Wilderness of Mirrors (13 page)

His tail gave a malevolent swoosh as they approached a steely-eyed airport official. “And don’t go lowering your head.” Sam turned the power of her wide smile on the security guard. “It makes you seem aggressive.”

If Tam heard, he feigned ignorance and stalked a bit closer.

Crap. One of these days, the idiot was going to find a guard who didn’t give a shit about women who bought seats for their dogs. And then, to both of their horror, he’d end up in the plane’s belly, stuffed in a crate next to species of fauna he deemed unfit to call canine.

“Hello,” Sam said brightly.

The guard’s instant barrage gave no indication he believed it to be so.

She tried to interrupt him, unable to follow his reasoning.

But he put a hand to his ear and commented instead on her impossible to understand Mandarin-accented Cantonese.

Prick
.

“You don’t understand,” she enunciated, scrabbling through her bag to find proof of Tam’s place in the upper echelons of the plane. “I purchased a separate first class seat for him.” She thrust her tickets, email confirmation and two passports across the counter.
Why was it tiny dogs escaped such obstacles even when the little bastards bit more often than dogs five times their size?

The guard touched the pages, spreading them out and mumbling under his breath.

“What did you say?” she hissed, the day’s events wearing thin.

Caught off guard by her flash of irritation, he glanced around the terminal crux.

“These are not appropriate,” he muttered officiously.

She leaned in, fear well on its way to panic. “Not appropriate? I did just what the airline said …”

Then something caught the corner of her eye. She paused and noticed an audience of one. He was on the other side of the checkpoint. A tall, attractive man. Quite still too, watching her little argument with speculative dark eyes.

His skin was deep brown – at odds with his dark blond hair. Oddly enough, he was dressed like he’d just walked off an archeological dig. Rugged. Dusty, but clean. Lean. Looked damn good in his jeans and v-neck tee. No coffee in hand, no backpack, no trappings at all. Like he’d blown in on some errant Egyptian breeze.

“What’s taking so long?” the stranger asked, his wry mouth oddly appealing as it formed the phrase.

Was he talking to her?

The guard turned toward the speaker, just as the man gestured to Sam. “Is something wrong, sir? Only my girlfriend and I are about to miss our flight.” He took a step forward and she was made aware of his subtle force. Authority suddenly seemed to be radiating from him.

His girlfriend?

The guard, sensing a growing line on one side and mounting opposition on the other, ultimately shoved her papers across the space. “Go,” he grumbled.

The stranger lifted his hand in an affable gesture and said, “Ta.” The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile of thanks.

He’s English, like Granddad.

She passed through the barrier, body language relaxed and familiar despite the nervous twanging of her suspicious mind. “I didn’t realize it was so late.” Her words were innocuous enough.

They were close now – she and her mysterious ally – only the guard was still watching.

“Here, allow me.” The man swung the bag from her hand and their fingers brushed. A whisper buzzed along her knuckles. And before she could register its bittersweet familiarity, he shocked her further by leaning in, hidden from all by her tangled mass of hair. She felt his breath introduce itself to her cheek and ear. He smelled clean and windblown.

She nearly panicked. Her body went rigid as rock, though she hoped to God her outward appearance was one of calm.

Was he actually going to kiss her?

The last person to do so had been Marc. She never expected differently. Her choice had been made.

Yet the moment grew, interminable and forbidden, and the silence in her ears became a roar. Her knuckles, whitened peaks clutched between their bodies, punctured the heated surface of his chest. The shell of his sunburned ear hovered just above the lashes on her right eye. She was perfectly still. Ashamedly secure in his not-so-embrace.

But, as unexpectedly as he’d come, he drew back; earthy eyes a juxtaposition of mockery and delight. “Mea culpa,” he whispered.

She weakened as the salty masculinity of his strength bled from her. His muscles, so unlike Marc’s, yet altogether familiar in their potency, flexed easily beneath the weight of her bag. And, inexplicably, the simple gesture of humanity made her fragile with sorrow.

Before she could crumble, he pivoted, setting off down the terminal’s length, and she was forced to gather her wits and follow. She pushed her uneasy legs until they matched his pace, struggling all the while against a tide of unwanted emotions.

Tam, gait easy, went along without complaint.

This man has my back.

But the corridor crooked before the startling realization had time to settle. The stranger chose that moment to stop. She came up short. At a total loss for words. Too close.

But he merely set the bag on her shoulder and, mischief brimming in his too-canny eyes, turned away. Just turned on one heel and left.

She waited a moment longer, stunned, to see if he’d change his mind. When he didn’t, she adjusted the strap and began a slow distracted trek toward her gate.

“Bastard,” she muttered, now that her tongue had finally loosened.

Tam’s ears perked.

“All of you.” Frustration and sadness jabbed at her, so she jabbed back. “You. The guard. That guy.” Her finger pointed to a wall that might have intersected with the stranger’s destination.

Tam feigned ignorance.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about. You even wagged your tail at him.”

He ignored the jibe as Sam headed for an isolated pair of vinyl seats where she could sulk.

Sensing a long wait, he crashed to the ground.

She checked the Departures screen before sitting beside him. Two hours until takeoff. Another twelve before she’d see the sun rise over Manhattan. She should have been excited. Expectant. But right now Sam felt…

Inside out.

Because a stranger hadn’t bothered to turn around?

You’re pathetic, Sam.

She slid a book from her bag and tucked her feet up under her hips. Her toenail polish flashed garish pink against the blue of her jeans. Had he noticed? Not likely. He didn’t seem as though nail polish or even clothes would register on his internal monitor. She wondered for a minute what it would be like to be with a man like that. Most of the guys she’d dated noticed everything about her.

Even Marc had been drawn to her style. Clothes didn’t wear her. She wore them. She didn’t chase men. They chased her. He liked that. She liked that.

But this man’s reaction to her was altogether different. Unsettling.

Maybe he was gay. Or married.

Though she rather doubted the first, knowing her uncles the way she did, and she wasn’t much inclined toward the second either.

Married men carried stuff. Cell phones, briefcases, wedding bands.

He hadn’t had any of those. Not even a white mark from a recently removed ring.

Why did he help me?

Tam interrupted her musings, flipping to his back and looking at her from upside down.

“Close your eyes or I’ll buy you a crate.”

He obeyed and she glanced around the sunlit box of a room.

Did she actually think the guy would appear carrying a box of Godiva?

Her mystery man hadn’t even looked back. She rather doubted he’d start searching for her bearing quantities of expensive, calorie-laden chocolate.

Yet, there had been something unnervingly precious about their encounter. For one long moment, she’d felt…safe. Free.

The impossible thought weakened her further and she considered buying the really big donut beckoning her from across the room. Maybe the real culprit for her inexplicable malaise was hypoglycemia. She’d had enough of eating the bare minimum during Hong Kong Fashion Week. Being forced to live on water, rice and fruit was simply awful when what she really craved was pasta, lobster, and wine.

No. You want a man. That man. What he gave you in that moment.

I can’t.
She reminded herself, forcing her attention onto the book and away from all kinds of dessert. It is not mine to want.

Then, as if the past decade was no more than a minute, Sam was back, her kitchen hot as that Hong Kong afternoon.

“Your eyes.” She would have remembered the blueness. She lifted her chin and studied them. Nigel was lost in thought, and right there with her. An interesting trick.

His broad chest filled with air, like he’d just come up from too long under water.

“Depends upon what I’m wearing.”
And if I have colored contacts in.

Goddamn, they were still locked together.

He started with his thumb. Air parted her lips.

He tried his knee. It was wedged firmly between her thighs. He simply could not let her sink further into him. He’d be a fucking piece of putty in her hands if he didn’t do something quick. “Speak Chinese.”

She snorted. The tension eased a bit and his thumb came loose.

But her hand was still on his bicep. And for short nails, they were doing a remarkably good job. The tendons in her wrist stretched like violin strings. The wolf rippled along them.

“Can you let go of my arm?” He cleared his throat, embarrassed.

She let go like a sprung leak. Better.

“Your thigh now.”

That wasn’t handled as well.

Only his hand was left. He parted from her, like a plaster from skin, and felt the rip along his quasi-soul.

“Better?”

No.
“The water’s boiling over.”

She rotated and he sagged.

He didn’t know how to fight his attraction to her. He closed his eyes, aware that, for the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do. Something suddenly existed inside him – had turned into the largest part of him – and it shamed him, having given Irina only thin skeins of himself.

K
riminalanya boss, Vasiliv, loathed the earsplitting pulse of techno-music blaring from all angles of Moscow’s hottest club. The time it took to reach the establishment’s relatively peaceful rear rooms was seventeen seconds of pure hell.

He dropped his fur coat into Sergei’s hands and stared out through the one-way window at the writhing masses. “Fucking idiots.”

Sergei laughed and, having draped the snow-flecked mink over a custom wooden butler, handed his boss a double vodka. “Ivan called from London.”

Vasiliv sipped at the drink, tipping it so that his ruined mouth wouldn’t leak it down the front of his custom Valentino suit. “And?” One of the girls, slim and blond caught his eye. He watched her for a moment, remembering another lifetime. Then she popped something small and white into her mouth, and he turned away in disgust.

“And,” Sergei poured himself a drink, “he’s on his way to meet with Arman.”

A dribble of vodka touched the part of his face he could feel, and Vasiliv wiped the back of his hand across his chin. “He wasted a fucking phone call to tell me he’s doing what I sent him to do?”

Sergei raised his pointer finger from its place on his shot glass. “Not exactly. He spotted someone at Heathrow – Andrus Sepp.”

“The Estonian dealer?”

Sergei nodded. “Ivan followed him and it turns out he’s some sort of aristocracy. Real name is Nigel Forsythe. Son of a kniaz. Has a family dacha the size of Winter Palace.”

“Does he.” Vasiliv ran a hand over his pocket and slipped out his cigar case, his mind turning. “I wonder what he’s doing selling cocaine to us.” He waited as Sergei clipped the cigar and flicked a lighter across its fragrant end. “Spasibo.”

Sergei nodded. “Ivan wants to know if he should continue with the first directive or find out more regarding Sepp.”

It had been two decades since Vasiliv had thought so much about London. Once, when he’d first learned his girlfriend was pregnant, he’d bought a guide book and imagined visiting the sights with her: strolling past Big Ben and making love to the sounds of the Thames. He pulled deeply on his cigar, pushing his sagging lip against the smooth brown circumference. “Have you been to England, Sacha?” he asked on the exhale.

“Not since my uncle called me by that childhood name.”

Vasiliv chuckled. He liked Sergei, enough to gift his position in Moscow’s Kriminalanya to him when he finally retired. “Would you like to go again?”

The handsome young man nodded his head toward the window. “Why not? The merchandise out there is all too familiar these days.”

Vasiliv smiled. He’d been thinking the same thing. “Good. Book us tickets – first class. Tell Ivan to keep himself scarce. If Sepp catches him after that business with the girl, they’ll be fishing another foreigner out of the Thames. Have him use Jaak; he’s more expendable.”

Sergei’s eyes flashed anger before he squelched it.

Ah, that’s right. You also liked that bitch of a whore he buried.

Vasiliv blew another cloud of smoke. “Tell the others I’ll take care of the problems in London myself.”

When Sergei had gone, Vasiliv took a seat in the soft lambskin club chair. Some little fucker, likely the cocky cousin of a fellow Kriminalanya boss, was siphoning London’s narcotics business at an alarming rate. There was now a price on his head and Vasiliv was aiming to claim it.

He examined his nails and wondered idly if he’d get to kill someone. It had been an awfully long time since he’d been in such a position, and he was looking forward to getting a bit of blood on his hands. Even if in the end, it was only Sepp’s.

After all, Vasiliv had a deep-seated hatred of upper class Englishmen.

It would be a pleasure to toy with Forsythe, and a fucking bliss to ultimately gut the lying bastard.

B
rad, stomach brooding over too much wine and pasta, cleaved the dark streets. He hadn’t enjoyed his meal. Company went a long way to seasoning food. The lack of it made him wonder for an instant what Giselle was doing. He’d heard she was keeping close company with a German billionaire.