Cold Light of Day

by Anderson, Toni

  He choked on his coffee.

  Laughter felt good. It felt honest.

  She smiled softly. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in my problems, Special Agent Lazlo. I really am sorry.”

  “Call me Matt and, trust me, I figured that out.”

  “Matt, short for Matthew?”

  Something about her question amused him. His eyes crinkled at the outer corners. “Matthias. My father claimed to be a Bulgarian Roma and named me accordingly.”

  “You come from gypsy stock?” Her eyes searched his face for some trace but she found none.

  He shrugged. “My dad was an asshole of dubious heritage. My mother is a British aristocrat, which pretty much makes me a mongrel. He married her hoping to get his hands on a fortune and dumped her when her parents cut her out of the will.” His expression changed. Grew tense.

  “Does that make you a lord?” She tried to lighten the atmosphere by teasing him.

  “No, but you can call me ‘sir’ if you like.” His grin was wicked before he obviously remembered who he was flirting with. He sobered. “The title probably went to some long lost cousin.”

  “You don’t know?” The heat of the SUV was making her sleepy. Combined with the adrenaline crash, it made her yawn. “Don’t you watch Downton Abby?”

  He raised a quizzical brow as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Her family disowned her when she married my father. Dad dumped her when she got to the States, but they never reached out to help her. I never felt the urge to look up dear old granny and grampa.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “Not really. Mom was a fighter.” He sipped his coffee. Obviously in no hurry to leave yet. “She did great. She found work in a school and raised me on her own. She resented the hell out of any implication she needed a man to support her.”

  “Where does she live now?” She’d meant the question as a stall tactic, but realized she honestly wanted to know more about him. She drank more chocolate, grateful for the way it melted the chill inside her bones.

  “Near me.” He cleared the grit from his throat. “She suffered a brain aneurysm two years ago and never made a proper recovery.” Oh, no. “She’s in a nursing home. Hasn’t woken up since the second stroke.” He said it in such a controlled manner she knew it affected him greatly.

  She knew how hard it was to have a parent who was ill and whom you couldn’t help, no matter how desperately you wanted to. She wanted to place her hand over his but didn’t have the nerve. “You’re looking after her. That’s all you can do.”

  “What else would I do? I’m her son, not some asshole husband,” he growled, then sent her a rueful smile. “Sorry.”

  “Do I sense a little repressed anger? I know a good therapist if you need one.”

  “Ha. Because you’re so balanced? Give me their number I’ll make sure they didn’t get their license out of a cereal box.”

  “Funny.” A massive yawn stretched her mouth wide. She covered it with her free hand. “Oh, sorry. I’m just so tired all of a sudden.”

  Matt took the cup from fingers that felt clumsy and wooden. He slipped it into the cup holder. “Close your eyes for a few minutes. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

  “Okay.” She tried to keep her eyes open but the harder she tried the heavier her lids became. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she mumbled, wanting him to know that she’d heard his pain and she cared despite everything that had happened.

  “Just get some rest.” His voice was rough.

  A five-minute catnap was all she needed. She clenched her fingers in her lap and prayed Dorokhov didn’t want any grisly mementos. She wasn’t a brave person. She tended to retreat in the face of danger. Everything about tonight had been out of character and look what it had gained her? Trouble. Great big heaps of trouble. No way was she ever trying anything like this ever again. Hopefully Dorokhov would embrace a little Christmas spirit and maybe let her clean floors for a week. Whatever it took to go back to her normal, boring life.

  * * *

  It was two AM and Andrei Dorokhov sat staring at the fire, sipping expensive brandy. Natalie had gone to bed an hour ago, irritated by his bad mood. She didn’t understand. He hoped she never understood. The cell phone in his pants’ pocket rang. He shifted and pulled it out. He didn’t know the caller, but answered it anyway.

  A man’s voice. Easily recognizable even after fourteen years of aggravated silence. “Last time we spoke I held a knife to your throat and made you promise never to return to the States. Did you forget so easily, Andrei?”

  “I forget nothing, blyat.”

  “You’ve caused quite the shit storm. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Your goddamn Russian ego couldn’t take some perceived slight to your manliness. She’s just a kid looking for answers and you try to take her out? What did you think she’d discover if she bugged you?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Andrei suggested slyly.

  There was a long pause. “It was over and done with. Why did you have to come back?”

  “Are you losing your nerve, old friend?” Andrei taunted the other man.

  “I’m no friend of yours, asshole.”

  He wasn’t sure which of them had more to lose should the truth come out, but neither wanted it to happen. “You forget all the fun we had spinning those tales.”

  “It was never fun,” the man gritted out.

  “The photographs suggested otherwise.” Andrei slid in the reminder like a knife, but instantly regretted it.

  “You’re not the only one with photographs, Andrei.”

  Sweat formed on his back. “Those were staged and you know it.” He’d been drugged and disgusting things had been done to him. It made him feel ill to even think about it. One day he was going to gut the man on the end of the line, and enjoy doing it.

  “Didn’t look staged from where I was sitting. Obviously there are some hellish good actors out there because even asleep you looked like you were enjoying it.”

  Andrei felt gore rise up inside him.

  “Anyway,” the voice was cheerful now, “we all know how homophobic the politburo was. I don’t figure the Russians have progressed much in that area, but maybe I’m wrong. Hey, you’ll probably find a lot of friends in—”

  “Ya nei goluboy!”

  “Seriously, Andrei, it’s your business.”

  Andrei wanted to smash the phone in his rage but that would be a mistake. He calmed himself and understood the man was getting his revenge. He’d earned it. However, there were more important issues at stake. Pride would need to wait. “Enough about ancient history. We both have things that we don’t want to become public knowledge. It’s time to clean up those loose ends before they strangle us both.”

  “Nothing can be traced back to either of us,” he warned.

  “No mistakes,” Andrei agreed. “You deal with the old problem, I’ll deal with the new.”

  “You screw this up, next time it’ll be a bullet, not a knife.”

  “I think you’ve lost your sense of humor, Marlon.”

  “Don’t call me that—”

  Andrei hung up. He didn’t like being threatened, but the idea of those photographs going public pleased him even less. He’d come back to America to figure out a way to get them from his former asset. Scarlett Stone had slowed his mission and got in his way. Worse, she’d taken him for a fool. She was about to learn what happened to those who crossed those powerful within the Russian Federation.

  Little girls who meddled with fire got burnt.

  Chapter Seven

  A glint of the moon’s silver skimmed the horizon. The sea looked moody, as if it hadn’t decided between calm or stormy; a bit like the way he felt about the woman he carried in his arms. Smart or stupid? Loyal or delusional? His instincts said the former on both counts but the attraction was clouding the waters. He needed his job. Couldn’t afford any dumb-ass mistakes.

  Matt adjusted his grip, grateful she wasn’t
some six-foot Amazon and hoping she didn’t want to press charges when she woke up. Kidnapping wasn’t part of his normal repertoire, but Matt was nothing if not adaptable. It was as illegal as hell, not to mention immoral—pity he didn’t give a damn under the current circumstances.

  The tide nudged the boats in the Quantico marina against the dock and the wind whistled through the rigging. Ice, sharp on the breeze, scraped across his bare skin. The twenty-seven foot yacht he called home had several advantages over standard accommodations. First, berth rental was cheap—he needed every cent he could get to pay for his mother’s care. Second, he was close to work. Disadvantages were the cramped living quarters—and he was close to work.

  He walked around the outer pier to berth number seventeen and climbed awkwardly aboard, careful not to bump Scarlett’s head on the railing. She was going to be furious with him when she woke up, but better that than dead or brutalized. If anyone saw him they’d think he was a goddamn serial killer—exactly the sort of sick bastard he hunted on a daily basis.

  He unlocked the cabin door and turned on the lights, cranked up the heat. Then he took Scarlett through to the main stateroom and laid her on the bed. Took off her sneakers and drew the comforter up to her chin. Her features were softer in sleep, and without make-up, she looked even younger than she had at the party. Twenty-six. He was ten years older and it felt more like one hundred. War did that to a guy. War and seeing victims of crime on a daily basis. Not that he regretted his career choices, both had allowed him to make a positive difference to society, something he valued after having a deadbeat father. He’d made his mother proud and that was good enough for him.

  Scarlett whimpered in her sleep and the sound did something to his insides. She was going to freak when she woke up. Go apeshit, especially when she discovered he’d lied about Angel. But Frazer had said to sit on her and frankly, he hadn’t seen much alternative to knocking her out until he could persuade her not to present herself as a sacrifice to the altar of the Russian Ambassador.

  He smoothed a stray lock of hair off her forehead and then pulled back. Too creepy. Too reminiscent of what some perps did when they had others under their control. He strode to the galley and put on the gas burners to boil water for tea. He needed sleep, but first he needed to warm up and decompress.

  He stripped off his t-shirt and ran a paper towel under the warm tap, wiping away the blood that had dried on his skin from the bullet that had kissed him earlier. It stung a little but was no big deal. He dug out the antiseptic solution and cleaned the wound. He’d spent years dodging bullets as a SEAL and he didn’t let the whole near-death thing bother him. When your time was up, it was up. No point worrying about it. His mother would be well taken care of for as long as needed and the one good thing about her condition was she’d never know she’d lost him.

  Yeah, maybe it wasn’t such a great bonus point, but it was all he had so he’d take it.

  Her condition was gut churning, having survived the initial aneurysm she’d suffered a secondary stroke a few days later. At least he’d been with her at the time, holding her hand through the pain. The doctors told him it was doubtful she’d survive. A few weeks later when she had shown no sign of improvement, they’d wanted to pull the plug. Matt knew she wouldn’t have wanted to be kept alive on a ventilator so he’d gone with their decision. When they’d taken her off life support his mom had started breathing on her own. She wasn’t brain dead. She was in a deep coma, one he doubted she’d ever come out of, but she was inside there somewhere. The doctors couldn’t tell him the extent of the brain damage and the likelihood of recovery was minimal. So he did what he could for her. Hoped she knew, somewhere deep down, that she was cherished and protected.

  She was in a good care facility. The best. They saw to her every need and she was safe, secure. He visited every day he wasn’t on the road. And every day her condition reminded him no one lived forever.

  No one.

  So better make damn sure what you did in life counted.

  He dug around for milk in the fridge, poured boiling water over a tea bag and let it brew for a few moments before digging the bag out and throwing it in the garbage. Downing a couple of beers was tempting, but he needed to warm up first. Winter made living on a boat a little more testing, but summer made up for it.

  His cell phone rang. He glanced at the display. His boss. He weighed the idea of pretending to be in the head versus getting this over with. Duty won.

  “You have her,” Frazer said without preamble.

  “Yeah.”

  “She complain?”

  Matt laughed. “Not yet, but she will.”

  Frazer paused. “I probably don’t want to know.”

  Good call.

  “MPD got a lead on that car the shooter used. Found it dumped near the observatory.”

  “Any sign of the LeMay girl?” He kept his voice down on the off chance Scarlett heard him. Not likely considering the small dose of tranquilizer he’d given her to make her sleep, but he liked to be careful.

  “Nothing. Parker is monitoring cell phone communications and I’m in touch with the head of HRT who’s an old friend of mine. Until the kidnappers make contact, they have nothing to go on. There are case agents assigned to try to find Angel, but…let’s just say I think Parker’s chances are better. I’m hoping the fact she’s a congressman’s daughter will go a long way toward keeping her unharmed. They want Scarlett, not Angel. Rooney and Parker are still looking for a link between LeMay and Dorokhov, but there might not be anything except the fact LeMay is a congressman who got an invite, and Scarlett used their connection to get to the ambassador. Dorokhov sent out hundreds of invites to his Christmas party this year.”

  Which left Matt stuck here babysitting a woman against her will while others did all the work. “What do I do with her tomorrow?” He rubbed his eyes. “Is it take-your-kid-to-work day?”

  “She didn’t look much like a kid when I saw her. You need your eyes checked?”

  Had Frazer guessed he was attracted to her? “My vision is 20/20 and you know it.”

  “We’ll monitor the situation and talk in the morning. Get some sleep.”

  “While everyone else works around the clock?” Great.

  “Your job is to keep her safely out of sight until someone figures out where Angel LeMay is being held, and while I see what I can use to get Dorokhov to back off. That mission should be a piece of cake for a man of your experience.”

  Matt grunted. “You hoping to find a carrot, or a stick to use on Dorokhov?”

  “At this stage I’ll take anything I can get. A stick might be more satisfying but harder to wield. Even if we find evidence of him committing a crime, his diplomatic immunity makes it almost impossible to touch him unless Russia waives his rights. However we can make it difficult for him to do his job if he decides to threaten American socialites and research scientists.”

  “Scarlett said her father suspected Dorokhov was a Russian spy. Could he have been working with him?”

  “I don’t know. I’m getting on a plane to Colorado in a few hours, I’ll be sure to ask him. I managed to get hold of a copy of the Stone investigation case file. I’ll send you a copy before I leave. Just keep Scarlett occupied until we retrieve the LeMay girl.”

  Sounded easy enough. He could work from home.

  “Just one thing.” His boss’s voice became low and soft. “Don’t let those big, brown eyes fool you. Scarlett Stone graduated with a Ph.D. in solid-state physics at the age of twenty-two. She’s no fool. Don’t let your guard down.”

  Matt pulled a face at the phone. “Have you ever known my work to be influenced by a pretty face?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Frazer said quietly. “But some women learn how to profile men like us in the womb. We’re all vulnerable under the right circumstances to the right woman. We all have an Achilles heel.”

  “Even you?”

  Frazer stayed silent.

  “Don’t worry boss. I’m
immune to the allure of beauty. Give me honesty and integrity any day.”

  “So the blonde you met at the Christmas party with the long legs and big—”

  “Hey.”

  “—hair, was full of honesty and integrity?”

  “Well, at least she didn’t build her own electronic surveillance from scratch and gain access to the Russian Embassy under false pretenses,” Matt argued.

  “Yeah, but do you remember her name?”

  Shit. “Sure I do.”

  “Liar.” Frazer called him on it. “But women like Scarlett Stone—we remember their names. Don’t get attached. She’s in a bad place and doesn’t have any friends. Women like that…they can bring you to your knees.”

  The guy was nuts. Matt had spent years of his life literally bleeding for his country and that was before he joined the FBI. He wasn’t about to sell out, or fall for someone as intrinsically compromised as Scarlett Stone, no matter how pretty her face or how soft her lips. Frazer had a reputation for being good at reading people—obviously even super-agents had off days.

  “Just figure out how the hell we can send her home without a target on her forehead. I want my life back.” But he was talking to dead air.

  * * *

  Raminski had been forced to call in reinforcements because the idea of hitting the woman turned his stomach.

  “Where is she?” asked Mikhail Churnokov, head of the Russian Ambassador’s personal security detail. Former KGB, the man used old school tactics with the subtlety of a T-72 tank sneaking down the Mall.

  “In there.” Raminski nodded to a door. It was three AM and he had no leads on where Scarlett Stone had gone since she’d left FBI HQ. The feds in the park had ruined his carefully laid plans, requiring him to make rapid adjustments to his strategy. He hadn’t expected Stone to call the feds for help.

  But no one knew where she’d gone. She hadn’t gone home. She hadn’t gone to her office.