With a sigh of disgust, Vee sank onto the edge of the bed. Sergei/Seryozha was an impossibly dictatorial, chauvinistic, macho mess, his head screwed one-eighty from her own. She’d thought they understood each other, both of them on the same side. And then he’d plunged back into the Organizatsiya as effortlessly as if nothing had happened in the last two weeks. He’d become Sergei Tokarev, arms dealer, and slammed the door in her face. He didn’t need, didn’t want Special Agent Vee Frost. He just wanted Valentina Frost in his bed.
And what did she want? Was her desire five parts mother hen, the wounded warrior tugging at her sympathy? Maybe three parts remembering her job, why she was here? And, yes, two parts blatant attraction, the dangerous call of sex to sex?
Two parts? Who was she kidding?
None of this was going to come to a good end. Though Tingley had been right—any sacrifice was worth making if it helped find the bomb. What was a broken heart compared to Arma— Oh, shit! She couldn’t possibly have thought that. No way could she have a broken heart over Sergei Whoever. She despised Sergei Tokarev. But his alter ego, Seryozha? One look from those green eyes and she melted.
Vee glanced down, discovering she’d been playing with the lavender tissue paper inside the bag. The virginal white nightgown, a mass of lace, tiny ruffles, and intricate embroidery peeked out at her, begging to be revealed in all its glory.
Tingley had chosen the right agent. She was a wimp, a complete push-over. A sexy smile, a bit of frippery, and any likelihood she was not going to don the nightwear and walk back out to display herself to Seryozha turned to smoke.
For whatever reasons—and she wasn’t yet ready to face them—this was the moment the dynamics changed.
For better or for worse?
Only time would tell.
Leaving the bag on the bed, Vee went into the bathroom and creamed the mafia moll off her face. Toner and moisturizer followed, thanks to the well-stocked hotel gift shop. Clean, and as plain as she would ever be, Vee finally opened the silver bag and shook out the full length of Seryozha’s gift. The gown was not only lovely but tasteful, a full-length confection that spoke of bridal nights, not the skimpy, tawdry transparency expected of an organizatsitz to his one-night stand.
One night, one week, one month—that’s still what she was. Valentina, the DHS whore. So why was her heart dancing, her eyes shining, her breath already short and panting? This was right. And good. And when he broke her heart, she would have to learn to live with it.
She wasn’t coming back. She’d probably trashed the nightgown and locked the bedroom door. She was stubborn, his Valentina. She probably would have stuck to her determination not to prostitute herself for her country, even if she weren’t mad at him. And she was definitely mad at him. So why was he lying here, stark naked, beneath a thin layer of bedsheet, heart pounding and as anguished over a woman as he could ever remember?
As much as he tried to tell himself it was lust—hell, was it really five months since the woman in Hong Kong? Or was it Tokyo? The truth was, if he didn’t have Valentina in his bed now, tonight, he felt he might explode. And that was so totally out of character it scared the shit out of him. He was Sergei Ivanovich Zhukov, and he could, and did, live celibate for months at a time, his eyes always on the goal he’d set himself as a young man, never letting anything distract him from his path.
Alone. He’d been alone for years. He liked it that way.
Until now.
Now, alone was not looking so good.
Bozhe moi! She was standing in the doorway, her body silhouetted against the light from the sitting room, every inch of her clearly visible beneath the pristine white gown. His whole body jerked to attention, as if he’d been zapped by a bolt of electricity. But no, he didn’t deserve to be so lucky. Warily, he watched her move slowly toward him. She’d come to taunt him, that was it. She was going to parade around, displaying her assets, until he was a mindless, drooling wreck. Exactly what she wanted.
A foot from the edge of the bed, she stopped, offering nothing more than Vee at her frosty best. “I suppose you have a plan for getting out of here?”
Talk? She came to him like that and wanted to talk?
Seryozha might be dumbfounded, but Sergei was not. He patted the pillow. “Can we discuss it in bed?”
“No.”
“Karasho.” Sergei’s hand flipped a reluctant agreement. “Your turn, dushenka. Tell your papa to fly in a charter.”
“On four hours notice!” If she’d looked sexy as she crossed the room toward him, that moment had passed.
“For Homeland Security, an hour enough.”
“And when were you going to tell me this?”
“In bed.” Eyes gleaming, Sergei smiled.
“Before or after?”
“Is good question.”
“Stop it! I won’t have Tokarev in my bed.”
Seryozha managed a shrug. “A wise decision, even if it is my bed, not yours. He is a promiscuous lout, I agree. But most convenient at times. Words roll off his tongue like molten silver while my poor brain lies frozen by your beauty.”
Vee crossed her arms over her chest in an automatic gesture of protection. He was deadly, her own personal riddle wrapped in an enigma. Winston Churchill surely got that aspect of the Russian character right.
“You, both of you,” she ground out, “are absolutely impossible. The world is about to blow up, and I’m standing here having an argument with two different men.”
With a look that might have been contrition, Seryozha let his hand fall. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face working as if he was straining to rearrange his thoughts. Vee’s stomach clenched. She strongly suspected Seryozha and Sergei were having an internal argument.
His eyes snapped open. He sat up, his bare chest and livid scars rising above the shiny black and white satin comforter. “If you would be so kind, Valentina, please call your father and arrange for a charter to be at the Atlantic City International Airport no later than dawn. Vanya will drive us there and see that our rental car is returned.”
“And?”
His blank look was close to precious. He was trying, but he still didn’t get it. “Just where is this charter taking us?” Vee prompted. “Do we need a Cessna or a Citation? How much fuel, etcetera?”
“We go . . . we’re going to Florida.”
Florida. A whole slew of unwanted images flooded her brain. Damn! There had been times in the early days of their partnership when Cade had been as obtuse as Seryozha. She’d had to train him, a task nearly as difficult as training a puppy. She should have remembered that. How could she expect Seryozha to be any different?
But Cade had recognized his attitude wasn’t PC. Seryozha hadn’t a clue.
Vee sighed. Seryozha’s erection was no longer tenting the bedcovers. The look on his face was a nice mix of chagrin and resignation. It didn’t suit him. Almost, she was sorry she’d faced him down.
Vee made the call. As Seryozha had known, all the resources of Homeland Security were poised to help. No problem to have a Citation wherever, whenever. Vee put down the prepaid cell phone, glanced toward the bed. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, “but you’re so damn close-mouthed, it drives me mad.”
“Only Tokarev is good with women. Seryozha puts foot in mouth so many times he has learned to be silent. Seryozha is good at business, but not love.”
The love was generic, of course it was. But as an apology, it wasn’t bad. “I guess you can tell me where and why we’re going to Florida when we’re on the plane. Why waste any more of the hours ’til dawn?” Vee’s fingers reached for the ribbon ties on the front of her nightgown.
Seryozha licked his lips. Was she actually . . . yes, she was. One tie down, two . . . three. She offered a teasing look from under lowered lashes. Miserable female, he was losing it and didn’t even care if it was all an act.
She took the final step to the edge of the bed. A shrug, a wiggle, and the nightgown hit the carpet.
S
ergei nearly bit through his lower lip. Valentina. Naked. Every glorious inch displayed within easy touching distance. Blood didn’t simply rush to his penis; it exploded, snapping him to attention like the spring of a catapult. Bozhe moi! He could only hope she didn’t know she had him by a ring in his nose and could lead him anywhere she wanted.
At least for the moment. His common sense would return with his sense of duty at dawn when the world came slamming back. But now? For a few hours World War III could wait. Seryozha pulled back the covers, inviting her in.
Vee leaned over and tweaked the bedcovers back another six inches. Govnó, he couldn’t tell if that secret little smile was pleasure over the hardness of his erection or satisfaction that she could arouse him this thoroughly without their even touching.
“Tell me,” she said, with a hint of threat in her tone as her eyes lingered on his groin, “does Mr. Eager belong to Sergei or Seryozha?”
Not too difficult to answer if he told the truth—an odd sensation he was experiencing all too often with the little American. Soon he would have no secrets left. “Sergei Tokarev doesn’t exist, though I admit he’s a handy crutch for Seryozha who is not so adept with the ladies.” Dammit, not the right moment to be using a plural! “I mean—”
“Shut up while you’re ahead.” Almost idly (appraisingly?), her gaze focused on the engorged flagpole in his lap. A shiver shook him. If only he could be certain she wanted this as much as he did. That she wasn’t going to grab a knife out of the bedtable drawer and put an end to the line of Sergei Ivanovich Zhukov forever and ever.
Trust. He had to trust. For years he’d lived in a miasma of suspicion. Trust no one. Ever.
But Valentina? Trust had to begin somewhere.
Trust? That’s why men like you don’t live to grow old.
So he’d die happy. The here and now, that’s all he wanted. An hour, a half hour . . . fifteen minutes without the specter of death and destruction. Was that so much to ask?
“For all he looks so eager,” Vee said, bending lower, “I hit you harder than I intended. Perhaps your poor little soldier needs a rest.”
God, no! She wasn’t going to leave him like this. He couldn’t have made her that angry.
With her naked boobs practically dangling in his face, his whole body went rigid, like a hunting dog pointing toward game. Forgive me, Valentina. Seryozha’s forgotten how to love a woman. I have to let Sergei take it from here.
If he didn’t talk, she’d never know.
It was all so simple when he stopped talking, stopped analyzing, stopped obsessing about bombs and death. His arms shot out, pulling her down, rolling them over as he mouth sought hers and hung on. Here, tonight, was salvation. Armageddon could wait ’til morning.
Chapter 14
“So what’s in Florida?” Vee asked the moment she fastened her seat belt.
“A traitor.”
“You remember that, or Petrovski told you?”
“Both,” Sergei said, cinching his belt in place. “I remember the weirdo in Florida from previous visits, but not going to Florida the day before the meeting in New York. Arkadi says I did and that I was seen going into the meeting. I see no reason for him to lie to me, so . . .” Sergei shrugged.
“Petrovski’s anti-nuke?”
“Mass murder is not his style.”
“Aw, come on. He runs the Russian Mafia for the entire East Coast.”
“He does not blow up cities with nuclear bombs,” Sergei growled, tossing her a glare intended to stun an ox.
“Okay, Vee conceded, “did he tell you why you went to Florida?”
“He didn’t know, but I presume it was to see the weirdo who’s willing to bargain away his country and thousands of lives for a fat account in the Caymans.”
Oh, shit! There was only one conclusion she could draw. “You know this weirdo, don’t you? You’ve seen him, talked to him. Which sounds like you’re the one who was suborning him.”
“Not me. Tokarev. Naturally, the terrorists would come to the very best. You have but to ask, and Sergei Tokarev will find it.” Evidently, realizing he’d dug a rather large hole for himself, he added, “How else could I keep close track of what was going on?”
Vee huffed, frantically shifting the puzzles pieces on her mental game board. The man was maddening. Was he a high-level Russian mafioso who’d found the line he wouldn’t cross? Or maybe a long-term undercover agent for some super secret government agency, as she’d come to suspect over the last few days? Possibly for the Russians, instead of the U. S.? Or was he acting for some one or some cause she hadn’t even thought of?
Did he even know what he was? Or was he playing the whole scenario by ear?
Then again, perhaps she was the only thing being played.
Vee heaved a sigh loud enough to be heard over the start of the Citation’s engines. “So just what part does your weirdo traitor play in this nasty mess?”
“He has access to U-236. It’s not easy to come by, or the ten lost bombs might have been put in play years ago. Minus the ones that have already been found,” Seryozha amended.
“And how many is that?”
“Americans, three. Russians, two.”
“And you know this how?”
“Am I right—the Americans found three?”
“Yes. My father admitted that the last time I talked to him. Believe me, you are his primary concern at the moment. Jack Frost is only slightly less anxious to talk with you than he is to have you find the one that’s about to go boom.”
“Being interrogated by Homeland Security is not part of my agenda.”
As the Citation roared down the runway, Vee didn’t bother to hide her smile. There the man was, sitting beside her as casually as seatbacks-upright-for-takeoff would allow. A battered thirty-something, dressed once again in black. Tall and lean, obviously not at full strength, yet holding the fate of a sizable portion of the U S of A in his hands. And yet he could find a moment for dry humor.
And diverting the answers to her questions. Fine. She’d try a different approach. “You said there are two factions in the Organizatsiya. How do terrorists figure in?”
He thought about it as Vee waited, holding her breath. Careful . . . careful . . . don’t even sneeze.
“One of the missing bombs surfaced when terrorists contacted our people in Uzbekistan. They needed a conduit to U-236 and the expertise to renew the triggering mechanism. The Brotherhood in Tashkent called on Petrovski and me. To Tokarev,” he amended hastily. “They needed the best. It is not easy to suborn a traitor and not get caught. Finding, tempting, making arrangements—not just money, but holding the source’s hand, arranging transportation of radioactive material—”
“You’re bragging about it?”
“I am controlling the mission, and maintaining my reputation. Sergei’s reputation,” he corrected.
“That’s sick.”
“It is clever.” He tapped the brown fuzz on the side of his head. “U-236 is an isotope not found in nature. It can only be created in a lab or from the by-products of nuclear fission.”
“Nuclear waste.”
“Depleted uranium.”
“Nuclear waste,” Vee repeated grimly.
“It is, however, easier to create U-236 in a lab by bombarding U-235 with an extra neutron. But in that form it breaks down rather quickly. Which is why the bombs need a fresh supply.”
“And what do you do with it once you’ve got it?”
“Didn’t Daddy tell you? The ten bombs that went missing twenty years ago can only be set off by U-236.”
“Sounds familiar,” Vee conceded, grumbling. “It’s been a wild few days.”
“Sorry,” he returned, looking genuinely chagrined. “Sometimes I forget that being an expert on bombs that have been obsolete for a quarter century is not a common skill.”
But terrorists love you.”
“Ah, da,” he agreed without so much as a hint of a smile.
They were airborne,
and climbing, Vee’s ears protesting, as they always did. Yet excitement mounted. Seryozha had actually talked to her, dredging facts from what had been a very murky—or perhaps reluctant—pond. If she could just keep him talking . . .
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Surely those four hours they didn’t sleep last night counted for something. Perhaps he needed reminding. “Seryozha, I’m sorry too. You were certainly right last night. Your powers of recovery are amazing.”
With a sound that was half laugh, half groan, he ran his hand through his hopeful brown fuzz. “Did we get any sleep at all?”
“Forty winks here and there. I think. It could be my imagination.”
“Bozhe moi,” he breathed, “I hope Daddy didn’t bug these seats.”
Vee gasped, almost forgetting why she’d begun this distracting conversation. Mission, mission. She had a mission. “I, ah, have a question for Tokarev.”
“Um-m?”
“Did he—did you—play a part in recovering the two bombs the Russians found?”
Sergei steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Ah,” he mused, “the answer to that is almost the first English word I learned. Classified. In my case,” he added, slow and soft, “it is also personal.”
Damn! He was a spy. But for which side? He was definitely bucking for Churchill’s full mouthful: a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. A description of Russia that could have been written expressly for the Sergei Whoever sitting beside her. Limbo wasn’t just where he’d been when he couldn’t remember so much as his name. For him, Limbo was a known habitat. A land of phantoms and will-o-the-wisps. Deadly chimeras and men who dealt in weapons of mass destruction.
Seryozha was so deep in this mess, she should kick him to the curb, call in the Feds, and be done with it.
But there was a bomb to find before a city was vaporized, and only Sergei had the map somewhere in his head. Certainly, that last bit about the search being personal was significant. She knew it, but had no idea why. What could possibly be personal about long-missing atomic bombs?
Limbo Man Page 14
