Could she have been wrong? She’d been so sure that once she’d helped out his friends and brought him good intelligence that he would sit down and listen to her.
Her phone trilled. She sniffled, trying to banish the tears. There would be time for them later. When she was safely in her room high above the city, she could cry and wail and let it out, but she wasn’t safe now. She flipped the phone to answer. “Chelsea?”
“You’ve just had a mega shit ton of hits on your personal information. Someone is looking for Charlotte, not Kris.”
Well, she’d known they would figure it out sooner or later. She’d left a few threads undone that a smart man could follow.
“I’m sure it’s Adam.” Adam Miles was Ian’s computer guy and a very smart man. She knew it had only been a matter of time before he tracked her down. “He’s the one who’ll be looking.”
“Then he’s the one I’ll be sending in circles. Again.” There was a wealth of satisfaction in Chelsea’s voice. She did enjoy a challenge. She and Adam had gone a couple of rounds during the Florida op.
“He’s good.” Adam had worked with her on the Michael Evans takedown. He didn’t know it yet, but he’d already tangled with Chelsea.
For all the good it had done her.
“I’m better,” Chelsea said.
Charlie sighed. “Let him in. It doesn’t matter now. They’ve figured it out. I bet they finally found the recording of the night I downloaded their copy machine.”
It was how she’d figured out everything about them. It had been an operation she’d been more than happy to complete.
“Why didn’t you erase it?”
Because she’d always kind of hoped he would come looking for her. “It doesn’t matter now. It looks like we won’t use the new IDs the way I planned.”
She’d had new identities crafted for both of them. Her uncle had been quiet for a while. She wouldn’t have come after Ian if she’d thought there was a ton of heat on her. Her plan had been to come into town and try to work things through with Ian. Then she could hide here under a new identity and she would keep her nose clean and her uncle would lose interest in punishing her.
“What are you saying, Charlotte?”
She didn’t want to go over all the ways she’d screwed up. “I have to hike back to my car and then I’ll come home.”
“Are you done stalking the big guy? Because we need to move on.” Chelsea wasn’t exactly on board with Charlie’s plans to win Ian back. Since her sister had come into her own, Chelsea seemed to think they didn’t need men.
Charlie looked back at the house. Ian had done well for himself. His house was big and sturdy, like the man himself. She’d expected him to be in a condo like hers. No fuss. No muss. But no, Ian Taggart’s home had a big yard and trees. It looked like a family could live there.
But it wouldn’t be her family.
She felt like he’d just ripped her heart out. Was this the way he’d felt when he’d discovered her betrayal? She’d worked so hard to become a woman who was worthy of him, but maybe there were some things she couldn’t come back from.
“Charlotte? Shit. You saw him, didn’t you? What did he do? Because I’m three keystrokes away from getting him institutionalized. I can have him put down like a rabid dog.”
“Don’t you dare.” As mad as she was, she understood. If he’d done the same thing to her, she might have called him all sorts of names, too.
Chelsea’s voice softened. “Charlotte, I know you loved the man, but we can’t stay here forever.”
“The condo is secure.” She’d made sure of it.
“Nelson has eyes everywhere, and he would love to slit your throat, big sister. He isn’t the only one. If Taggart isn’t interested in a reunion, then we should head out. Why don’t we sell the Florida condo and go to Europe for a while? Or the Caribbean. I could use a tan.”
“No, don’t sell the Palm Coast property. Put it in Alex’s name. Alex and Eve McKay.” They had fallen in love again at her condo on the beach. She’d watched them and they had given her so much hope. Just because she’d fucked up didn’t mean they should lose out.
It was over. He was too stubborn, too brutally slavish to his own code of conduct. He’d broken his rules for her once, but he wouldn’t again.
Maybe it was time to move on.
And then she heard it. A familiar wail of guitars and drums and Axl Rose’s voice blaring from inside the house.
One single memory flared to life. Ian spreading her wide and taking her for the first time, his face so serious as he worked over her. She’d held on to him for dear life, and when he was done, she’d known that she’d been caught in her own trap. She’d lain in his arms, this one song echoing from the club below.
Sweet love of mine
He had forgotten nothing if he was listening to that song. Not a single moment. All these years had passed and he was still listening to their song the same damn way she did, as though it could connect them across the distances.
It was so not over.
“Chelsea, I will murder you horribly if you harm a hair on his head.” She was the only one allowed to do that.
A low huff came over the line. “Way to talk to your baby sister.”
Her baby sister had become a shark with six rows of teeth, perfectly capable of ruining a man’s life without ever leaving her keyboard. “He’s my husband. He might be a dipshit, but he’s mine, and I will protect him so don’t think you can manipulate this situation. We’re not leaving. If that means I have to deal with a few assassins, then bring them on. Find Nelson for me. I need a full report on everything we have on him.”
Because she was planning a little meeting for her new team. An unnatural optimism came over her. Her first plan hadn’t gone gangbusters, but there was always another plan. The one she had in mind was absolutely certain to make her husband stand up and notice.
And potentially throttle her, but, hey, a girl had to take a few chances in life.
“I have to go. Get that report ready. I’ve got a meeting in the morning.” She caught a glimpse of Ian through his curtains as she hung up on her sister. He had a bottle in his hand. Damn it. He was going to make a long night of it.
He probably needed backup. Charlie was in the mood to confess.
She dialed Sean Taggart and was happy when he immediately answered.
“Kris? Is this you? Because we need to talk. What the fuck is going on? Do you know what Adam is claiming?”
She was so glad she’d kept the number she’d given him. Typically she tossed a phone after an op, but she’d kept her Florida line. It made things easier. She was pretty sure she knew what Adam was telling everyone. “Hello, Little Tag. We definitely need to talk, but tonight Big Tag needs you more than me. He’s getting drunk off his ass because his wife just returned from the dead. You should probably get over here. Oh, and tell Grace I said hi. She looked really beautiful tonight.”
“What?” Sean’s voice shouted over the line.
Family counseling might be in their future. Maybe Eve had an opening. “Yeah, Ian might not have told you about me, brother, but I would make a bet that Adam is hunting down all the facts even as we speak. But seriously, he needs you tonight. As for tomorrow, tell the team I’ll see them bright and early. I have intel on Eli Nelson. I’ll need a conference room and a copy machine. Don’t worry, I know where they keep those.”
She could practically hear Sean’s frustration over the line. “Kris, you need to explain this to me right fucking now.”
“No time. And the name’s not Kris. It’s Charlotte. Charlotte Taggart and I need to get my beauty rest because I’m going to have to run McKay-Taggart in the morning. Ian’s going to be too drunk and Alex is on his honeymoon. Talk to you soon.”
She hung up on her brother-in-law and turned the phone off just as it started ringing again.
Charlie began the long walk to her car thinking about how nice it was that Texas was a community property state. It was about time she laid claim to her half.
Eli Nelson looked out over the Neva River. There was a fine mist over the water this early in the morning, but then Nelson had discovered that Saint Petersburg, Russia, stayed in a damn near perpetual gloom. Oh, they tried to brighten things up with red flowers and perfect green spaces, but Russia was just dark and dank most of the time no matter how much elegance the former czars shoved onto every street.
The sun was still hidden behind the never-ending clouds. There was a phrase he’d heard once about the hope for summer in Russia. The year was nine months of optimism and expectation followed by three months of disappointment.
Fuck, he hated Russia. One day he was going to have a little mansion on his own private fucking island where the days were hot and the nights were filled with some serious pussy—and by serious he meant some dumb bitch who was less than half his age and didn’t know better.
He felt it the minute Denisovitch walked up behind him. The Hermitage was across the river, and there was already a long line of tourists waiting though it wouldn’t open for hours. The Naval Museum was at his back. He was caught in the middle of tourist hell, and that was the only way he would meet with this snake. The Russian mob might rule, but they preferred to do their dirty work in the dark.
Mikhail Denisovitch stepped up to the wall, leaning forward in his immaculate suit as though the fog and mist couldn’t touch him. Of course, he hadn’t come alone. Nelson let his eyes drift back to the little park overlooking the Neva. It was lovely, with bright red begonias and those damn white and green park benches. But they were all empty as though even the intrepid tourists knew that the two men currently occupying the gravel inlaid paths were not something to be messed with. Denisovitch never went anywhere without his enforcer, a big scarred man who didn’t really try to hide the fact that he was packing. He was an overgrown ape someone had stuffed into a suit, and he wasn’t smart enough to hide the bulge his gun made. Or perhaps that was at Mikhail’s request. Perhaps Mikhail wanted everyone around him to know that he was protected. It was a lesson Nelson was sure he’d learned from his brother.
It was a lesson Nelson had taught Mikhail Denisovitch, though the man had no idea he’d been the teacher.
Gulls squawked overhead, but Nelson ignored them. “I thought you were going to miss our appointment.”
He spoke in flawless Russian. One of the perks of long-term training with the CIA was an intense study of languages. He could screw someone over in five different languages.
Denisovitch looked out over the water. “Our traffic can be a problem at this time of the morning. I had to come in from Moscow. The plane was delayed and then we fought through traffic.”
“Yes, I was surprised you asked me to meet you here. I rather thought you stayed in Moscow.” Saint Petersburg wasn’t a hotbed of activity. It was a tourist town, a place for artists and intellectuals. The power was all in Moscow for now.
Denisovitch chuckled slightly, his eyes watching a boat as it sailed toward the Palace Bridge. The Venice of the North was awake and alive. He pointed toward the Hermitage. “There is much to do here. This is our port city. We might stay quiet here, but don’t doubt we own all that’s in sight. Do you see that building?”
It took everything Nelson had not to roll his eyes. The building was a baroque masterpiece. Anyone who understood museums knew what the Hermitage was. Three separate palaces that together housed all the treasures of Russia, some stolen from Germany after World War II. Russia understood the art of the deal. To the victor went the spoils. “It’s the Hermitage. Do you want to give me a lesson in art?”
“No, just history. It was the summer palace of the czars. I am the czar now. I summer here like Peter the Great. It is more civilized here than in Moscow. Too many fucking politicians putting their hands in my pie. It’s nice here, and I can worship in the cathedrals.”
Saint Petersburg had more than its share of orthodox cathedrals. He’d heard Denisovitch was devout. It was good to know that hypocrisy was alive and well and living in Russia. “We all need to find a home.”
“This is true. Now, I am finished with small talk. You will tell me the truth. Have you found her?”
Nelson almost sighed because this was the part of the job he so deeply enjoyed. He’d loved it when he’d been in the CIA. He loved it now. He was fucking over multiple people who believed or had believed him to be their partner. It was a little slice of heaven. “I have.”
Charlotte Denisovitch could have been his queen. He’d been grooming her. Oh, she was nothing but a woman so he’d used her like one. Her beauty was her greatest asset, but then he’d never deeply prized purity. He didn’t give a shit that Ian Taggart had her first. It had been necessary. Had she followed his plan, he would have forced his way into her bed and taken her luscious body and that devious brain for his own. He would have used her as he’d liked, but he also would have taken care of her in his own way.
She’d decided on another route, and it was going to cost her everything.
“Tell me where the little bitch is,” Denisovitch ordered.
This was why he’d come all this way when he needed to be watching that fucking idiot playboy in India. “Yes. I believe you’ll discover she’s in Dallas, Texas.”
Denisovitch tensed. “Then she’s gone to him.”
She’d gone to “him” a couple of weeks back, but Nelson had missed it. He’d been busy trying to clean up the mess that fuckwad Taggart had caused for him by blocking a shipment of arms to Africa. Those dictator warlords didn’t like a working man to take their money and give them nothing.
Thank god he wasn’t an ordinary arms dealer. Ian Taggart had no idea what he was dealing with and that was how Nelson planned on keeping it. If Taggart ever found out how deep the conspiracy went, they would all be fucked.
“She and that cunt of a sister of hers bought a place in Dallas a few days ago. I’ve had a man case it. Whatever you want to say about the bitch, she’s thorough. She’s installed a state-of-the-art security system, and she takes multiple exits when she leaves. She never follows a schedule. If you’re trying to catch her coming out of her place, you’ll need three assassins to be sure.”