“Was the reporter seriously hurt? Any reason to want vengeance?”
Petra shook her head. “Joe only got in a punch or two before being dragged out of the room. The incident made the reporter famous. He was contacted by a cable sports channel and called our agency for representation. The waitress was given twenty-thousand dollars by the team and she enrolled in college. No one wants to get even.”
“And the police wouldn’t try to kill someone who got rowdy at a club.”
“Doubtful,” Petra agreed.
“There has to be something else. Nobody is completely beloved. What about his personal life?”
“Joe’s wife moved out of their house at the beginning of the summer and took their daughters with her,” she said, leaning back in her seat, her hands wrapped around the cup of tea. “There were rumors that she was having an affair, but he was fighting any divorce proceedings.”
“She wouldn’t be the first woman to want an estranged husband dead so she could be with her lover.”
“It’s more than that,” said Petra. “Joe’s wife, Larissa, was supposedly seeing Arnie Hatch, the team’s owner.”
“Is there any truth to the stories?”
Petra nodded absently. “It’s one of the worst kept secrets in Denver’s sports scene.”
“Then I say we have two suspects—Arnie Hatch and Larissa Owens.”
“We? Does that mean I can hire you?”
“Like I said—RMJ is closed.”
What Ian said was true, but that was only in a technical sense. He was still in business, still able to take cases. And while he wanted to help Petra, he needed to find Mateev. Making the mistake of listening to his conscience, he added, “It doesn’t mean I can’t look into the case a little bit tonight. If I find anything interesting, I’ll let you know. You can turn it over to your lawyer.”
Petra gave a long exhalation, slumping in her seat. “You don’t know how relieved I am. So, what do we do now?” she asked.
“You are going to finish your tea and then you can sleep in the guest room. I’ll do some research on Hatch.”
Petra took another drink and pushed her cup to the center of the island. “Thanks for everything, Ian. You’re a lifesaver and I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
He picked up both cups and turned to the sink. He ran water from the tap, scrubbing away the residue. Glancing at the window, he watched Petra in the reflection. “There are some of your things in the dresser upstairs.” She looked up, meeting his gaze. He dropped his eyes to the faucet and turned off the water. “You left them and I never got around to returning them or putting them out with the rubbish.”
“Lucky me.”
“Always a little sarcastic. I still don’t know what to make of you.”
She rounded the island and stood behind him, her breath warming his back. He turned. Petra was close—so close that he could touch her if he just reached out. And if he did, what would she do?
“I truly am lucky,” she said. Her voice was sultry, like a night too hot and humid for sleep. “Because you’re right. I am in a mess, and before I showed up here, I worried that I was guilty. And now there’s some hope that I’m not.”
“You’re welcome, then,” he said, before adding, “I know our relationship didn’t end well, but I’m glad you came to me. I’m happy to help, even if it’s just a little.”
He reached out, his hand grazing her wrist. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. Ian took that as a good sign and let his fingers trail up her arm. His hands remembered the feel of her flesh. His lips remembered her kisses. His body remembered what it was like to be with hers.
Then again, did he want to get involved with Petra? Hadn’t they had their shot at happiness and wholly missed the mark? Beyond the breakup, there was the aftermath. Two years and nothing—not even a damn email. Could he relive those dark days after she’d left, when Scotch was his only friend?
No, Ian could not—would not—let himself stumble off that cliff a second time.
And yet his fingers burned with the need to touch her.
He bent his head, his mouth brushing her cheek. She exhaled, a quiver in her breath. It was all the encouragement he needed. His lips found hers and he wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her to him. For Ian, Petra was the best bad choice he could ever make.
* * *
Petra pressed her body into Ian’s. His strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He was an intoxicating mix of commanding and dangerous; and tonight, Petra intended to get drunk on her former lover.
She parted her lips and his tongue slipped inside her mouth. Too soon, too fast, she was consumed by the kiss.
Ian gripped her neck and pulled back, exposing her throat as he covered her with kisses. With his other hand, he cupped her breast. His touch was light and her nipple hardened at once. He deepened the kiss, claiming her, making Petra a captive of her own unchecked lust.
Head bent, he kissed her breast, wetting the cotton fabric, his tongue dancing over her nipple. She moaned with ecstasy that she could no longer contain. How long had it been since someone had had this effect on her? How long had it been since her desires had been so ignited?
The questions weren’t hard to answer. It was when she’d last been with Ian. He was something she’d promised never to do again, and yet—here she was.
When his hand skimmed her waistband, Petra quit thinking. Flesh on flesh, his fingers moved lower and lower. He touched the silky fabric of her panties. She was wet, and her innermost muscles clenched with longing and desire. Even though in the back of her mind, she knew this was the worst kind of mistake.
He rubbed the top of her sex, filling her with molten gold, and she no longer cared.
“Ian,” she moaned. “Oh, Ian, I’ve missed you—I’ve missed us.”
He broke away from the kiss and lifted her onto the island before situating himself between her parted thighs. He was already hard. She arched her back, pressing herself into him. Even with the layers of clothes separating them, the feeling was delicious.
“Do you want me?” he asked, his voice husky. “Tell me you want me.”
It would be so easy to love Ian again, especially since she’d never really stopped caring. Then again, what was love if they didn’t want the same life? She already knew the answer—it was an empty sentiment that led to heartache and loneliness.
She placed her hands on his chest and pushed firmly. Sliding from the island to the floor, she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, not trapping the kiss, not wiping it away. Her fingers trembled. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry. I should leave.”
“And go where? You said yourself that the media has camped out at your apartment. Don’t be daft,” he said, his voice without a shred of emotion. “Stay.”
Petra gritted her teeth at his calm. She was nothing more than feelings and second-guesses. “Do you always have a stiff upper lip?”
“I suppose so. It goes with the tea and the affinity for British cars.”
“And your dry sense of humor.”
“There’s that, too. By the way, I was wondering—how did you get in?”
The kiss and the passion and the dreams of the future—or rather, the past—were gone for Ian. She needed to drive them all from her mind and her heart, too. “You hadn’t changed the code for the lock,” she said. “I supposed that since I could still get in, you might be willing to help me...”
Ian shrugged. “I guess I never thought that you’d come back.”
It wasn’t the answer she wanted. She wanted Ian to confess that he’d kept the same code deliberately, all the while hoping for her return. Sure, he wanted her, even now—the kiss had proved that. But sex and passion had never been their problem. It was the emotional connection she craved, the knowing that he would be there if she needed him. “I c
ouldn’t think of anyone else to ask for help. Will you,” she asked, “still help me? Even after...” She paused, not sure how to characterize what had just happened. “Even after everything?”
“Like I said, I’ll do some digging tonight and see what turns up. From there, you go to your attorney. Agreed?”
She paused again. This time it was for another indelicate subject—money. After all, he was a professional and well paid for his services. She knew; she used to live with him.
Sure, Petra had her own job. But while she was far from poor, she’d emptied her savings account to retain her attorney. She swallowed. “How much will it cost?”
Ian waved her question away. “Don’t even mention that to me. Now go upstairs and try to get some rest.”
Rest? She could hardly imagine sitting down, much less sleeping. “You said you have some of my clothes?”
Ian raked his hair back. “In the dresser, upstairs guest room.”
Oh yes, he had told her that already. “Then I guess I better...” Her throat burned and tightened, her words trailing off.
“I’ll let you know what I’ve found out about Arnie Hatch’s background in the morning.”
To Petra, it seemed as if the events that led her here had happened years ago and not mere hours. Yet there had been a brief instant while Ian held her that transcended time. In those short moments, Petra had truly felt safe, as if nothing could hurt her.
Ian was now at the sink, rinsing out the teacups. She regarded his form, his broad shoulders and narrow waist—and that rock-hard butt. Without question, he was gorgeous.
But it was what Petra knew about him that made Ian more than appealing. His hair wasn’t just blond, with golden and copper strands woven throughout. His eyes, a stormy gray, actually began as silver near his iris and darkened to charcoal at the edge of his pupil. He had a dimple on his lower back that she had kissed countless times and a scar atop his foot.
Even more important than his looks were his character and unwavering confidence, his dedication and strength. Ian was the kind of man women wanted and men wanted to be.
“Can I help with Arnie? I’ve met him before and—”
Ian didn’t turn around. “I work better alone.”
Alone.
There it was again. She should have known better than to offer. “Thank you, then,” she said, “for everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
Petra waited a moment for him to glance her way. She wanted to look him in the eyes so he’d know...what? Well, that was a question she couldn’t answer.
Without another word, she left the kitchen. The guest room was just as it had been when she’d lived in the house. Thick tan carpet covered the floor. One wall was navy blue and the rest painted an unblemished white. There was a matching navy-and-white comforter on the bed, along with a dresser, a TV on a stand and a bedside table with a lamp. In fact, it was almost as if it hadn’t been used since she left.
She opened the top drawer of the dresser and found half a dozen pairs of her underwear and a few bras, neatly folded. The next drawer held several shirts, two pairs of jeans and a sundress. In the closet, she found an old pair of her ballet flats.
When she’d walked out, she’d forgotten that she’d been doing laundry, until she went to put on her favorite shoes and couldn’t find them. And Ian? He’d never called, either. Never wrote, never texted. In fact, she’d wondered many times if he’d found her clothes—even though they were left in the dryer and hardly something he’d miss.
Petra shut the closet door and went to the adjoining bathroom. She flipped on the light. A face stared at her. She looked over her shoulder, a ready scream on her lips, but found no one there. She looked back and, sadly, recognized the reflection was hers—but not.
Her hair was a tangled mess; her eyes were lost to the dark circles that surrounded them. Her skin was pale and washed-out. Droplets of red lined her cheek—blood? Basically, she looked as feral as she felt.
She turned on the shower, as hot as the tap allowed. Steam rolling out the open glass door collected on the mirror, finally obscuring her image. After stripping off the bulky sweatpants and T-shirt, Petra wondered if burning the outfit would be overly dramatic. With a wry smile, she decided that, yes, it would be a bit much, and she stepped into the spray.
The water was scalding, turning her skin bright red. She jumped back with a yelp, before easing under the shower. The heat didn’t bother Petra then. It was minor compared to the burn she still felt for Ian. She grabbed a bar of soap and worked it into a lather, sliding her foamy hands over her body. Why had she pulled away from him when he’d offered what she wanted? Wouldn’t the comfort she found in his arms be the best salve for her wounded soul?
Chapter 4
Petra, showered and in fresh clothes, sat on the edge of the bed. She was beyond exhausted, yet questions dogged her. How had the media found her home? What was being reported about the incident at Joe’s? Finally, what was the news saying about her?
She grabbed the remote and pushed the power button. The evening newscast filled the screen. Two camera-ready anchors, one male and the other female, sat behind a desk. As the intro music faded, they turned toward the camera.
“Tonight is a sad night in Denver,” said the woman. “Joe Owens, quarterback for the Colorado Mustangs, is in critical condition and fighting for his life.”
“That’s right, Sue,” said the man. “It was a vicious attack on the championship MVP that put him in the hospital. At ten fifteen this morning, an alarm was tripped in the Belcaro residence of Joe Owens. Police arrived on the scene within minutes to find that Owens had been stabbed seven times and had lost a tremendous amount of blood.”
A picture of Petra, taken from her work’s website, flashed on the screen as the anchors spoke. Petra felt ill.
“The police found Joe Owens’s agent, Petra Sloane, at the residence and covered in blood. According to police reports, Sloane was unable to recall what transpired for forty-five minutes.”
“I bet she can’t,” said the man, with a sneer.
“We have to wonder what would cause someone, like Sloane, to attack her client. We have with us in the studio psychologist Doctor Douglas Warner.”
The camera cut to Dr. Warner, a balding man with a goatee.
“Doctor, can you tell us what might drive a person to commit such a heinous act?”
Dr. Warner said, “Acts, such as this one, are filled with rage. For Ms. Sloane, I think this attack was very personal. I’m certain that Ms. Sloane has other acts of violence in her past. Moreover, I’m also sure that there was a trigger for this event.”
Sue, the anchor, looked back at the camera. “Thank you, Doctor Warner. We tried to reach Ms. Sloane for comment. She has not been seen since her release from police custody. Her employer has also been contacted, and they have no comment. Up next, we’ll take a look at the career of a football legend, Joe Owens.”
It was worse than being naked; she had been completely exposed and examined. Petra turned off the TV and began to pace, as if she could put distance between herself and what had been said on the news. Yet she knew better. Once allegations like the ones leveled at her were made public, they stayed with a person forever. Like she’d been branded by what the reporters said, Petra would always carry the scar of the police accusations.
* * *
Yuri Kuzntov had spent an entire day on the run. So far—he hadn’t been caught by the cops who were certainly looking for him. It was well past midnight on a day that began with his safe house being raided and he needed to hide for the night.
He broke the column around the steering wheel, revealing a tangle of filaments and plastic. He glanced out the window before pulling two wires free and touching their exposed ends together. The engine started. Yuri slid the gearshift into Drive and pulled onto the street.
It was luck that they’d all risen before dawn and not been caught in their beds. Luck that he’d been in the kitchen when the door was knocked in. It was even luckier that he’d thought to grab a knife and had managed to overpower the cop in the yard. But if his luck held, he’d be able to get a new identity, the necessary paperwork and enough money to leave the country.
There was only one place to get that kind of assistance. Quickly making a U-turn, he drove through the quiet neighborhoods, heading for the address he’d committed to memory weeks ago.
The traffic light turned green and Yuri rolled across the intersection. Confident he hadn’t been followed or seen, he pulled in to a pharmacy parking lot and left the car in a space at the rear of the building. Within a minute, he was off the street and in the courtyard of a three-story apartment complex. Head down, he climbed the stairs and knocked on a door.
The door remained closed; the apartment beyond was silent.
He knocked again.
Finally, an answer came. “Da?” Yes?
“Eto ya, Yuri.” It’s me, Yuri.
The door opened. A large man with a dark crew cut stood on the threshold. Yuri recognized him as a former FSB officer. Anatoly Shubin now worked as a bodyguard and driver for some of the richest and most ruthless men in Russia.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“The house was raided.”
Anatoly opened the door further. “Get inside.”
It was a studio apartment—living area, kitchen to the side, an unmade bed and a folding table. It had been decorated in early American ugly—the sofa was upholstered in brown floral fabric and there were two easy chairs in coordinating tweed. The small makeshift dining table was covered in prescription bottles and Chinese takeout containers.
The stench of rot hung in the air, like a sulfurous fog. Three men filled the already cramped room. Aside from Anatoly, there was another FSB agent, Ilya—also a bodyguard. Then there was the third man, the one in charge.
Rocky Mountain Valor Page 5
