The phone shivered across the bedside table and trilled. Only one person had this number and he didn’t bother to look at the screen for the caller’s I D.
“Da,” he said. And then in English, for his American contact, “Yes?”
“We have a problem,” the man began.
“Yes?”
“Two, actually.”
“Oh?”
“I just got confirmation, Joe Owens will recover.”
Nikolai cursed. It was a problem, just not exactly his problem. “So?”
“So?” the other man barked. “When Joe Owens comes to, he’ll have a lot to say. He’ll tell them all about the drugs he’s been taking and who gave them to him. He’ll tell them about the fight and the attack. He’ll tell them all about my involvement. If that happens, I won’t be able to protect you.”
Nikolai grunted a laugh. For decades, he’d been dealing with rough men and lawlessness. This American was nothing. “Don’t threaten me, you pissant.”
“It’s not a threat. But there will be an investigation and it’ll be out of my hands.”
“What about the woman you were able to frame?” It had been a brilliant stroke of luck that the athlete’s agent had shown up when she did. Even more fortuitous that she had seemed sick and the American was wise enough to use her.
“She’s another problem altogether.”
He waited a beat. “How so?”
“She’s working with Ian Wallace. I asked around about him and he’s a hotshot private security guy.”
Nikolai’s breathing echoed in his ears. Ian Wallace. So he was calling himself private security. More like a mercenary with a conscience. It explained how he’d been found at his last safe house, and how Yuri Kuzntov and the others had been discovered, as well. How long could he expect to stay safely hidden this time? Days, maybe? Definitely not the weeks or months he needed. They had to tie up all loose ends now.
“Listen carefully,” said Nikolai. “Joe Owens can never wake up.”
“What are you saying?” the American asked. “You want me to...to kill him? How am I supposed to do that?”
“You’re a smart man with connections. You figure something out.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
“And yet you tried to kill Owens to keep him from going to the media about the experimental drugs you’ve been providing.”
“That was a fight that got out of hand,” the American said.
Nikolai laughed. “You stabbed him again and again. If you can do that, you can find a way to kill him that won’t leave a trace. No one will suspect if a gravely ill man doesn’t recover as hoped.”
There was a moment of silence. “Fine, but I won’t kill the woman.”
“You need to get her away from Ian Wallace. Isolate her for me.”
“I can do that,” said the American. “Joe Owens’s death will give me the perfect excuse to get her by herself. It might take a little while. You need to give me a day or two.”
Patience was not a virtue that plagued Nikolai Mateev. He wanted both problems dealt with and now. “You have until morning.”
The American didn’t thank him for his generosity or understanding. Neither did he end the call.
“Is there more?” Nikolai asked.
“Yeah,” said the other man. “I have one question—what do I do with the woman, Petra Sloane, once I have her?”
For Nikolai, the answer to that question was simple. “Bring her to me. I’ll make sure she can never go to Ian Wallace for help again.”
Chapter 11
Ian’s confession about his mentor at MI5 hung in the air, like the last note of a song that was fading away. It was a story he’d never shared with her when they were together. At the same time, Petra knew that he had a past and part of his job was confidential.
Ian slumped in his seat and twirled the empty wineglass.
“You look as exhausted as I feel,” she said to Ian.
“Not tired, just thinking.”
“About what?”
He shrugged. “Everything.”
“Let me help you out a little.” She gathered all the dishes from the island and placed them in the sink. “I’ll clean up the kitchen and you go and rest.”
“Leave it,” he said. “The kitchen will keep until the morning.”
“With all the surprises today, that might be the most shocking,” she said, teasing. “You, ignoring a mess.”
Ian stood and stretched. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he teased in return.
“Maybe a little.” Petra wiped down the counters and the stove. It was something to keep her hands busy while trying to decide what was right—or wrong.
“I want to look into what your friend Rick said about Arnie Hatch. I’m interested if he invested in big pharmaceuticals—something that might produce performance-enhancing drugs.” Ian turned for the door. “Good night, then.”
“Wait,” she called.
Ian paused and turned to her. “Yes?”
Driven by the need to feel something beyond afraid, she moved to him, felt the heat of his body envelope her. She needed to see that there was still love and joy and beauty in the world, even if it was just for one night. She needed Ian.
And at the same time, she knew that after this, after she was finally safe, it would truly be the end for them. Was there any better way to say goodbye than this?
Reaching for Ian, she splayed her hands across his chest. Through the fine fabric of his shirt, she felt his heartbeat, and hers began to mirror the rhythm.
He gripped both her wrists in one hand and pulled them from his chest. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I want you. I need you to make love to me. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“It depends on why.”
“Stop asking questions and kiss me, before I begin to feel stupid.”
“I’m not sure that this is the best idea,” said Ian.
She rose to her tiptoes and licked the seam between his lips. “I am.”
He cupped her cheek. “I don’t want it to complicate things, that’s all.”
“Tonight’s already complicated.” She stepped closer, so their bodies were pressed together. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. It had been years since she’d been held, and pleasure rippled across her skin.
Ian cupped her breast and his thumb stroked her nipple into a peak, his fingers branding her flesh. His mouth found hers and he kissed her deeply. “Tell me that you want me,” he rasped, his breath stealing her own.
Petra didn’t pause to think about what it would mean to surrender to her basest desires. “I want you,” she said with a sigh.
With his hands on her waist, Ian turned her around and bent her over the counter. Petra didn’t resist. She wanted him to take control, needed to lose herself with him.
“You feel so good,” he said, his breath hot on her skin. “I wonder if you taste as good as I remember.”
Then, his mouth was on her. She held on to the counter as he suckled her sex, her fingers never gaining purchase on the smooth granite. His tongue explored her most intimate parts. Petra’s body slipped away, until all that remained were sensations. Emotions.
Lust and regret. Love and fear.
She cried out with a powerful climax.
“Don’t think we’re done,” he said, his voice thick with lust. “I’m just getting started.”
She peered over her shoulder as Ian removed a foil condom packet from his wallet and sheathed himself.
He entered her in one stroke. She gasped as his thrusts deepened. It had always been like this, the need so raw it couldn’t wait for the bedroom. Her ecstasy grew, claiming her thoughts, her mind, her soul. Another orgasm shook her body. Ian drove in deep.
As Petra’s heart
rate returned to normal, she wondered how she was supposed to navigate her feelings for Ian now.
* * *
Ian was still inside her—still hard. He pushed his hands through Petra’s hair, luxuriating in the feel of the silky strands sliding between his fingers. “Two years is too long.”
He thrust once more and spun her around to face him. His lips found hers and he claimed her with his mouth. Her kisses were fiery and began to melt the ice that filled his veins. His shirtfront was open and he stripped down to flesh. Then carefully, he found the hem of her dress and pulled it up slowly, inch by agonizing inch. Exposing her thighs, her hips, her stomach, her breasts. He drank in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst.
He lifted the dress over her head before letting the fabric fall to a heap on the floor. Yet he kept Petra’s arms above her head. He intended to hold on to her, to make her his. To love her so well that she’d never leave him, not again.
He pressed his body into her, reaching between her thighs. She was wet and open. He rubbed his thumb over her swollen sex. A moan escaped her throat. “Oh, Ian,” she panted, as he increased the pressure.
“You’re mine,” he said. “And no one else’s. Do you hear?”
Her hips were rocking back and forth on his hand. She was close... But he needed to hear the words. “You’re mine,” he repeated.
She clung to his bare shoulders, her fingernails gouging his skin. “I’m yours, Ian. I love you,” she moaned, as he brought her to the pinnacle of ecstasy.
It was enough for him, and the frost that covered his soul began to melt. It was why he loved Petra and needed her in his life. Without her, he felt nothing beyond cold and distant.
He wrapped Petra’s legs around his waist. Bracing her against the wall, he entered her. He kept his eyes on her face as he made love to her. The way she parted her lips as she sighed his name. The flush in her cheeks. The way her skin glowed with perspiration. The way her breasts pressed against his chest, and a million other things besides.
The passion between them had always been hot—so hot that they’d gotten burned. But, now that he had her back in his life, Ian wondered if he’d ever be able to let her go a second time.
Chapter 12
The room was awash in rosy light as the sun began to crest the horizon. Petra awoke, naked, in the bed that she and Ian had shared for years. It was almost as if she’d never left, yet to pretend that would be foolish.
She remembered the night it all fell apart. The fight. The hurt. The anger. The tears.
In her memory, she stood next to the kitchen window looking into the backyard. The day had been clear, but cold. Frost turned the dead grass brittle. Inside, the earthy scent of kale sautéed with olive oil and garlic mingled with the spicy aroma of chicken cacciatore. She’d opened a bottle of merlot to accompany their dinner and the decanter sat, untouched, on the island.
But that had been hours ago.
Still staring out the window, Petra scooped another bite from the pan into her mouth. The food had no taste and at the back of her mind was the tingle of fear that came along with the unanswered questions—what if something happened to Ian? What if he was late because he would never make it home again?
She picked up her phone again and sent a new text.
Expected you hours ago. Everything okay?
It was delivered, but not read.
She scrolled through the dozen texts she had sent him since her parents arrived from Cleveland that afternoon.
My parents here. Excited to see you.
Food’s getting cold. Almost home?
And the final one: If you aren’t coming, lmk.
The front door opened and a blast of frigid air swirled through the kitchen. It was Ian. She waited for him to call to her, to apologize. He did neither. He was on the phone.
“It’s solid evidence about Mateev and the DEA. He’s in the States...”
Petra quit listening. Using a juice glass, she poured some wine and took a long swallow. Her insides grew artificially warm. Ian came in to the kitchen, wrapped a cold arm around her middle and kissed her cheek.
“Smells good,” he said.
She squirmed out of his grasp. “It’s cold.”
“That’s okay,” said Ian. “I can heat it up in the microwave.”
She finished the wine in one swallow. “Suit yourself.”
“You seem upset. Did something happen at work?”
She didn’t bother to look in his direction. “No.”
“Are you sure? What’s the matter, then?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
Petra leaned against the counter and folded her arms over her chest. “You’re right. I’m not fine.”
Ian stood by the stove and lifted a limp piece of kale from the pan. Oil dripped from the leaf as he stuck it into his mouth and licked his fingers. “So, is it work...”
“It’s not work, Ian. It’s us. It’s you.”
“Me? What have I done?” She’d heard him ask the same question dozens—no, hundreds—of times before. It was like a script to a tired drama and they both knew their parts.
“My parents flew in today from Ohio. They came for dinner...” she began. “After waiting around, they gave up and went to the hotel.”
She could feel the tears. They were just under the surface—burning her eyes, tightening her chest, leaving her throat raw as they tried to break free.
“Bloody hell, that was today? I forgot. I’m sorry. Why didn’t you remind me?”
She clenched her teeth. “I did. This morning. Yesterday. The day before that.”
He opened his mouth, to apologize—explain that he didn’t have regular hours, or a regular job. Petra held up her hand. “I don’t want your excuses, Ian. I’ve heard them all before and that’s the entire problem. You’ve done nothing. You haven’t called me to say you’re late. You haven’t answered any one of my dozen texts. You haven’t even apologized for standing up my parents.”
His jaw was slack. “You know this happens.”
Petra hurled the glass in her hand. It hit the wall behind Ian’s head, shattering and staining the wall red.
“What the hell? I’m late, I’m sorry, but I thought you knew what I did. I thought you understood.”
And suddenly she did understand. “This isn’t what I want, Ian. I want to matter enough that my boyfriend will text me back. Or here’s a crazy idea—maybe he’ll even show up on time.”
“My job is important. What I do matters and I’m closer to getting Mateev than ever.”
“Mateev. It’s always Mateev. What is this guy to you?” The tears had come and she had no way to stop them now. “I know your job matters. But I want to matter, too. This isn’t working.”
“What’s not working?”
“Us. I think I need to leave.”
“Do not threaten me.”
But Petra was beyond making threats. In fact, she no longer cared. “I just can’t, Ian. I can’t do this anymore.”
Without a reply, he turned and left her alone in the kitchen. She remained by the counter, a dirty fork cradled to her chest. How different would things have been if she’d gone after him?
And then she was back in the bedroom with Ian beside her, just like it had been before. In fact, it was exactly as it had been before. They still shared passion. Yet Ian still served a higher purpose: justice.
His dedication to that end had grown and now he was willing to kill.
She was a fool to think that life would be different if she came back—if she had the choice and wasn’t convicted of attempted murder and sent to jail.
Petra rolled to face Ian. The blankets were draped low across his torso. His pecs were well-defined and covered in a sprinkling of blond hair. His abs were tight, muscles clearly outlined benea
th his tanned skin.
She drank in the sight of him, memorized every inch of his body.
His eyes opened, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Morning,” he said.
Petra reached up and stroked his face. His skin was warm and stubble covered his cheeks and chin. “Morning.”
“I do miss you, Petra,” he said.
She’d wanted to hear those words from him since the day their relationship ended. Yet she was no longer content to live her life waiting for Ian to come home from who knew where or close his latest assignment. She needed more. She had changed. The question was, had he?
“Ian,” she said, pulling the sheet over her, “we need to talk.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Petra paused, not sure what she wanted to say, much less how to say it. Before she could voice her thoughts, there was a loud knock on the front door. She glanced at the bedside clock. It was six thirty. “Someone stopping by this early isn’t good, either,” she said.
“Wait here,” Ian said.
He slipped from the bed and the muscles in his back flexed as he pulled on a pair of jeans. “I’ll be right back.” Shirtless and barefoot, he padded across the floor.
Petra stayed where she lay, her breath trapped in her chest. Did this have anything to do with her? Or maybe it was Joe? Had he regained consciousness—and if so, what did he remember?
Petra heard another knock coming from below and then the soft clicking as the door was unlocked and the tumblers fell into place. Ian’s voice carried clearly up the stairs.
“Kind of early to stop by,” he said. “I take it that you have news.”
The question was answered by a man; that much was obvious by the deep rumbling voice. But he spoke softly and she couldn’t make out his words.
Ian cursed.
Petra’s chest contracted as if squeezed by a vise. She exhaled. Her eyes burned. She slipped from the bed and rummaged through Ian’s drawers, selecting a pair of flannel lounge pants and a baggy T-shirt. After pulling them on, she crept to the door and peered over the banister. Ian stood in the entry, holding the door open. On the threshold was Luis Martinez.
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