Wyatt

by Susan May Warren

  She did it to keep him safe, and that thought centered her and allowed her to meet Roman’s hazel-green eyes with a look that said, “This is for the best. For everyone.” Then she hauled her pack out of his Lada and headed into the station.

  The train to Belogorsk left the station late, so she sat on the bench, her backpack clutched to her, watching for signs of York. Or Gustov, or frankly, even Wyatt.

  She couldn’t pry from her gut the sense that she hadn’t seen the end of him.

  Oh, shoot, even hoped so. Because his touch still lingered on her skin. The taste of him, the sense that in his arms, the world stopped terrifying her.

  She was safe.

  But no one could keep her safe but herself, so, yeah, she hoped desperately that Wyatt was in his hotel room sleeping. And tomorrow, got on that train to Vladivostock, the opposite direction of Belogorsk.

  She boarded and found her spot in second class, in the open car filled with sleeping berths. She opened the bench seat, took out a blanket and pillow, then shoved her backpack in the space and closed it.

  A woman in her late twenties sat down opposite her. Long black hair, she wore a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. A tattoo of what looked like black roses wound up her left arm, and it looked like a complete sleeve because it even edged out of the neck of her T-shirt. “Prevyet,” she said.

  Coco gave her a smile, then curled up on the bench seat. Not as comfortable as the private berths, but her funds were low and she didn’t want to take out more money from one of her various bank accounts in case Gustov might be hunting her. She’d find a place en route to—

  So she didn’t know exactly where. Out of Russia and someplace where she didn’t need a visa. She had options—both a Russian and an American passport. She could travel to Ukraine or Kazakhstan, maybe even to Belorussia on her red passport. Then switch to blue and head into Finland or the Czech Republic. She could even set up shop in Germany.

  Or she could board a flight to Alaska. She’d heard of people getting lost in the wilds of the back country. As long as she could snag bandwidth she would be fine. Go back to working for her father.

  She pulled her phone from her back pocket and scrolled down to York’s number. He hadn’t contacted her since his cryptic call telling her to meet Wyatt.

  She dialed as the train lurched out of the station. It went to voicemail—no surprise—and she cupped her hand over the speaker. “York. It’s me. I dropped off the…uh, package to Wyatt. I’m on a train to Belogorsk—” Oh shoot, maybe she shouldn’t have said that, but oh well— “And then I’m disappearing. I’ll leave word through Roy when I get…someplace.”

  Roy. Their contact in Europe who had originally alerted RJ to her father’s danger.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” She clicked off. Turned her phone off, just in case Wyatt decided to call her and break her heart, and slid it under the pillow.

  Then she drew up the blanket, pounded her fist into the pillow, lay down on her back, and closed her eyes.

  Sleep. She needed sleep. Because her body was starting to ache and yeah, maybe running hadn’t been the best idea for her shredded, now-healing insides.

  A conductor came by offering tea, but she shook her head.

  I know we have something.

  She closed her eyes, willing Wyatt away, but the moment she did, his hand was behind her neck, his lips against hers.

  She opened her eyes. Across from her, the woman had lain down, also on her back.

  We always have, and I…I want you to come to America.

  She rolled over, curled her knees up. Closed her eyes again.

  His arms came around her, holding on to the reins as they rode one of the ranch horses through the pastures, the scent of summer in the air, the brush of his early beard against her neck.

  She rolled onto her back.

  I want us to be together. Be happy.

  Her jaw clenched, and she threw her arm over her eyes.

  Coco, I don’t get it. I don’t understand any of it. Why you came to me in Russia two years ago. Why you even left Montana in the first place. You… You broke my heart, okay?

  Yeah, well, it was break his heart or…or…

  He’d done his share of breaking her heart, thank you. Like when she’d showed up at the door of his hotel.

  How she hated the memory.

  Hated it. Loved it, and sometimes, now, in her weakness, let it wash over her.

  Even if it hurt.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have come—she was practically a glutton for pain. She should have given in to her impulse to turn and, well, run. But no, she’d stood in the hallway of the Vega Hotel in the middle of Moscow. He had one of the executive, aka party, suites. The music slid out from under the door in a pulsing mix of Russian pop and American hip-hop. Which meant probably a mixed crowd inside.

  She was about to knock when room service showed up, a cart roughly the size of a hockey rink filled with champagne and chips and dip and pizza which said yes, there were probably Americans inside.

  The room service attendant knocked at the door, and she held her breath.

  Wyatt answered. He was dressed in a pair of faded jeans, a blue oxford unbuttoned two down and was grinning, looking over his shoulder, laughing at something. He wore a mid-season beard, his hair long and tucked back behind his ears, and…he looked happy. Without her.

  She drew in a shaky breath. Run.

  Then he turned to receive the food and spotted her standing across the hall and froze.

  Yeah. Hi.

  For a second, their past flashed through his eyes, the flirting, the texts and phone calls while he was at college.

  The night he’d pulled her to himself and kissed her like she was more than just his kid sister’s best friend.

  Her throat thickened.

  “Coco?”

  She turned and sprinted down the hallway. What had she been thinking—that she’d show up and he’d be alone, staring out into the darkened Moscow skyline pining for her? Sheesh, she had read too many romance novels, for sure, and—

  “Stop!”

  His hand hit the wall above the elevator button just as she pressed it. Her breaths came hard, running under his, and she closed her eyes a second before he grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her into the wall.

  When she opened them, his gaze was trailing over her, as if to confirm it was her, then fixed on her eyes. Oh, he had beautiful eyes. Whiskey brown with flecks of gold when he got serious or intense. They practically shimmered now. “What are you doing here?”

  She reached up to push his hands off her. “I don’t know, okay?” Her voice shook, and she wanted to just press her hands over her mouth, back away from him. The lift was taking an eternity—

  But she knew exactly the answer to that question. I’m here because of Mikka. Because you’re a father and—

  “I’ve been trying to find you for a year,” he said, cutting his voice low, almost a growl. “Ever since you came to Montana—I’m sorry. I know I was a jerk that weekend, but…you vanished.” He’d taken his hands off her shoulders now, but hadn’t backed away, his body too close to her space. If she ran, he’d catch her.

  “I know. I just…”

  “You live in Moscow?”

  She nodded. Glanced at the lift. Please. “I’m a computer tech.” Not really a lie. She could do this…not lie.

  “How did you know—oh wait, the tournament.”

  “Your posters are everywhere.”

  He grinned, one side of his perfect mouth sliding up, and oh, it did devastating things to her heart. “Did you see my game?”

  Her traitorous head nodded. “You were fantastic. How many shots on goal?”

  “Nearly a hundred.”

  And he’d saved every one, practically a superhero in the crease, kicking, stretching, nabbing the pucks as the Finnish team bombarded him. “Your defensemen need a little work.”

  The lift dinged.

  She couldn’t move. Or maybe
simply didn’t want to. Not with him smelling freshly showered. He’d filled out even since she’d seen him a year ago, his body tighter, his shoulders defined. Not a wasted inch on him. His jeans hung low, and through the neck of his shirt, dark hair peeked out. He hadn’t had that when…

  Oh boy. Run.

  The doors opened.

  He looked at the lift with a hint of what she thought—hoped?—might be panic. “Don’t leave. I…” He glanced back down the hall. “I can get rid of everybody. It’s just a casual after-party. The team is—well, they can celebrate somewhere else.”

  Then he took her hand. His was strong, warm, and it sent a shock of pure electricity through her body as he wove his fingers through hers. “Please don’t go.”

  His eyes held her captive and what could she say?

  He did shoo everyone away, down the hall to one of the other players’ room. Deke, maybe, but she didn’t pay attention to the crowd.

  Just Wyatt, who kept some of the food and set the table for them. She stood at the picture window, still not quite sure how she got here. The moon had come out to shine upon the light of Izmailovo Park, with its faux-ancient buildings, towers, bridges, and onion-domed turrets. “I’ve never seen it from this far up.”

  Inside the words were stirring, the night nearly perfect. We have a son, Wyatt.

  “I can’t believe you’re here.” Wyatt came up behind her, his hand on her shoulder. “I contacted RJ, but she said she hadn’t heard from you, and…I’m sorry how things turned out the last time…well, in Montana.”

  She nodded.

  “I didn’t expect to see you, and the team photographer wanted pictures of my life on the ranch for publicity and…” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re apologizing that the woman was in love with you?” She looked up at him, remembering too well the woman, a good five years older than Wyatt showing up to take his picture, flirting with him like he might be a teenager. “Yeah, that was hardly your fault.”

  He laughed and leaned down, nuzzled her neck. “Wow, I’ve missed you. Nobody gets me like you, Cookie.”

  Oh no. He’d gone right for his pet name. And the last of her reserves simply, well, crumbled. “How is your drawing coming along? Still trying to be an artist?”

  He drew her back to the table and she sat down opposite him. “No. I…” Spend my free time visiting our son. She shook her head. “Work. It keeps me busy.”

  “I get that. If I’m not playing, I’m practicing or icing down or weight lifting or answering interviews. It’s been a crazy year, and Coach says he’s starting me this year, so it’s going to get crazier.” He picked up a piece of pizza, folding it in half before he took a bite. “Eat something. I ordered a lot of food. You’re way too skinny.”

  Oh. Uh.

  She must have frowned because his smile fell. “Oh, Cookie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like…” He put the pizza down and took a drink of his water. Wiped his mouth. Then he leaned forward, his gaze in hers. “You are still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

  He touched her face, his fingers whispering over her skin. “I’ve really missed you.”

  She didn’t want to ask or argue with him, didn’t really want to believe anything else but his words. So she let herself lean in to him when he curled his hand behind her neck and pulled her forward to kiss her.

  He’d been her first kiss, at the age of eighteen, stolen after he’d cajoled her out to the barn to slap around a tennis ball. They’d been fighting for it as it rolled behind a wheelbarrow, and then, suddenly, he’d fallen into a stall and taken her with him.

  She wasn’t sure how the kissing happened after that, but suddenly his mouth was on hers and she was lost inside a place she’d only dreamed of. Wyatt’s arms around her, his lips on hers. And sure, Ford had messed that up, thank you, by finding them and making a ruckus out of the escapade, but nosy kid brother Ford wasn’t here now.

  Now, it was all Wyatt, his mouth sweet and tender, drawing her in to himself as he stood them up. He reached behind her, caught her legs, lifting her around him, so she could kiss him face-to-face, settle her arms on his shoulders. Then he just held her there, kissing her so thoroughly she’d forgotten why she’d tracked down his hotel, sneaked into the lift, followed the party up to his room, and tried to find the courage to talk to him.

  Wyatt made her feel safe. He was gentle and caring, and even as he brought her over to the bed, even as he settled her down into it and pulled her into his arms, she felt cocooned in his presence. Big. Solid. Focused.

  He took a breath, as if he might be nervous, and it sent a funny feeling through her, like maybe he wasn’t quite as changed as she thought.

  Wasn’t the big time hockey player with the flock of women.

  Maybe Wyatt was still the shy boy who’d cried the first time they were together.

  She wanted to believe that.

  He’d kissed her neck and then raised his head and met her gaze. Swallowed, a question in his beautiful eyes.

  Yes. She’d nodded. “I’ve missed you too, Wyatt.”

  Oh, she still missed him, and as the train lurched, she rolled over, pressing her hands to her face, trying to hold herself together.

  Because if she could, she’d stay right there, in the last good memory between them. In the place where she always belonged.

  Wyatt’s embrace.

  4

  Wyatt rued every single Russian spy novel he’d ever stayed up late reading—le Carré, Forsyth, Follett, Lee Child, even Tom Clancy—because every torture scene had rolled into one, settled into his bones, and turned him desperate by the time an officer came to get him.

  The grousing from Jace, Deke, and Kalen hadn’t helped—even after Wyatt had told them everything, three times, emphasizing the fact that he had no idea why someone would want to rob him.

  He was turning into a pretty decent liar.

  But as the officer shoved him, still cuffed, down into a metal chair and shut him in a room that had KGB written all over it, Wyatt considered rethinking his answers.

  Yes, nude photos. And he wouldn’t cop to sex tapes—hello, that felt too tawdry to even lie about—but he had a litany of possible explanations. Whatever it took to get him out of these zip cuffs and on the train to Vladivostok in the morning.

  The door opened and a woman came in. Blonde, midfifties, she wore a thin line of red lipstick, cool blue eyes, and the uniform of a militia officer.

  “I’m sorry for the delay,” she said, offering a smile he didn’t quite believe. She sat down in the chair across the table. “We were busy gathering evidence.” She placed a long manila folder onto the table. Opened it up. He recognized the handwriting of the officer who’d taken down his initial statement. At the time, he’d also been bleeding, holding a compress to his nose, and trying to wrap his brain around the fact that he’d lost the only evidence his sister had of her innocence.

  Sometime later, as he sat in the cell—a chipped and dour eleven-by-eleven cement dungeon that stirred up visions of gulag and Siberia and had Deke praying under his breath—Wyatt realized that if Coco still had the USB in her possession, she might have been the one attacked.

  Which led him to the fact that maybe someone saw her hand him the device in the garden at the hotel. And that meant that someone had been following her.

  Or him.

  Which gave all sorts of credence to the idea that a real live and deadly assassin was very truly after Coco. And probably RJ.

  And Wyatt had beat him up.

  See, he could have been a SEAL. So, hoo-yah.

  Except, well there was the fact that Wyatt had lost the evidence.

  But if he could find Coco, maybe she could reconstruct it.

  Except, he couldn’t find Coco. Not without help, and certainly the woman across the table wasn’t a great bet.

  In fact—and this was where the spy stories kicked in—he didn’t know who to trust. />
  Probably no one.

  “No problem,” he said now and flashed her his best smile. “I’m glad to answer any questions.”

  She glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow.

  Oh, that might be too much cooperation, maybe. They wouldn’t believe him from the start. Which might mean bright lights, toothpicks, maybe even waterboarding.

  He liked his water frozen, thank you.

  He stopped smiling. “I’ve already given my statement—”

  “Just a few questions.”

  Her English was good. British, with an accent.

  “Why was this man in your room?”

  Oh, he got to start with the big lie, huh? What was it that Ford said once—or maybe it was Tate. Lie with the truth attached. “He was there to steal something, probably.”

  “And what could that be?”

  Wyatt lifted a shoulder. “Money? My credit cards? I don’t know. This isn’t the first time I’ve had someone break into my hotel room. Once, in BC Canada, I found an entire fan club sitting in my suite, wearing only—”

  Oh. Maybe not that story. “I asked them to leave. Because I’m not that kind of guy.” He slowed his words down. “I know it sort of looks like that—my publicist is big on getting me cover gigs—and then there was this ad for the sleep number bed and they put me in the bed with this woman I didn’t know, but she wanted to know me, if you know what I mean, and that got super awkward because like I said, I’m really not that guy. I haven’t even had a girlfriend. Ever. In college I sorta dated this one girl from my econ class, but that was because she was smart, and yeah, I guess I might have used the fact she liked hockey to get some help, but I didn’t cheat—I draw the line there. It was all studying. And I scored a C in that class, which was actually amazing, because I hate numbers and—”

  “Stoy!”

  He recoiled. “Sorry.”

  She pressed her hand to the table. He stared at it. Fat fingers.

  “So, you don’t know why this man broke into your room.”

  His voice caught in his throat. Uh.

  “Calm down. We are just trying to find your attacker.”