“No, no, no—a courtroom trial.” He beamed as if that explained everything.
“Go on,” Avy ordered.
“It’s a long story,” Liam said, dropping into a wing chair.
“I have plenty of time to hear it.”
“All right, then. You are aware, my love, of international efforts to locate and prosecute Nazi war criminals for their heinous acts during the Second World War, correct?”
“The Nuremburg Trials?”
“Those took place immediately after the war. I’m talking about current efforts.”
“Aren’t the Nazis all dead by now?”
“Sadly, no. And many of them fled prosecution to live under assumed identities in foreign countries.”
“Okay,” Avy said. “So what is it that you need to steal, and for whom? Evidence of some kind? Photographs? Tape recordings?”
Liam worried at his upper lip with his teeth and squinted at her. “Something rather larger than that.”
“Liam, stop being so mysterious and just tell me already!”
“Avy, my darling, what I’m here to repossess is a man.”
She stared at him, unblinking. “That’s funny, Liam.”
“Really. I must steal a live human being, a former Nazi war criminal whom Russia is refusing to extradite.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Liam!”
He shook his impeccably groomed head.
“Let me explain something to you: What you’re talking about is not theft. It’s called kidnapping.”
He shrugged. “Terminology, love.”
“No, no, no. This is a human being. A person. Not a sculpture or a painting or a diamond.”
He winked at her. “Your powers of deductive reasoning are impressive.”
“Are you out of your mind?!”
“I’m quite sane, I assure you.”
“How—what . . .” Words failed her. How could he just sit there so calmly, hands loosely clasped between his knees? “Okay, Liam. Let’s pretend, just for shits and giggles, that you somehow manage to overpower this man and kidnap him. How are you going to get him out of the country?”
“By air,” he said as if that were all there was to it.
“By air,” she repeated scathingly. “What, you’re going to shoot him out of a potato gun and over the border?”
“No, my darling.” His voice held infinite patience. “We’ll have a small aircraft waiting. It’s all arranged.”
“Oh, it is, is it?” she asked, her wrath rising.
“Yes, but I need your help.”
“I’m not helping you kidnap someone. No way.”
“But it’s a matter of honor, love.”
“Since when do thieves have honor?”
“Aha . . . but I’m no longer a thief. I’m working terribly hard to get my honor out of layaway, you see.”
Avy rolled her eyes heavenward. “I think we should just go sightseeing, tour a vodka factory, and go the hell home.”
Liam shook his head sadly. “I can’t do that. I’ve been asked to help.”
“Asked by whom?” Avy had a bad, squishy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“People in a position to give me another get-out-of-jail-free card, this time for Eastern Europe, Russia, and several former Soviet territories.”
Oh, great. “And how badly do you need that get-out-of-jail-free card?”
Liam shrugged. “That all depends on where you’d like to honeymoon, my love.”
Avy drew in as much air as she could, and then let it out in a long-suffering groan.
“Avy, in all seriousness, I do feel honor bound to help prosecute these criminals in any way I can. They tortured, starved, and executed millions of people. This is about justice. This is about doing what’s right.”
She sat silently, reflecting unwillingly on the truth of his words.
“So you see, don’t you, my darling, that this isn’t strictly a theft. I’ve simply made a commitment—as you do every day—to recover something for a perfectly legitimate organization.”
She dragged her hands down her face and peered at him through her splayed fingers. “Which one?”
“Essentially the World Court.”
“And they have enough evidence?”
“They say so.”
“Then why won’t Russia extradite the man? The Nazis were responsible for the deaths of more than twenty million Russians during World War Two.”
“Avy, I don’t know. From what I understand, there’s no documentation right now that Russia’s still attempting to investigate or prosecute Nazi war criminals. But in this case it could simply be a case of bad relations with the U.S.”
She sighed, straightened, and looked him directly in the eyes. “What’s this man’s name?”
“Weimar von Bruegel.”
“Okay. And where does he live?”
“In the Zamoskvoreche section of the city, quite close to the Tretyakov Gallery.”
She was silent for several moments. Then she said in resigned tones, “All right. When do we go in and get him?”
He shot her a brilliant smile. “I knew you’d come ’round to my way of thinking on this.”
She just shook her head and again looked heavenward. “Why, God?” she asked. “Why me? Why couldn’t someone else have fallen for Liam James?”
He bounded out of his chair, took her into his arms, and pulled her hands away from her face. Then he kissed her soundly. “Nobody else would do for me,” he murmured. “Only you, my Ava Brigitte.”
She melted against him despite her many apparent misgivings.
He raised his head. “Please note,” he said, “that I have released your hands.”
“So noted,” she said huskily.
“Excellent. Now I have every intention of putting my hands up your skirt, love . . . with your permission, of course.”
“Then do it already,” she said, busily unbuttoning his shirt.
“You won’t kick my bollocks into my tonsils?”
“Maybe tomorrow . . .”
“That’s my girl,” Liam said.
And then they got busy.
Eighteen
Natalie woke unwillingly, and only because someone was gently shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes, and Eric’s face swam into focus. “Wha’?” She closed them again and tried to slip back into inky unconsciousness.
But Eric’s voice said, “Wake up. We have a flight to catch.”
Flight?
The smell of strong coffee wafted to her nostrils and she struggled to a sitting position, but her eyelids felt as if they were made of iron. Whatever he’d given her to sleep last night hadn’t worn off.
Eric put a cup of coffee into her hands and she automatically raised it to her lips and drank, burning her tongue. That finally brought her the rest of the way awake.
He’d already showered and was walking around in nothing but a towel, knotted at his waist. A couple of water droplets still clung to his neck and those powerful shoulders. Sunlight caught the reddish mat of his chest hair and transformed it to burnished copper.
He looked as if he belonged in one of those men’s razor commercials, with a stunning woman stroking his jaw to prove the closeness of his shave. Or perhaps on a great white yacht, selling high-end liquor with his eyes reflecting the hue of the Caribbean in the background.
He didn’t look as if he belonged in the same reality as normal, average people like her. What was he doing in the same hotel room?
Well, for one thing, he was packing, throwing his clothes into a handsome, dark leather duffel bag.
Natalie said, “What do you mean, we have a flight?”
“Large tin can with wings that transports people from one country to another.” Eric winked at her and gestured to the coffee. “Drink up and then get through the shower. Plane leaves in three hours and we have to be at La Guardia in one. We’ll fly overnight to London and from there to Moscow.”
Natalie just blinked. Then
she said slowly, “You booked us tickets to Russia?”
“No, Disneyland.” He ran a comb through his wet hair. The dampness turned it a dark auburn color.
“Do me a favor and hold off on the sarcasm until you’re making sense.”
“Sorry.” He shot her a sheepish grin. “Yes, Natalie, I booked us flights to Russia.”
She finally absorbed it. “Why?”
“Because . . . because you need to go. I thought it was a matter of some urgency.”
“Yes, Eric. I need to go. But why are you going? We barely know each other.”
He flushed and looked extremely uncomfortable. “I just don’t want you to go alone, that’s all.”
“Eric, that doesn’t make sense. You’re not responsible for me or the mess I’ve gotten myself into. And don’t you have a job? How can you just take off like this, with no notice to anyone?”
“Natalie,” he said, his color rising even more. “I’m a consultant—I told you. I travel constantly. As it happens, my company owes me about five weeks of paid vacation and I was only here in New York to wrap up a long-term project. So I happen to be free.”
She stared at him warily. Suspicion fired little warning shots into every corner of her brain. He sounded a little glib. She raised the coffee cup to her lips again and drank. Then she said again, “Why?”
“Natalie, do you speak Russian? Do you know the Cyrillic alphabet to even read street signs?”
She shook her head. “You?”
“I won’t claim I’m fluent, but I took a year of Russian in college. I’ll be able to get us around.”
Nat just looked at him, long and hard, clearly extending her question.
“Look, what are you gonna do if you run into muscle men over there, Natalie?”
“So you’re coming with me to protect me?”
“Is that bad?” he countered.
“Eric, what do you care, really? I’m some random girl you picked up at a bar.”
He dropped his towel on the floor—deliberately? To distract her?—and stood there naked while she sucked in a breath and then averted her gaze. Then he stepped into a pair of boxers and pulled them up over his hips. He settled his big hands on them and squared his jaw. “I just care, okay? I like you, Natalie. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Was he saying that he had some feelings for her? Maybe their strange proximity and the violence of the last couple of days had created an unusual bond, which they’d sealed by making love. She did feel as if she’d known him much longer than she had.
He raised his reddish gold eyebrows and fixed her with that Newman blue stare, the one that blended challenge with integrity and self-awareness with compassion. It was one that said the world both amused and disgusted him, but what the hell—he’d play the game. “I’m a security consultant, remember?”
Right. She tossed back the rest of the coffee and stared at the bottom of the empty cup so that she wouldn’t fall into the potency of that gaze and get hopelessly drunk on it. What woman in her right mind would refuse a few more days with him? Not to mention nights.
“Okay. I think you’re crazy, but I won’t turn down the company. How much do I owe you for the plane ticket, though?” She swallowed and hoped she had enough money in her bank account. “I’ll write you a check.”
He waved a hand at her and stuffed his legs into a pair of well-worn khaki pants. “I have frequent-flier miles out the yin-yang, sweetheart. We’re first-class all the way.”
“Eric, I can’t let you do that . . .”
“Tell you what. Let’s argue about it in the taxi on the way to LaGuardia, ’kay? Now, get your cute little butt into the shower or we’re not going to make it.”
She followed orders and tried to put together a passable outfit from what Eric had taken from her apartment, which was a challenge. Brown tights and a black dress. A couple of bras that didn’t fit her anymore, since she’d lost weight. And underwear that was pretty, but desperately uncomfortable. The thought of traveling for, what, sixteen hours or so in a lacy nylon thong made her cringe. But she had no alternative unless she wanted to turn her current pair of panties inside out, which was equally unacceptable.
She chose one of the thongs and a cashmere sweater that had once been her brother’s, but had to ditch the bra because the padding dented in the absence of enough breast. Jeans completed the outfit, but then she was forced to put on running shoes since traveling in high-heeled boots was out of the question. The hems of the jeans puddled and dragged on the floor.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Eric cocked his head, evidently amused.
“Listen, slick, you didn’t bring me much to work with, okay? Half of what you packed doesn’t fit anymore and the other half is mismatched.”
“So the bag-lady look is my fault.”
“Pretty much.”
“Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, but right now we’ve gotta hustle.”
She shoved her wet hair behind her ears and mashed yesterday’s clothing into her bag on top of all the fabric scraps, the notebook, and other odds and ends. “Any reason that you packed bubble bath but no deodorant? And nail polish but no razor?”
He already had the door open and his duffel over his shoulder. “See, it’s like this, sweetheart. I’m a guy. We have no clue at all what women take on a trip.”
He was all guy. One hundred percent man. Didn’t even like a hint of pillow talk, even if the message was “You’re the best I’ve ever had.”
She still wondered what he was doing with her, but she had enough mysteries to solve without trying to figure out that one.
Once they got to London, McDougal called ARTemis to see whether Miguel had found anything on Giselle, Luc Ricard’s fiancée.
The phone rang and rang, which was unusual. Finally Sheila answered, sounding irritated. “Ahtemis, how may I help you? Oh, McDougal, it’s you. What do you want?”
“Just to hear your voice. Miss me?”
Sheila snorted. “Try your pathetic lines on some gal who might b’lieve ’em. I’m busy.”
“Put me through to Miguel, will you?”
A long-suffering sigh blew through the phone, and then Eric heard a click. But the voice on the other end of the line was not Miguel’s.
“All right, Sid, honey, where were we?” Sheila now sounded like a Brooklyn Betty Boop, all breathless and borderline orgasmic. “I’m wearing nothing but your diamonds and the leather bustier. I’m bending over the sofa now, and I’m so hot and willing and ready for you, baby . . .”
“I’m going to hurl,” McDougal said. “What is this, 1-900-GET-SICK?”
“Shit!” said Sheila. “Why are you still there, McD? I transferred you!”
“Why are you giving phone sex on our business line? Who’s this Sid guy?”
“Nobody,” Sheila said hastily.
“Sid Thresher?”
“Of course not.”
Sid Thresher was an aging rock star, the former lead guitarist for the world-famous band Subversion. He’d had an unrequited crush on Gwen for more than a year and still hadn’t quite accepted that she was going to marry another man.
“I’ll be damned,” McDougal said with rising disgust. “What’s he paying you to talk dirty to him?”
“Nothing!”
“Does Marty-the-Hubby know about this?”
“No!”
“I’ll just bet he doesn’t. Maybe I should mention it to him next time I submit an expense report.” Marty was also the accountant for ARTemis.
“Listen, McDougal. If you say anything, I will personally kick your—”
“I don’t really think you’re in a position to make threats, Sheila, do you?”
Silence.
McDougal chuckled gleefully. “What’s the information worth to you?”
“Are you blackmailing me?”
“Why not? You’ve tried to extort money out of all of us. Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?”
“Look,” she said, desperation in h
er voice. “How ’bout if I give you phone sex, too?”
McDougal shuddered. “That won’t be necessary. But thanks for the offer.”
“McD, what do you want? We can come to some kind of agreement, here. Just tell me.”
He took a moment to think about it. “Okay. I want you to be courteous. No, more than courteous: sweet. Not just to me, but to all of us.”
“Sweet.” Disbelief, even horror, permeated her voice.
“Yeah.”
“I can’t. Not in my nature. Ask for something else.”
“Sweetness,” he affirmed. “And I want you to offer us refreshments when we come into the office.”
“Refreshments!” Her voice rose. “Refreshments! I suppose next you’ll be asking for me to kiss your spoiled butts . . .”
McDougal grinned like a large, satisfied crocodile. Too bad she couldn’t see him. “Pucker up, Kofsky. Oh, and by the way, I need one helluva maid service to go to a Manhattan apartment and clean up. The place got trashed during a burglary.”
“Maid service!” she shouted.
“Yup.”
“I suppose you think I should fly up there myself, in a short, ruffly black-and-white uniform and CFM pumps, with a pink feather duster.”
He could have done without that visual. “Sure, if you’ve got the time. And make sure to do the oven and the windows . . .” He grinned as she sputtered, then gave her Natalie’s address.
“Who’s paying for this?” Sheila wanted to know.
“I am. Now, can I please speak to Miguel?”
A snarl came from Sheila’s end of the line.
“Remember, you’d better be nice!”
Silence.
With an evil chuckle, McDougal just waited her out.
He heard her swallow hard. Then she said, “Why, yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
Nineteen
Tatyana held tight to Colonel Ted’s arm as she drew the Moscow air deep into her old lungs. It was chilly but clean, and tinged with old memories.
She saw her mother and father, decked out for a holiday party. Papa wore his dress uniform and all his medals, while the St. George necklace nestled against her mother’s white bosom, framed to perfection by her low-cut green velvet evening gown.
Take Me for a Ride Page 12
