who could have was Grigoriy. The better question was why.
Summoning her strength, she eased to her feet and clung to the wrought-iron railing while she tested her ankle. It was tender, but the earlier throbbing had quit. More worried about her surroundings and Alexei, she made her way up the smooth wooden treads to the dimly lit hall overhead. Her toes grabbed the plush Oriental carpet runner, and for a moment, she allowed herself to indulge in the heavenly bliss.
The sound of creaking leather pushed her onward, along with the rumble of her stomach. Yawning, she traipsed down the hall and into a sitting room.
Her confused gaze locked on a man she didn’t recognize. He turned at the sound of her footfalls, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, his long, athletic frame taking up most of a leather armchair. Not Alexei. Not Grigoriy.
All of the fear that she’d kept locked away, the stress of the last several days, and the confusion fogging her drugged mind erupted. She took one step backward and let out a scream.
The man was on his feet in an instant. Two impossibly long strides closed the distance between them, and his hands fastened on her shoulders. “Sasha, it’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay. Not by any means. She’d been drugged. Saeed was dead. Alexei— God only knew where he was. Kadir wanted to turn her into his personal sex slave, and her father wanted to kill her. Nothing in her life was remotely
okay.
Shaking her head, she clawed at the man’s strong fingers, desperately trying to twist out of his reach. “Let me go! Where’s Alexei?”
The stranger overpowered her easily. But instead of twisting her
arms behind her back and rendering her motionless, or clamping a firm hand over her mouth, he turned her around and drew her securely against his chest. Winding his arms around in front of her, he held her in place, his chin near her shoulder. “It’s okay, Sasha. He’s here. I’m Misha. A friend. Grigoriy tried to take you. He’s dead now. I came to help.”
He said something else that got lost in another scream as she tried to wrench free of his imprisoning embrace. Her mind knew only one thing—escape. Escape at all costs. She lifted her heel and jammed it into the man’s shins. He grunted, but his arms didn’t relax.
Across the room, the bathroom door flew open. Alexei barged out, his jeans only halfway fastened. Before Sasha could connect the sight of him with the fact he was really standing in the doorway, he was at her side, drawing her away from Misha and into his warm, protective, embrace. “Easy, princess, I’m here.”
It was all too much. She crumpled against him like a rag doll, terror giving over to uncontrollable sobs.
“Right here, sweetheart,” he murmured as he tenderly stroked her hair.
I
n all his adult life, Alexei had never comforted a distraught woman. None of the tears he’d witnessed—and he had seen plenty of them—had affected his hardened heart enough to try. Maybe because a scared young boy’s handpicked wildflowers and hugs hadn’t dried the only ones that had ever mattered. Maybe because the women he might have cared enough to try to comfort, operatives like Natalya, never cried.
Whatever the case, as Sasha’s tears wetted the front of his shirt, something buried in his soul fought to the surface, worked its way past the sudden lump in the back of his throat. He threaded his fingers into the thick wealth of her hair, wound his other arm around her waist more tightly, and drew her flush against his body, offering everything he was, however insignificant it might be.
Her arms slid around his waist. She burrowed her face into his chest. “I thought…You weren’t here…” A tremor ran through her body, choking off her words.
“Shh, princess. Grigoriy was working with the
Bratva
. He drugged you. Misha came to help. He’s my best friend.” He stroked her hair again. “Relax, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”