Artur had had no choice but to convince the therapist that a precipitous retirement was in her best interest. Too bad she had been too dedicated and scrupled to enjoy it.
Patient confidentiality. Hmmph! Daughters shouldn’t have secrets from their mothers.
“Maybe the stress of dating pushed Inna over the edge—especially now that Dr. Shiffman’s gone,” Maya said. “And her dress and the drug and the supposed rape are all a cry for attention. For help.”
“Dostatochno!” Enough! Artur cut the air with his hands. “What happened isn’t her fault. I won’t hear any more about it.”
“But what if she needs our help? What if she’s on the verge of another breakdown?” Her words hit home. “Artur, I’m worried.” She reached out, squeezed his hand, was gratified when he didn’t pull away.
The moment didn’t last. As they pulled into the gated drive of their home, Artur’s cell phone rang. Victor, damn his hide, interrupting their hard-won peace yet again.
Artur radiated tension as he listened to Victor, the line of his jaw taut. He got out of the car and slammed the door. Maya scrambled out from her side in time to hear him say, “He wants to meet now? Tonight?”
Artur marched into the house, leaving Mikhail and Maya to follow. Again, she was forgotten as Victor and their business took center stage. Without a word or a backward glance, Artur headed straight to his office and closed the door.
Standing in the two-story foyer, Maya felt small and insignificant, a stranger in her own home. What good were all of these stately rooms when all they provided were more places for him to hide from her? More doors for him to shut against her?
Mikhail stood near Maya. He didn’t touch her. Yet she could feel the heat of him. His fingers bumped hers. When she glanced up at him, she saw the compassion in his dark blue eyes. Compassion, but not desire.
The way Mikhail had sidled up to Inna hadn’t pleased her—even if he was merely playing the part of concerned employee in front of his boss. Maya had caught the flicker of interest in her lover’s eyes, interest not directed at her. Traitor.
“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” she said.
“When I think of you, I feel anything but sorry.”
“Prove it.”
Mikhail darted a quick glance down the hall where Artur had disappeared. He caught her hand and pulled her into the small powder room. He backed her up against the wall.
She didn’t dare turn her head or let her eyes dart to the mirror. She didn’t want to see herself, to be reminded that she had wrinkles and sagging skin that obscured the exceptional beauty of her youth, to remember that they weren’t equals and she was so much older than he. She closed her eyes.
Slowly, sensually, Mikhail slid his hands under her sweater. His fingers danced on her skin. He pushed against her, making plain the evidence of his arousal.
His murmur, his touch, the musky scent of him as he leaned down and nuzzled her ear chased away the cold, lingering emptiness, leaving heat and desire in its place.
She buried her fingers in his thick, dark hair, and he didn’t disappoint. His lips blazed against hers in an urgent, open-mouthed kiss, a prelude to the intimacy she craved. As he deftly undid the button at her waist and yanked her slacks and panties down past her hips, she didn’t have to pretend that he wanted this as much as she did.
She only wished he were Artur.
Their labored breaths echoed in the bathroom. Artur could come out of his office any moment. The risk of discovery only heightened her excitement. How would Artur react if he saw her lost in passion with his young associate?
Her thoughts seemed to summon her husband. She heard the creak of the door to his study.
“Blyad!” Mikhail swore and disentangled himself. “Fix yourself up. Take your time. I’ll intercept him.”
He was barely mussed, already zipped up, no sign of her kisses on his lips. He nudged her away from the door and slipped back into the foyer. Maya wondered if perhaps she had only imagined the passion between them.
She splashed water on her flaming cheeks, willed them to cool. She forced back the sickening tidal wave of guilt and emptiness that threatened to overtake her. If the tears started, she wouldn’t be able to hold them back or quiet the wracking sobs building in her overstrung body. This wasn’t the life or the marriage that she wanted. She loved only Artur, no matter how he neglected or ignored her. He stood outside the door, so near and yet so far out of reach.
“I want you to go back to Inna’s apartment and keep watch.” Artur’s instructions lacked his usual calm. His words were clipped, almost panicked.
“Sure, no problem,” Mikhail said.
“Be careful. Vlad was supposed to be back by now and hasn’t checked in. I’m worried there’s trouble with the Georgians.”
“I need to get some supplies,” Mikhail said with his usual cool. “Tell the guys I’ll be there within the hour.”
Maya waited until Mikhail left before coming out of the powder room. She found Artur slipping on his coat. “Where are you going?”
“Victor will be here soon. We have to go to a business meeting.”
Worry seemed to age Artur before her eyes. The vertical crease deepened between his eyebrows. She suddenly noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the new hollowness to his cheeks. When had he last slept? Eaten? He had spent all of last night and then today in the hospital standing vigil and, she imagined, strategizing how to respond to this latest crisis.
“On Saturday night? Artur, are you sure about this? You haven’t eaten. Haven’t slept. You’re in no shape to go out and do business.”
“I don’t have a choice,” he said.
He never shared details with her. She knew better than to ask him what the meeting was or why he was compelled to go. But nothing could be so important. He needed to rest.
He was so powerful and independent. She sometimes forgot that he was only a man. A weary warrior who needed her love and support.
“Victor’s not here yet. At least let me get you something to eat. And maybe a little cognac to settle you.”
“Fine. Sure,” he agreed. He let her send him back to his study, likely thinking he was appeasing her and avoiding a fight. She poured him a glass of cognac from the leaded crystal carafe on the sideboard.
She watched him take a long swallow of the amber liquid. She didn’t tell him she had no intention of letting him leave. She wouldn’t have to.
She left the study to make a sandwich for him. By the time she returned, her poor husband had fallen asleep at his desk. His head rested on his arm. His hair was silver now, but when she looked at him, she still saw the young man who had stolen her heart forever.
She remembered the night he’d come to her father’s apartment for dinner. Her father had hand-chosen Artur to be his protégé. He was an up-and-comer, Semyon had claimed, with a promising political career ahead of him. Maya had become heartily sick of listening to her father sing Artur’s praises. She hadn’t joined him in Moscow only to be left alone and ignored while he invested his time and attention in his career and a surrogate son, who succeeded in the one way Maya never could—by being a man.
Then Artur had arrived. She had expected him to be cocky and arrogant, a boorish man who only cared about politics and the Communist Party.
He had stood in the doorway, awestruck, staring at her. “You’re so beautiful,” he had blurted. He had been so young then, twenty, only a little older than herself, and easily the most handsome man she had ever seen—not pretty, but powerful. He had an inexplicable charisma, the countenance of a leader that people would follow. She suddenly had understood her father’s fascination. Even now, at fifty-five, he had the same magnetism.
She feathered her fingers through his hair and bent to kiss him.
“Sofia,” he murmured as her lips whispered over his cheek.
The sound of that name—that name!—was a sharp slap. Maya recoiled with a gasp. All these years later, that woman still had a hold on hi
m.
When would Maya find her way back to being first in Artur’s heart?
She backed out of the study. Her cheeks burned with the sting of his rejection. But she was here, and Sofia was dead.
Maya would secretly punish Artur for all of the hurt he inflicted. And then she would make him love her again.
VICTOR
THE DIRECTORATE’S MOSCOW representative, Gennady Morozov, demanded a meeting. Tonight. Within the hour. Victor had been in the business long enough to know that nothing good ever came from emergency meetings with his bosses, or in this case their messenger.
Victor stopped at Artur’s house first. The ride over would give them a chance to strategize and, more importantly, for Victor to remind the man what was at stake should he entertain thoughts of turning against his employer.
Maya met him at the door. A sharp scowl shaped her lovely features. “He’s not coming with you tonight. I don’t care how important you think it is.”
“Maya,” he scolded.
She raised her hand to silence him. “He’s not a machine, Victor. You can’t take and take and take from him and expect him to keep giving. He’s not a superman.”
“I know that.”
“But you don’t care!” She crossed her arms as if she would bar him entry. “I’ve never seen him this tightly wound. He hasn’t slept in two days. He’s not a young man anymore.”
“I know you’re worried for him,” Victor said.
Her blue eyes flashed with anger. “Don’t you dare patronize me. I’m not some little girl who’ll be quieted with a lollipop and a pat on the head. He’s my husband.”
Victor quieted her tirade with a mere arch of his brow. They both knew Maya and Artur would no longer be together if not for Victor’s timely interference twenty-five years ago and his continued silence on Maya’s own indiscretions.
The two had made a pact long ago to share Artur.
Victor staked his claim. “Our bosses called a meeting.”
“Tell them to wait.”
Victor blinked with surprise at her refusal. Business was supposed to trump everything.
Victor decided he had stood politely on the stoop long enough. Now he pushed past Maya. She huffed with indignation as he brushed past.
“I won’t tell them to wait.”
“You’ll have to,” Maya said. “Artur won’t be joining you.”
Oh yes, he will. Victor would bring Artur along to meet the Directorate’s messenger, even if he had to bind and gag Maya to get to him.
Victor marched to the study, Artur’s headquarters, only to find the man slumped over his desk, fast asleep, a half-finished snifter of cognac beside him.
“He’ll be asleep for at least a few hours,” Maya said.
“You drugged him,” Victor accused.
“What would make you say such a thing?” she demanded. Her cheeks blushed a pretty shade of pink. She was almost convincing.
“Have a sip of cognac,” he challenged and gestured toward the glass.
“Get out,” she said.
“He’s talking rebellion,” Victor said.
Artur suspected the Directorate might have been involved in Inna’s rape, that it was staged to teach him a lesson and keep him in line. Victor highly doubted the Directorate had sullied its hands this time. If they had, surely Victor would have been informed.
What worried Victor was the spark of angry determination in Artur’s eyes. For the first time in years, he feared Artur might actually try to break free, the way he had years ago. Then where would Victor be?
“Why should I care?” she asked. “Your business is no concern of mine.”
“If he leaves me, how long before he leaves you?”
Maya swallowed. He watched the convulsive movement of her throat with grim satisfaction.
“He won’t leave me,” she said.
“Because he loves you?” Victor taunted.
He walked away without giving her a chance to retort. He might have had the last word, but the victory was hollow.
Victor still had to face Gennady. He would have to deliver the message to his bosses that there was trouble. Moscow was likely to shoot the messenger when he reported that Artur planned to renege on the deal with the Georgians.
Victor was no better off than Maya, dependent on the cooperation of a man who would bear him no love or loyalty if he ever learned the truth and who had already tried once to leave them both.
Victor’s car was parked on the street. As he squeezed behind the wheel, he saw the curtain move and Maya’s anxious face watching him from the window. Because she couldn’t wait for him to leave, or because she now remembered how closely entwined their fortunes were? He doubted she felt any guilt for her actions.
Maya had never once shown any remorse.
KATYA
KATYA PACED BACK and forth in her kitchen. Her feet slapped against the cold limestone tile. Her chest blazed with the hot discomfort of too much acid. Perhaps because of her pregnancy. She feared the real cause might be her breaking heart.
Why hadn’t he stayed with her tonight?
Aleksei claimed he loved her. He barely touched her. They spent almost no time together. Her pregnancy was a minor miracle. She had blamed herself for the distance between them. Maybe if she didn’t work so much. Maybe if she tried a little harder to please him. She had hoped a baby would cement their bond, would provide a way to fix their marriage.
What if she couldn’t fix it?
For a while now, she had suspected he was only going through the motions. Appeasing her. To be fair, concentrating too much on baby making could kill the heat in any relationship, but she was having trouble remembering when there had been any heat in hers. She suspected he was saving his passion for someone else.
Her cell phone rang. Nick was calling her. He had been trying to reach her all day. She couldn’t bring herself to answer his calls. Nick had witnessed an ugliness last night that she would prefer not to remember. Her drunken husband had hit her and made her nose bleed.
She wanted so badly to believe it was an accident. He hadn’t meant it. He loved her, right? It had been the alcohol, that was all.
An affair might be the least of their problems.
She opened the refrigerator. On the door shelf was a tall bottle of Grey Goose, relatively new, now almost empty. In a fit of pique, she yanked the bottle from the shelf, twisted off the top, and poured the remaining liquid down the drain.
She kicked the base cabinet open with her foot and ripped a new garbage bag from the roll under the sink. Snapping it in the air, she returned to the fridge on a mission.
She scouted every last beer bottle and threw it into her trash bag. The bottles made a satisfying clink as one hit the next.
She threw the bag of loot over her shoulder and marched to the den. She threw open the cabinet to the bar. The assorted bottles of liquor with the fine cut glass and oddly shaped tops were nearly empty. Damn it, Aleksei.
With one arm, she scooped the bottles into her garbage bag. Aleksei would complain. He liked the good stuff. She was probably throwing away hundreds of dollars of top-shelf liquor. It might be the only thing she’d done in weeks that he would notice.
She marched out the side door with her haul of bottles and yanked open the top of one of the metal garbage cans. The city wouldn’t haul the trash for a couple of days, but at least the alcohol wouldn’t be in the house.
Would that stop Aleskei or merely slow him down?
The evening air cooled the angry flush in her cheeks. She stood outside her home, forcing herself to take deep breaths. Before she could approximate anything approaching calm, a car she didn’t recognize pulled into her driveway.
Two men in wrinkled suits got out. She recognized one, the detective who had questioned the staff at Troika last night. What was his name? Rodriguez? Ramirez? Rosales? She couldn’t remember now.
She had sat beside him for the better part of last night helping to interview the Troika staff and
marveling that a man with such impressive forearms and formidable shoulders could have such a gentle and coaxing demeanor. The waitresses had all been nervous to talk to the authorities, but they had all succumbed to the light in his chocolate-colored eyes and the dimples in his cheeks, subconsciously returning his encouraging smile and playing with their hair.
“Good evening, Mrs. Koslovsky. You might remember me. I’m Detective Rosales, and this is Detective Sharp. Is your husband here? We’d like to ask him a few questions.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Do you know where we can find him?”
“He’s at Troika.”
“We were just at the nightclub. He wasn’t there,” Sharp said. He reminded her of a turtle with his large rounded nose and bulgy eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “Then I don’t know where he is.” Where had Aleksei gone when he sped away from her?
“Are you sure?” Rosales asked, suspicious, perhaps with good reason. He had walked into the bar last night after Aleksei had hit her and heard her make an excuse for him. Shame heated her cheeks. Likely he thought she was covering for Aleksei … again.
“He said he was going to Troika. If he’s not there, I honestly don’t know where he is.” She made herself look him in the eye.
“Then maybe you could help us.”
“Okay,” she said uncertainly. “Do you want to come inside?”
The detectives exchanged what seemed like surprised glances and followed her through the side entrance of the house. “Can I get you anything? I could make some coffee.”
“That’s not necessary,” Rosales said. He had a manilla folder in his hands. He opened it on the kitchen counter and pulled out a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”
She studied the hazy picture, a shot of a portrait that seemed to have been cropped from a photo and blown up in size. She vaguely recognized the blunt features set in a round face, but the helmet of curly hair was distinctive. “Yes. His name’s Stan. I don’t remember his last name. He works for Aleksei. At the International Pharmacy on Brighton Beach Avenue. He’s one of the pharmacists.”
Kings of Brighton Beach Bundle Page 11
