Safe Harbor

by Christine Feehan

  She forced a quick smile. "Russ, you're a flirt and a bit of a hound dog. I've never seen you with the same woman twice. I would last one night and you'd be on to the next one."

  "Maybe I just need a good woman to straighten me out."

  "You're fine the way you are, Russ. When you find the right woman, you'll want to settle down." She glanced at her watch, anxious that the growing fear in her was from the knowledge that the boost her sisters had given her to stave off the panic attacks was wearing off. They'd been too long out of the country and her anxiety level was rising faster than normal, her lungs fighting for air when she should have felt so much better outside away from the crowd.

  To stay calm, she took another cautious sip of the champagne. She didn't touch alcohol very often, and the drink hit her already churning stomach hard. Heat and then cold swept through her. She was suddenly nauseated. Her heart reacted, racing as she turned away from Russ, handing him the glass as she did so.

  Russ set the glasses on the rail and took her arm. "You look like you're dizzy. Are you okay? I can drive you to your hotel."

  Hannah remained silent, assessing her body. She was a Drake and Drakes had special gifts. Her body violently objected to the drink all of a sudden. How strange. She pressed her hand against her mouth and tried to step back away from him. Russ tightened his hold as she swayed.

  "Hannah? Are you ill?"

  "Miss Drake. Lovely to see you again."

  Hannah stiffened when she heard the distinctive Russian accent. She turned slowly to find Sergei Nikitin, the Russian mobster, smiling at her with shiny white teeth. He enjoyed the good things in life; his Italian suit and shoes cost as much as a small car. Everything he had, he had gotten through someone's suffering.

  Hannah felt the evil in him when she was so close, and it didn't help the nausea churning in her stomach. She glanced past him and her gaze was caught and held by Ilya Prakenskii. For a moment she couldn't breathe, unable to look away from his cold, merciless eyes. He was reputed to be a hit man for Nikitin, and at one time had been trained by Russia's secret police. Strangely, Hannah couldn't feel anything--good or evil--when she was close to the man.

  "Miss Drake." Ilya nodded his head, moving past Nikitin to take her elbow and remove her from Russ's hold. He drew her to him. "You look ill. Do you need help?"

  Hannah swept back her hair with a shaky hand. She felt dizzy and disoriented. She needed to lie down. She should have been afraid of Ilya, maybe she was, but he was strong and holding her up and she felt confused so she remained still, afraid if she tried to get away, she'd fall flat on her face. If she answered, she might get sick.

  "Hannah?" Ilya asked again, his voice low, but commanding. He tipped her face up toward his, staring down into her eyes.

  "I was just about to take her home," Russ said, frowning at the bodyguard's high-handed proprietary manner.

  Hannah shook her head, one hand pressed to her stomach. Models didn't throw up at parties right after the biggest fashion show of the season in the United States. Desperate, she wiped the beads of sweat from her face and tried to step away from Ilya.

  Ilya glanced over his shoulder to the two glasses sitting on the railing and a low hiss escaped between his teeth. As he reached for Hannah's glass, Russ stepped back to avoid his arm and knocked into the railing, sending both glasses crashing to the garden below.

  "Stay put, Hannah," Ilya instructed. "If you want to get back to your hotel, we'll be more than happy to escort you."

  Sergei Nikitin smiled again, looking more the shark than ever. "Of course, Miss Drake, it would be an honor to see you to your hotel safely." He turned his attention to Russ. "You are the football player."

  His accent had thickened, a bad sign, Hannah thought. She had to take charge or she'd end up obligating her family even more than they already were to the Russians, and she didn't want Nikitin anywhere near her sister Joley. She might be confused and disoriented and very, very sick to her stomach, but she held on to that much. Sergei Nikitin wasn't a good man and he had a bad habit of turning up wherever her sister was performing, looking for an introduction.

  Hannah made a concentrated effort to step away from Ilya and reach for Russ's arm. Ilya moved without seeming to move. Glided. Or maybe his muscles just rippled. Whatever happened, he was suddenly and solidly between her and Russ. Ilya spoke in Russian to his boss.

  Hannah frowned. She knew Russian and she could have sworn he ordered his boss to watch the rapist while he took care of her. Rapist? She must have misunderstood. Russ was her friend. And where was her agent? She needed to leave. It was all getting too complicated and she was definitely going to be sick all over the Russian mobster's bodyguard.

  Nikitin replied and Hannah's face lost all color. She felt herself going pale. He told Ilya to throw the bastard over the railing. She understood that with no problem. She didn't have the strength to fight against two men to save Russ and they certainly had the wrong idea about him. She'd been uneasy all night, but Russ didn't need to rape women. They threw themselves at him.

  "He's my friend," she said, or thought she said. Her voice was strange--tinny--far away. What was wrong with her?

  Ilya shook his head. "She understands Russian, Sergei. Be careful what you say, she might not realize you're amusing yourself."

  Hannah would have relaxed, but Ilya seemed to be staring Russ down, his piercing blue eyes locked on to the football player with lethal purpose. Russ was very arrogant and she'd seen him intimidate several men, but with Ilya, he either knew the man's reputation, or something in those ice cold eyes warned him off.

  Russ shrugged his shoulders. "Hannah, I can see you're busy. I'll just tell your agent you're ready to go."

  Hannah watched him go through the double French doors, leaving her alone on the balcony with a mobster and his bodyguard.

  "We must take her to her hotel where she's safe," Nikitin ordered.

  Ilya shook his head. "I can help her. Give me a couple of minutes with her, Sergei. If her agent shows up, distract him while I see what I can do."

  "Her sister must know we helped her," Nikitin reminded him.

  Ilya didn't answer, simply wrapped his arm around Hannah's waist and half carried her to the far side of the balcony away from his boss. "That man is no friend of yours, Hannah. He drugged you. I'm going to rid your body of it, but it's going to burn like hell. Do you understand?"

  She didn't understand any of it, but she knew Ilya Prakenskii had the same gifts the Drake sisters did. She knew how they worked and that he was capable of removing a drug from her body. She also knew he was a very dangerous man, and anytime one worked with psychic abilities, or magic, whatever term one used, there was vulnerability on both sides. The Drake family were already in debt to Ilya and he had a path straight back to Joley. She was one of the most powerful of the Drakes. She didn't want him knowing anything about her just in case she had to protect her sister.

  Hannah shook her head. "No." It was very firm. She'd deal with the drug. She could push it out of her own system now that she knew what she was dealing with.

  "Yes," he countered. "You're in no condition to try it yourself. You know these things can be tricky. Hold still. And the next time you accept a drink from a man, friend or not, use your gift to make certain there's nothing wrong with it."

  No wonder the man set Joley's teeth on edge. Hannah was no amateur--and neither was Joley. Ilya might think he was more powerful, but the Drakes could take him if they had to--as long as they didn't open themselves up to his magic. She tried to pull away, to stand on her own so that she could reverse whatever was wrong with her, but she was too dizzy.

  Ilya's hand settled on her stomach, his arm around her, clamping her in place. He was enormously strong and having him take her over with so many people within screaming distance kept her silent. She felt warmth flow from his palm, through her skin, and into her churning stomach. She didn't want this, but there was no way to stop the flow of power from him to her. She felt
their spirits connect. She flinched away from him, catching glimpses of things she didn't want to ever see or know about--dark, ugly things that belonged buried.

  She felt heat, her temperature rising. Worse, she felt him in her head. Instinctively she knew what he was after. Even while he was healing her body, he was searching for memories of Joley--of her power--her abilities. He wanted to know the precise strength. Frantic, Hannah shoved at him, raising her arms toward the wind.

  Ilya caught her wrists and yanked her hands to her sides. "There is a price for everything. This is my price."

  Hannah shook her head, furious. "You betray everything you're given and you don't deserve your gifts. Stay out of my head. I wouldn't trade my sister for my own life, my dignity or my virtue."

  His hand slipped around her throat. "You know nothing about me."

  Hannah stared at him, refusing to look away or be intimidated. If he wanted to throw her off the balcony for telling the truth, let him do it. She wasn't giving up Joley, not for anything. "I know I don't want you near my sister. Whatever game you're playing, know we will defend Joley with our lives--not just me, but every single Drake, man or woman, child or adult, alive today." It was the absolute truth and she let him see the reality in her eyes.

  "I am familiar with danger, Miss Drake."

  There was no doubt he was. She felt it in him, read it in his memories--terrible things--things she couldn't comprehend in her world. She'd grown up with loving parents, her family close, the village where she lived close-knit and protective. His life, from childhood, had been one of violence.

  He frightened her. Not her normal panic over nothing, but truly, deep down to the bone frightened. She knew her sister drew men like a magnet. She was elusive and wild and screamed sex on stage. Hannah glanced at his boss. Sergei Nikitin had been pursuing Joley across three continents. Was that what Ilya was up to? Was he going to use his psychic talents to put Joley in Nikitin's very dirty hands?

  "Let go of me," she demanded. The heat from his palm had turned scorching, searing through blood and bone and invading every tissue of her body, but she felt better, her head clear. There was no doubt she'd ingested a drug. After all the security lectures by Sarah, she felt stupid. She never drank, was always careful, and now, when she needed her wits about her, Ilya Prakenskii had not only witnessed her stupidity, but had to save her from it.

  "I'll let go if you don't do anything stupid like call the wind."

  Hannah threw back her head, eyes glittering, fairly shooting sparks at him as her temper began to rise. She always stayed in control--unless Jonas provoked her. Tempers weren't a good thing when one wielded power, but the bodyguard deserved everything he was about to get.

  Tiny flickers of flame ran up her fingertips, over her hands to her wrists, where his fingers had settled into a viselike grip. He snatched his hands away as the flames flashed over him, hot enough to warn him off. He stepped back.

  "Good party trick. You should have used it on your friend."

  "Thanks for your help."

  His cold eyes slid over her, his face without expression. "I can see how grateful you are."

  "I am grateful. But I'm not stupid." Although she had been for accepting the drink in the first place. "I don't want you near Joley."

  "Why are you so worried?"

  She couldn't read him. Whether she was touching him, or standing close, she should have been able to read his thoughts and emotions, but he was a blank slate. The glimpses of violent memories were gone. She studied his face. He looked dangerous. It was in the set of his shoulders, the fluid way he moved and the direct, cold eyes.

  "Why would you be worried about Joley?" Ilya dropped his voice until it was a low whisper, impossible for the sound to carry farther than her ear. "She's a spell-singer, isn't she?"

  Hannah's heart lurched. She struggled to keep her face composed. She bunked. He noticed. He noticed everything. "I'm not certain what you mean." There were few spell-singers in the world, not legitimate ones, not like Joley. She could call on the power of the one perfect note that supposedly had been used to create the world. The forces of the world, of the universe itself, could be drawn to do her bidding. In the hands of someone like Sergei Nikitin, Joley would be a weapon of destruction. He had no way of controlling her, or holding her--unless Ilya Prakenskii had the same talent. Was that even possible?

  She resisted the urge to wipe her hand over her face, certain she was beginning to sweat. Was Prakenskii strong enough to control Joley? The thought was terrifying.

  "You look pale, Miss Drake," Nikitin said, his smile solicitous. And false.

  Hannah's muscles clenched. She felt trapped. She managed a smile, slipping into her professional mode. No one could look haughtier than Hannah Drake. She even put one hand on her hip and struck a pose, as she flashed her small disdainful smile. "I'm feeling much better, thank you, Mr. Nikitin. Did you enjoy the show?"

  "I couldn't help but think none of the clothes would suit your sister. Joley has her own style. Don't you agree?"

  She didn't want Nikitin even saying Joley's name. Without conscious thought, she stepped toward the rail, her hands moving up and out. Prakenskii glided forward, wrapping his arm around her waist, pinning one arm to her side, firmly catching her other arm and bringing her wrist to his face as if examining it.

  "You aren't injured, are you?" he asked, his blue eyes like daggers. You will be if you threaten him.

  The threat was clear in her head, as if he'd spoken the words out loud. He was telepathic, which she knew. Joley complained he often spoke to her. And now he was in Hannah's head as well. The situation was getting worse and worse. It was no wonder she'd seen three rings around the moon. It was no wonder she'd been afraid to come on this trip alone. She should have considered that Sergei Nikitin would show up at Fashion Week in New York. He was always where the action was. Few people knew him for what he was.

  Hannah refused to engage in a telepathic conversation with Ilya. The more he knew of her, the more power he would wield--and he was definitely looking for information on Joley. All this time, she had thought Sergei Nikitin was interested in her sister. Joley's public image was wild, a party girl. Recently there had been a terrible scandal, pictures of Joley with her long dark hair, pressed up against a window nude with her mysterious lover draped all over her. Only Joley had dyed her hair dark after the pictures had been taken, and she'd allowed the scandal to hit her full force, when the pictures weren't of her at all. Nikitin's interest might not be in the party girl at all and that meant they had a huge problem.

  "I'm flying to Madrid tomorrow to catch your sister's concert," Nikitin persisted, ignoring the fact that his bodyguard was holding Hannah captive.

  "She's very good," Hannah said politely. "You'll enjoy it."

  "I've missed few of her concerts," Nikitin said. "She's a wonderful performer. There's something extraordinary about her voice."

  Hannah stiffened. She couldn't help herself.

  Ilya tightened his hold. Don't react. He knows nothing of Joley beyond that she's beautiful.

  Could that be true? And even if it was, why would Ilya warn her? She had never been so confused in her life. She wasn't made for intrigue. She forced her body to relax. Ilya let go of her, but he didn't step away. She'd already seen how fast he was and she wasn't about to let him stop her again. It only made her appear weak.

  "I agree with you, Mr. Nikitin," Hannah said, polite as a child, "but then I'm her sister so I'm prejudiced."

  "We're staying at the same hotel, and we're having a party there in a couple of hours, just a few selected friends," Nikitin continued, "if you'd like to join us."

  Hannah opened her mouth to say no. It was the last thing she wanted to do, party with Nikitin and his friends behind closed doors.

  "What a generous invitation, Hannah," Greg said, coming through the French doors just as the Russian issued his invitation. "Mr. Nikitin. I believe we met in Paris." He extended his hand and Nikitin took it.
<
br />   "Of course." Sergei turned on the charm, his white teeth flashing, his head inclining graciously, royalty to peasant.

  Hannah found it interesting how Greg nearly fawned over him. Nikitin wielded a lot of power with his money and connections. Few wanted to know if the rumors about him were true. He had money, more than he knew what to do with. He often threw that money behind a new designer and he more than once had helped build careers. His parties were famous and everyone wanted an invitation--with the exception of Hannah. She couldn't ignore the rumors because being close to Nikitin was enough to reveal the ugly way he made most of his money. He appeared suave and sophisticated, but he had his hand in everything from drugs to murder. No one had proved it, and Hannah sincerely doubted that anyone ever would. He knew too many politicians, too many of the rich and famous. No one wanted to know he was dirty.

  "Greg." She was disgusted with the way the man was ready to sell his soul for an invitation. "We should go."

  Nikitin glanced at his watch. "We have a couple more people to say hello to and then we can all go back to the hotel." His focus was entirely on Greg now.

  "We'd love that," Greg agreed, taking Hannah's arm.

  It was a sure sign he wanted to go. He knew as well as she did that the invitation hinged on her accompanying him. Hannah kept her smile in place. All she had to do was make it to the door. The balcony didn't feel safe anymore. Nowhere around Nikitin was safe. She could just go along with the plan, and as soon as they were outside, she could have the doorman hail a cab for her.

  She stole a glance at Ilya. He looked the image of the perfect bodyguard, fading into the background, his eyes moving restlessly, watching the rooftops, the windows from the building across the street. It was fascinating really, how he saw everything, heard everything, was aware of things no one else even considered. He was fully aware she intended to bolt the moment she was out of the building. She waited for him to say something, but Ilya simply followed Nikitin and Greg, who kept hold of her arm, back into the room.

  The noise was deafening and hit her hard. The crush of bodies gave her claustrophobia. The room had been packed before she'd gone out onto the balcony, but now there was hardly room to maneuver. People called out greetings and congratulations as they worked their way through the crowd. Greg's fingers slipped off her arm and she quickly moved away, heading toward the door and freedom.