No Law (Law #3)

by Camille Taylor

  “There’s a message,” she told him. “I wonder if it’s Lucas letting me know when he’ll be home.”

  He joined her by the machine. “Does he ever?”

  Elena glared at him. “Yes. When he remembers.”

  She pressed the play button, her body stiffening when a woman’s voice came on the line, slightly breathless.

  “Hi, Elena. It’s Carey, Carey Madigan. I really need to talk to you. I know it’s been a while, but I need your help. I have nowhere else to turn, so please call me as soon as you get this, please.” After leaving her number, she hung up.

  “Oh my.” Elena frowned, picking up the handset and dialing the cell number with shaky hands. It rang a few times before he heard the same woman’s voice, soft, strained and familiar come through the speaker.

  “Elena?”

  “Hi, Carey, I just got in. What’s going on?”

  “I’m in trouble, Elena, big trouble. I can’t go home and I need your help. I hate to ask and put you in this position but you’re the only one I can call.”

  “Get your ass here right now. Do you have my address?”

  “I’m halfway there. I’ll see you in ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and…thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me, you goose, just get here so we can talk,” Elena ordered.

  He knew that tone. No one dared argue with it.

  Elena hung up the phone, concern pinching her face. He didn’t recall Elena ever mentioning a Carey, and he found himself intrigued.

  “Does Carey have red hair?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Elena frowned. “Why?”

  He was glad he was cradling Yvonne; with the look Elena just shot him, he would need all the protection he could get. He cleared his throat.

  “A woman came to see you at the office yesterday, petite, red haired, blue-green eyes. The front desk called me and said she was looking for you, so I went to see her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. She wouldn’t talk to me. She seemed upset, though.”

  “I’ve known Carey for a long time. Five years ago, her husband was murdered and she hasn’t been the same since.”

  He remembered the case and how upset Elena was that she couldn’t do anything for the victim’s wife. He suddenly remembered the name, Professor Alan Thomas. He and his wife were guests of the country working for the Ministry of Culture in cataloguing and reviewing Russia’s treasures. Carey had discovered forgeries and had gone to the authorities.

  He heard a car pull into the driveway. Elena’s worried gaze darted towards the door.

  “I’ll put Yvonne down for her nap,” Dmitry said.

  Elena nodded as he headed down the hall with his niece. When he reached the threshold to Yvonne’s bedroom, he glanced back as his sister took a deep breath and started for the door.

  Chapter 17

  The door opened before Carey could knock and she was immediately smothered by a giant bear hug. Elena stepped back and allowed her to enter, surveying her with a critical eye. No doubt she had already spotted the dark circles under her eyes and she was glad she hadn’t lost any weight, although with all the stress she was under she didn’t doubt there would be some serious repercussions to her body when this was all over.

  If I survive it, of course.

  She ran her fingers through her hair, wishing she’d had time to brush it and go through basic hygiene this morning. It had been years since Elena had last seen her and this was not the impression she wanted to make.

  “Coffee?” Elena asked.

  She nodded. At thirty-two, Elena was looking more like twenty-five. Being happily married certainly agreed with her. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, just long enough to touch her shoulders and her cool grey eyes crinkled when she smiled. She busied herself brewing coffee.

  Her gaze moved from Elena and glanced about the room. The kitchen appeared to have been renovated in the last couple of years, the appliances updated and more accessible. The general design was pure male, built to last, but she could see Elena in the pink and white lace table cloth, along with the vase of fresh flowers standing proudly in the center of the dining table. They’d either been a gift or had bloomed under Elena’s care. Wherever she had gotten them, it was clear they weren’t store bought.

  Several framed family photos hung proudly on the wall. From where she stood, she couldn’t make out any faces, only dimensions, picking up Elena, her daughter and who she presumed to be Mr. Gates. She felt a jolt of affection as she took in the blindingly happy smiles.

  “You look really well, Elena,” she said as Elena handed her a mug of steaming hot coffee. She wrapped her hands around the cup and drew away its warmth, getting comfort from it.

  “Thank you, and thank you for the cards and teddy bear. It’s Yvonne’s favorite, you know.”

  She smiled. As an only child, she had no nieces or nephews to spoil so she was happy the little girl was enjoying the first present she had ever purchased for a child. She took a sip of coffee, praying her tightly wound stomach would hold the liquid.

  “I didn’t want to come here. Not like this. I never wanted to involve you. But I’m out of options.”

  “What’s this all about, Carey?”

  “My boss at the museum where I work was murdered.” She dabbed at her eyes, and heard Elena suck in her breath and knew she must be thinking of Alan, how it was so much like his death, and she was right. “The thing is, and you’ll probably think I’m paranoid, but they’re after me now. I probably know too much for their liking.”

  Elena gave her a speculative look. “And who are they?”

  “I know how this is going to sound, but I believe it’s the Russian Mafiya,” she said, her voice barely a notch under hysterical. “Or at least one branch of it, not to mention a certain detective who seems to think I had something to do with Brian’s death…”

  ***

  Dmitry stopped in the hallway out of sight and listened as the redhead explained her situation. She was wearing the same clothes she had on the day before, when he’d met her in the office, and they were wrinkled. It was clear she’d slept in them.

  She told Elena a tale of murder, and of the three men who’d seen her as well as her license and knew her name and address. He listened to her explain how they’d followed her, tried to grab her.

  The woman was certifiable—and to think, he’d actually been worried about her. Was she a novelist? With that kind of imagination, she could be a bestseller. She was probably cracking up due to latent memories from her husband’s murder. He knew an experience like that was bound to fuck a person up. Had she even seen a therapist after the trauma she’d gone through?

  “And today,” the woman continued, “just before I called you, I saw two of the men from the museum at my apartment, and I barely got out in time before I heard them break in. I am so scared, Elena. Moscow scared. I have no idea what to do.”

  He came out from hiding in the hallway and the woman startled. Her teary eyes widened as she took him in. She didn’t retreat, clearly trusting Elena, and he admired her for that. He stopped beside his sister and could see Carey’s mind working as she recalled where she knew him from. Recognition came into her eyes before she glanced between Elena and himself.

  Their resemblance wasn’t noticeable except for their eyes. Most people didn’t see the likeness until they were in the same room together.

  He turned to Elena and spoke in their native tongue. “Elena, are you seriously going to stand here and listen to this ridiculous story? This woman is a few cards short of a full deck.”

  He noticed the smirk on his sister’s face. Why the hell did she find this so amusing?

  Carey crossed her arms beneath her breasts, unconsciously causing them to plump, and glared at him. Her eyes flashed in outrage.

  “I’m not crazy, thank you very much. You want proof, check out my SUV. If you have time, why don’t you go ahead and dislodge the bullets imbedded in the back.”


  Elena paled. “They shot at you? Are you all right?” She looked her up and down for signs of injury.

  She shrugged. A blush rose from his shirt collar. He had not meant for her to hear. He was pretty sure he had started speaking in Russian. Had he accidentally reverted to English? Since moving to the States, he had to assimilate himself, only speaking Russian when he was alone with Elena. He stared at Carey before turning to Elena, whose smirk returned to her face now that she was sure the other woman was uninjured. It took him a few seconds to put things together.

  “You speak Russian?” he asked.

  Carey nodded. “Courtesy of four years living and working in Russia.”

  Elena smiled proudly, her affection showing. “You’re looking at a woman with one hell of an impressive résumé, along with a bachelor’s degree in art history and a masters in Russian antiquities.” She looked back at Carey. “I missed you when you moved to St. Petersburg.”

  Carey smiled. “Apparently, you didn’t care for my work. I heard you blew up the State Hermitage.”

  “Actually, it was just St. George’s Hall in the Palace.”

  Carey nodded. “Much better.”

  “Dmitry,” she said, glancing at him. “I’d like you to meet Carey Madigan. Carey, my brother Dmitry Ivanov.”

  Carey nodded and held out her hand. He took it in his much bigger one and squeezed gently. A jolt of electricity raced up his arms from the first touch and he swallowed hard. Her eyes widened in surprise; she’d felt it too. He stared into her eyes and felt something shift inside him as his heart began to beat heavily. He breathed her scent deep into his lungs and felt it settle there.

  His body hardened painfully, robbing him of breath. Images of her naked, writhing beneath him, flittered into his mind. For a moment, he imagined he could actually feel her closing around his rigid length. She wet her lips and he had to bite back a moan. His body demanded he take possession of what it deemed his, and he agreed. It was as if his subconscious already knew she was his woman and was just waiting for his brain to catch up.

  Elena cleared her throat and they both snatched their hands away. He caught Carey’s blush. How long had they been staring at each other? He’d been completely unaware of his surroundings. The whole world seemed to have melted away until it had just been the two of them.

  He swallowed with difficulty and noticed Carey’s pulse throbbed quickly in her throat. She was not unaffected, her face flushed and slightly breathless. She avoided his gaze and rubbed discreetly at her hand. He knew exactly what she was feeling. His own still tingled and hummed with electricity. He’d never experienced anything so potent in his life.

  Chapter 18

  Carey’s hand tingled, a strange sensation rushing through her. She was too young for hot flashes. She resisted the urge to fan herself—or strip.

  “Do you know much about them?” Elena asked, once more turning Carey’s attention to the grave situation and away from the odd and alarming reaction at shaking Dmitry’s hand. “I have some info on the local D.C. branch.”

  Carey shrugged, her body fatigued.

  “The boss’s name is Mikhail. I didn’t catch a last name,” she said, pulling her phone from her jeans pocket. She found the photo of the other man and showed it to them. “This is Thug Number One. I had to call him something,” she added, noticing their odd expressions.

  “Don’t recognize him,” Elena said just as the baby started crying. “Excuse me.”

  She froze as Elena left the room, leaving her with Dmitry. She was completely unprepared to deal with this situation, and she sensed his presence nearby, heard him breathing and could smell his spicy scent that made her want to lean close and run her tongue over his skin to see if he tasted as good as he smelled. Why this man? Her stupid hormones couldn’t have picked a worse time to become sexually attracted to a man. Sure, he was sexy and had that tall, dark, and handsome thing going for him, but so had many others she’d met over the years.

  He was havoc on her body, his cool grey gaze studying her intently as if trying to look inside her mind or through her clothes. She fidgeted as a fresh rush of heat shot through her body. Cheeks burning, she remembered he was Elena’s brother and she shouldn’t be picturing what he looked like without any clothes. She found she couldn’t stop herself and her gaze roamed slowly over his body, her imagination painting a vivid and erotic picture. She felt her blush deepen.

  He looks like he’d be all hard muscle and sinew.

  She surprised herself. It had been years since she’d found a man so attractive. She hadn’t imagined a man naked since Alan had been alive and for the second time in two days she’d had some serious fantasies about Dmitry lying naked in her bed, touching, kissing her. She swallowed hard. What was it about him that seemed to melt the ice around her? For a moment she had a strong urge to take a giant leap into the unknown.

  Her mind suddenly replayed their first meeting in Elena’s office the day before, knowing how she must have sounded to him, how he might have felt. She had not been kind or friendly. She cleared her throat.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you the other day when I refused to speak with you. It was nothing personal, certainly not against your nationality or you.”

  “I understand. You were obviously worried I might’ve been affiliated with the mafiya. I can hardly blame you. The mob is known to have their hands in every cookie jar from here to Moscow, so why should the CIA be any different? It sickens me but I can’t deny it.”

  “I’m still sorry. Had I known you were Elena’s brother, I wouldn’t have been so rude. I trust her explicitly.”

  “Forget it. You look like you could use a drink,” he said and made his way past her into the open-area kitchen. Opening a cupboard, he brought down a bottle sporting a red label. He produced two glasses and promptly poured the liquor before handing her a glass. “You drink vodka, of course?”

  She reached past him and turned the bottle so that the label was facing her. “Stolichnaya,” she said with approval. “Who can say no to that?”

  Dmitry gave her an appreciative glance before handing her the sturdy glass.

  “Thank you,” she said, and downed the fiery liquid.

  “Whoa. Slow down.” Dmitry caught her wrist and retrieved the empty tumbler. The light touch burned more than the vodka. She stepped away, needing space to breathe without inhaling his spicy scent.

  “Tough couple of days,” she said.

  “I’d say a couple of years, from what I’ve heard. So, you’re a curator?”

  “Assistant,” she replied. “Acting curator. Which is why I’m suspect number one.”

  “I’ve seen murderers. You’re not one.”

  “Thanks. Shame you’re not investigating my boss’s death.” She took the refilled glass from Dmitry, this time sipping the vodka. Her bones were already liquefied. “You live here now?”

  “I moved here with Elena two years ago after we were offered positions here. It came at an opportune time. Lucas wasn’t planning on letting Elena go again.”

  She sensed a story there. “Again?”

  Dmitry rested his tall, lean body against the kitchen counter. “Lucas and Elena met on a case in Russia. They fell in love but Elena was a little gun shy, so Lucas went home, giving her space to come to him. A year and half later he was still waiting. When she finally showed up—”

  “She had plenty of reasons to stay,” she finished.

  “That’s the story.”

  “She seems happy. I heard what happened to her first husband.”

  Dmitry nodded. “She really is. Did you know Nikolai?”

  She shook her head. “Only of him. I saw a picture of him once, on Elena’s desk. He was a good-looking man. He was murdered not long after I moved back home.”

  She always knew he was the reason Elena lobbied her case so hard in Moscow, that she saw herself in Carey and imagined herself in the same position. Elena had tried to get a conviction but when a man like Iosif Smirnov orders a kill, i
t’s hard to take the case to court.

  She remembered the day she’d sat in Elena’s office, and had learned to hate the SVR building with a passion. She was glad when the jobs in Moscow had been completed. In those days, she had decided to finish what she and Alan started in Russia and had been looking forward to moving to St. Petersburg for the remainder of the year before heading back home.

  The day had been grey, like most days in Russia, the air outside frigid, and she was huddled inside her giant coat. Elena had sat across from her on the other side of the desk, her face pained as she delivered the news that there would be no prosecution of the man who killed her husband.

  The goon who’d pulled the trigger had been found floating in the Moska River and the man who ordered her husband’s death, Iosif Smirnov, would go free. Even at twenty-four, she wasn’t stupid. She knew it was a lost cause to even hope for a conviction. She understood Elena’s hands were tied and felt some relief in the fact that she wouldn’t have to testify against the mob.

  Elena told her about the floater and she took some comfort in the justice of that. She thanked her, promised to keep in touch, and went back to the crime scene which had been her home. She had packed her things and took the first train out of Moscow, never to return.

  Refocusing, she noticed Dmitry staring at her. He’d obviously been talking to her. “I’m sorry?”

  “You looked so far away. Where were you?”

  “Russia.”

  “Elena mentioned your husband was murdered,” he said.

  “Which was why you assumed me crazy? Believe me, if I was going to crack, I would have done so years ago. It isn’t something you easily walk away from and definitely not without emotional scars.”

  Guilt ate away at her for her part in her husband’s death. She had been foolish and intemperate and it had gotten Alan killed. If only she had waited until he’d gotten home. If only she’d spoken to him first.