Tell Me No Lies (17 page)

And if pictures didn't lie, her estrangement from Luka must have been fairly recent, though she said she hadn't seen him in years.

Toward the bottom of the box he found a wedding picture. The unidentified man in the picture with Kole and Alex, and a woman. Beneath it were more pictures of the other woman. She had the look of Alex about her. Her mother?

Why wasn't the groom Kole? And why had Alex said she had no pictures of her mother?

He sifted through the snapshots again, spreading them out on the bed. The frame she'd been holding in Luka Kole's apartment, the frame with the picture ripped out of it, had easily been eight-by-ten. But there was no picture that looked like it had been torn out of its moorings, sides shredded. No eight-by-ten photograph of a woman here at all.

Would she have put it somewhere else? Maybe she was getting it refrained. Why would she have torn the photo out of the frame anyway? Why not just take the whole thing?

Instinct, that ingrained cop sense, told him something wasn't right. Too many unanswered questions were piling up.

He replaced the pictures and the box and went to check on Alex. Since she was still sleeping, there was nothing he could do about his uneasiness, so he hunted in the kitchen for coffee, made a pot, then slapped together a sandwich from some cheese and bread he found. He discovered a TV in a room off the kitchen and turned it on. The Mets were playing the Phillies, and he watched with half an eye and the sound off so he could hear if Alex stirred.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke with a start at three a.m. His empty coffee cup lay on the floor, the plate with his half-eaten sandwich sat on his chest, and the light from the TV screen flickered in the darkness.

Stretching, he retrieved the dirty dishes, turned off the TV, and shuffled into the kitchen. Alex was there, standing over a half-full bottle of Stolichnaya and a shot glass.

She startled as he came into the room, and he stopped dead still. She'd changed out of her clothes and wore a silk robe in ashen blue, the whole thing belted carelessly so he could see a wide sweep of pale skin leading from her throat to her breasts.

He looked away. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"1 thought you'd left" Calmly, she poured a shot of vodka, as usual recovering her poise as quickly as she'd lost it She had that cold, no-trespassers look about her again. And yet her hair, like frosted gold in the dim kitchen light, was wild and loose, and so at odds with the carefully controlled persona she normally projected

He tried a smile on her. "My mother told me to stay."

"Your mother?" Her brows rose in sardonic disbelief.

"Yeah, can you believe it? Over twenty-one and still listening to my mother."

Unimpressed by his attempt at lightness, she responded by downing the shot

He changed tactics, dropping the grin. "Look, I didn't want you to be alone."

Her mouth twisted into a bitter parody of a smile. "Oh, but I am alone."

He caught her eye, spoke softly. "Not tonight, Alex."

She held his gaze for a moment, and in that half a second he saw the fragility those sobs had hinted at

Then she brought another glass down from a cabinet, poured the vodka, and pushed the shot toward him. "Good. Drinking alone is so diclassi."

He stared at the cool, clear liquid, then at her shadowed gaze. "You feeling better?"

"That's what the vodka is for." She pronounced it strangely, with a slight accent She did that now and again, said words in a funny way. Almost like a foreigner. And men, tike mat whatever he'd heard would disappear and she sounded like any other red-blooded American.

"Say that again."

"What?"

"Vodka."

She repeated it, the foreign inflection gone.

"No, say it the other way. The way you said it before."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Didn't she? Where were those pictures taken? The photos of her as a child?

"How long did you live in Russia?"

She stiffened, drank down another shot and slapped the glass on the counter. "Three years."

"That' s all?"

"That was enough. Why?"

"What about before? When you were a kid. Ever live there then?"

She gave him the snooty look. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. Just wondered."

"I grew up in Boston." More frigid condescension.

"Boston? Luka Kole took you to Boston?"

"My parents were divorced. I told you that. My mother remarried. Until they died, I grew up with my mother and stepfather in Boston."

Well, that explained the occasional British-sounding

thing.

"How did you and Sonya meet?"

She eyed him frostily. "I'm not in the mood for an interrogation, Detective. Drink up or go." She nodded at the booze, and, deciding to humor her, he picked up the shot she'd poured him and kicked it back. The stuff burned going down, but left a nice glow in its wake.

She poured them both another glassful. And as if the drink was the key that unlocked the treasure chest of all her secrets, she shared one with him. "Sonya was my mother's nanny. She took care of me after my mother died."

"You knew her a long time then?"

She wavered, eyes watering. "All my life."

He looked away. Christ, he felt pulled down by her grief. It flowed into and melded with his own, so heavy he could have drowned in it He drank the second shot of vodka, struggled for balance and air.

"Your mother brought her here from Russia?"

Instead of answering, she swallowed her own liquor down. Before it cleared her throat, she reached for the bottle again. Wobbly, she knocked it over.

"Careful." He caught it, set it aside.

Reaching for dignity, she righted herself and almost succeeded. Almost.

His brain stuttered to a stop. What the hell was he doing? The booze was only going to make him more morose, and it sure wasn't doing her much good. "How about we call it a night?"

Those blue-gray eyes bored into his. "I don't need a baby-sitter, Detective." Her words slurred, the foreignness back in her voice.

"Yeah? Doesn't look that way to me." He capped the bottle and, when she lunged for it, swept it out of reach. "How about some coffee?"

"How about you go fuck yourself?
Proklyatiy sukin sin
." The Russian came out naturally, the anger and contempt obvious in the curse.

"Whoa there, Natasha. I think you've definitely had enough."

Her eyes flashed. "I say when I've had enough. A long, long time, I've been taking care of myself. I don't need help."

She lunged for the bottle again, and, again, he swept it out of reach. "Everyone needs help, Countess."

Her head snapped up. "My name is Sashenka."

"Sure it is."

"Sashenka. Say it!" A tear slipped down her cheek.

"Alex, don't do this to yourself." He spoke quietly, wanting desperately to pull her back from the rim she was edging up to.

"Sashenka. Say my name. Say it!"

"Alex, I'm not going to "

"Say it, you goddamn son of a bitch. Say it. Say it!"

All at once, she was crying again, those jarring, bone-chilling sobs wracking her body.

He stared at her helplessly, knowing what he was going to do, moving forward even as he knew he shouldn't.

And then she was there in his arms.

"Say it," she sobbed, fists pounding against his back. "Sashenka. My name. Say it, say it."

"All right, Countess, all right. Sashenka. Okay?" It didn't sound nearly as nice rolling off his tongue.

She moaned, a hard wailing sound, and sank into him, her legs gone. He supported her, then in one swift motion, bent and lifted her into his arms.

He couldn't explain the sudden thrill of having his hands beneath her body. It mixed with the weight of grief, an odd little jarring bump of his heart that he acknowledged and ignored.

As if she understood, she curled into him, wrapping her arms tight around his neck like a heartbroken child. Needing him the way Mandy needed him. Cloying, clinging, pulling him under.

Something caught in his throat, that awful fear of not getting there in time, of letting her down, of not doing the right thing; and he fought to hold it back, all the while carrying her to her bedroom.

The roses bloomed on the walls and on the bedspread, huge puffs of blush pink and crimson. Fecund, primal. Speaking to the core of him, so that while his heart broke for her, his body was aware of her shape beneath the thin silk covering. Of the white valley of skin between the edges of the pale blue robe.

He laid her on the bed and backed away Christ, could he get far enough? but she grasped his wrist "Don't leave me," she whispered.

How could he?

He dropped to the bed and she came to him, pressing herself against him in desperate need to be held. And he held her, light, so tight A bulwark against the pain. As if he'd never let her go.

His fingers traced the plane of her back beneath the cool silk, the wash of hair against her neck, and he battled desire.

Crooning softly, he rocked her, knowing bone deep that nothing he did would matter. He couldn't stop her from breaking apart. He couldn't save her; couldn't save anyone. And the thought, and the sounds of her sorrow were like a knife in his ribs.

"Shh, hush now. Hush. I'm here, it's going to be all right Shh." The words were a lie, but what else could he say? That she would hurt forever? That you never recovered from some losses?

And slowly, so slowly, the sobs eased. She relaxed against him, a lifetime of waiting, until only the raw ache of breathing was left.

She slid away, collapsing on the bed, her face to the wall. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"God, Alex, don't apologize." He stroked her hair, sweat damp at her forehead. So sweet, so sad.

And him so helpless to fix anything.

He eased away, thinking to leave her alone, but her hand groped for his. "Stay," she whispered.

He couldn't. Not and keep some part of himself safe from guilt and failure.

But even as he knew it, he slid down, wrapped his arms around her, and pulled her against him. She sighed, a hitched, breathy sound, laid her head on his shoulder, and slept.

10

Morning found Alex tangled in the sheets, arms and legs entwined with someone else's. Her mind blanked, a low headache looming at the back of her head. Then she eased herself up, saw Hank, and remembered the vodka and the tears. And him.

For a moment the weight of grief pressed her down. She lay back, hearing him breathe, wishing it were real and he was her lover. That outside the room, children waited, Sonya, an aunt or uncle. A web of people to love and care for. Who would love and care for her.

A bleak shadow stole through her. Wishing was a waste of time. Things were what they were. She untangled herself, slipped out of bed quietly so she wouldn't wake him. He had shown her such kindness last night; the least she could do was let him sleep.

Silently, she gathered clothes. Linen slacks, pressed Sharply. A charmeuse blouse, which would drape but still look tailored. Protective covering in hand, she turned toward the bathroom to shower, but her gaze stuck on him sprawled on her bed.

He slept on his back, the arm that had held her all night now thrown out, hand strong, finished in blunt ends. It was the kind of hand that could shift a heavy bushel of apples or comfort sorrow away. Strong. Dependable. A hand she was tempted to grasp.

His sandy hair was mussed in a charming way that brought a tiny smile to her lips. For half a second she yearned to brush the fallen locks back from his forehead as if she had the right

A big man, he filled the bed. Would she let him fill her? Desire buzzed her. At least she thought it was desire. She'd had little experience with sexual passion so she wasn't sure. Her passion had been for other things. Achievement, so she could be in the right position at the right time; wealth, so she could have money to grease the wheels of power. Above all and leading from all, her passion had been for revenge.

And now that was all she had left.

For a flicker of a moment the thought of letting go drifted over her. Forget revenge and live life. Be a woman. Chase a man. Uncharted options down an uncharted road.

But that was a dream for children, and she was no child. She hadn't been a child for thirteen years.

Turning away from the bed and the fantasy it held, she went into the bathroom and switched on the shower. The warm needles of water pounded her back, a reminder to bury grief and hold on to resolve.

Petrov would pay. Somehow, someday, if she died doing it, he would pay for what he'd done to everyone she'd ever cared about.

The vow strengthened her, gave her purpose. By the time she was dressed she was Alex again. Cold, determined Alex.

She was making coffee when Hank sauntered in, sleepy-eyed, rumpled, and infinitely good to look at. Which was why she glanced away, busying herself with the cof-feemaker. Normally, Sonya would have done all this, and for a second Alex's breath snagged as she remembered. But then she concentrated on the filter, the coffee measure, the water. This was a kitchen, not a death zone. If Sonya had died there, she had also lived there, and if she had to, Alex would remember only that