Hatshepsut's Collar (The Artifact Hunters #2) (26 page)

She burst through the double doors to their suite wrapped in a good mood.

Nate looked up from the wingchair, a book in his hands. “A good day?”

Cara tossed her parasol on a sideboard and stripped off her kid gloves. The little hat she wore was discarded with no regard to its fate before she perched herself on the arm of the wingchair.

“Natalie and I spent the morning with a courtesan.” Cara slid one arm over Nate’s shoulders, seeking the heat of his body while balancing herself on the chair.

“Learn any new tricks?” His face remained passive, but humour lit his eyes.

“Do you think I need to?” She frowned in mock concern. “I could go back, spend a few days with her and her benefactors, if you think I am lacking―” Cara gave a squeal as Nate swept her off the arm of the chair into his lap.

With one hand buried in her hair, he pulled her head back and kissed her hard, banishing all thoughts of learning new tricks unless she studied under him.

She laid her palm on his chest; a single heart beat within their two bodies. “I did learn a few titbits about Nolton.”

“Such as?” With one arm around her waist, he used his free hand to pull up the hem of her skirt. He bunched the fabric around her knees as his hand stole under and stroked the stocking clad leg.

“He hasn’t been seen in St. Petersburg for over six months. The rumour amongst the courtesans he used to frequent is that he became distracted with interests, and an estate, in China.”

“Ah, that confirms my suspicion.” Nate nodded.

Cara tapped his chest when he remained silent for too long. “I need more details, what suspicion?”

“I acquired the chest over a year ago, but told Victoria my mission was unsuccessful. Strange that she arrests me now and demands the return of the contents.”

“Someone talked.”

“Yes. Very few people know about the eggs, and none of my men would talk. Which means my Chinese contact broke his silence.” His hand trailed up her right calf and caressed the back of her knee. “I will enquire, but suspect I will find Nolton’s hands responsible.”

“Speaking of which, Nolton likes to strangle women during sex.” Cara nestled her head closer to Nate’s. She closed her eyes, thinking of the women so vulnerable during an act of passion, only to be brutalised and murdered. “He likes to see their souls struggle through his fingers as he throttles them.”

Nate paused in his attempt to reach higher under the layers of her clothing. He swore softly. “I always thought there was something off about him. You have proof?”

She gave a deep, sad sigh. “Some. He throttled Justine’s neighbour, Irina, and expected her to clean up after him. Apparently he also killed Sara Milligan.”

Nate’s eyebrows shot up, his hand however resumed its journey northward, moving to her inner thigh. “Bubbles?”

“You knew her, then?” Cara teased. Everyone knew of the sparkling courtesan. Bubbles ruled the London demimonde, and often appeared in the gossip columns of newspapers both sides of the Atlantic. Until her mysterious disappearance two years previously which was a mystery no more.

“You’ll tell Fraser?” Nate reached the top of her stocking and rimmed a finger under the lace and against her naked skin, sending a shudder through her body.

Cara bit her lip at the lazy pleasure arching up from his touch, trying to keep her mind on the conversation. “Heck yes, he’ll lap it up. Nolton thinks his position protects him, but Fraser has no qualms about rank. And if he turns up proof, it will be a small justice for the murdered women, and another nail we can drive into his coffin.”

A wide grin made its way across Nate’s face. “And it gets Fraser off my tail for a change.” He slid his hand under both of Cara’s knees, scooping her into his arms as he stood up. “Let’s discuss your reward for unearthing this information.”

She laughed, her soul lighter as he carried her toward the bedroom.

Loki and Miguel were up to tavern number five for the evening, and still no sign of Sergei. At their last stop of the previous evening he found a wench willing to pierce Miguel’s nipple. The lad had been so drunk on cheap vodka he thought the girl bit him in some harsh love play. He reckoned tonight was a good night for the youth to get his first tattoo. And possibly that minx, Cara, would get angry enough to take it out on the instigator.

He shivered at the thought of being included in her play. When he first met her, she resembled a wild kitten, a heady mix of frightened innocence and self-protective feral. The more time she spent rubbing against Nate, the more the innocence peeled away, and a rich, sensuous, creature emerged. One who would slice your balls off while sticking her tongue in your ear.

“God,” he groaned as his cock twitched at the idea.

Tonight he concentrated his search on Vasilyevsky Island and the area around the port. This tavern was different to the ones across the river, the crowd rougher, the laughter deeper, and the atmosphere darker.

Someone played a violin in one corner, lending a somber air to the smoke filled interior. Every inch of space was jam packed with heavy bodied dock workers in thick felted jackets in muted tones of blue, green, and grey. Wide leather belts cinched their waists and square pouches dangled from their belts. Dark woollen trousers were tucked into scuffed and muddy boots. Loki noted concealed weapons in boots and under jackets as his gaze swept the crowd.

Loki kept a wary eye on Miguel as they moved through the press of bodies toward the bar. The youth had started to sway on his feet from all the vodka shots. He turned from being of any use at translating the heavy Russian accents to trying to perform a stand-up comedy routine. The young man was convinced his jokes were hilarious, although his audience did not share his opinion. Loki rolled his eyes. He would have to abandon his search and make sure the puppy got back to the Hellcat safe and sound. Or Cara would have his balls.

Then again, that fate held a certain appeal, which reminded him of his original problem. He readjusted his pants and narrowed his eyes at the few women amongst the patrons. His body needed relief, and why use his hand when he could find a willing woman to help? His gaze lighted on two petite blonde women, similar looking enough to be sisters. They laughed as they held court surrounded by several rough dock workers, who were no competition for Loki. Sisters were just what he needed. Once he got shot of the pup.

One of the women looked up and met his dark gaze. She smiled and he let her see the depth of his hunger, flicking the piercing in his tongue between his teeth. A blush rose up her neck and she nudged her friend. They both looked him over, one licked her lips. He would give them a change in their diet from the salty dock workers they were accustomed to. Let them dine on prime hawk for a change.

He ran through his mental check list.
Ask around, ditch boy, pick up sisters.

He gave a sigh of frustration. Asking around Russian taverns if anyone knew Sergei Alenin was akin to asking in an English pub if anyone knew James Smith. Every third person put up his hand and then demanded a drink for being interrupted when he wasn’t the Sergei they sought.

Loki tapped on the bar. He bypassed any language problems by pointing at the shot glasses in front of the other patrons and holding up two fingers, and then slid across the coins.

The bald bartender nodded. While he kept up a constant and loud chatter in Russian with three other patrons, he poured two drinks for Loki. Without looking, he pushed across the glasses and swept away the coins.

Miguel steadied himself on the bar and reached out a hand for one of the glasses. Loki slapped it away. “Not for you, you’ve had enough for the night. These are for me.” He picked up one and tossed the potent liquor back in one hit, slamming down the glass before picking up the second.

Loki turned and leaned his elbows on the bar, assessing the mass of people around them. As he watched, the tone of conversation in the crowd changed and people shifted like the ocean responding to the pull of the tide. Bodies parted as though for Moses. A giant figure, made more imposing by the tall fur hat, made his way through.

He stopped in front of Loki, towering above him like something straight from a dark nightmare. He pointed a finger at Loki’s chest and uttered a sharp sentence in heavy Russian. Anger rolled off his massive frame, shrivelling those standing closest to them.

Loki held his ground and swung his head to Miguel. “What did he say?”

Miguel blinked bloodshot eyes, his brain engaged… eventually, and translated the words spoken in Russian. “He wants to know why we’re looking for him.”

Loki eyed up the latest Sergei to crawl from the woodwork. This one looked like a bear handler. And not one that worked with bears either, but the sort who physically picked them up and carried them around―two at a time. He nudged seven feet and was at least three feet wide. The hat added extra height, not to mention the bearskin draped around his shoulders that increased his bulk. A well-trimmed black beard hugged his jaw and kept the bottom of his face from getting frostbite in the bitter Siberian cold. Deep-set blue eyes blazed from a creased and weather-battered face.

“Fuck me,” Loki muttered. “He doesn’t look happy to be found, either.”

The enormous man jabbed again with a hand the size of a meat axe. “Why?” he demanded in heavy accented English.

Loki downed the second vodka; sure he could feel the insane alcohol content stripping the lining from his stomach. The hit reinforced his backbone. If he was about to go down, he would do it swinging. “Nathaniel Trent needs your help.”

Time froze as the two men locked eyes in a staring contest. Neither moved, Loki was long used to staring down predators, although this one struck him as more dangerous than most. Laughter rumbled in the other man’s chest, rupturing from his mouth like a freight train hurtling down the track. He slapped Loki on the back with similar force to a steam engine. He grabbed the edge of the bar before he ended up face first on the floor from the impact.

His booming laugh filled the raucous tavern. “Nate in trouble, again,
da
?”

ooses are generally made of rope. Each harsh fibre becomes a needle that abrades the flesh as it tightens around the throat and restricts breathing. Silk works equally well as an instrument of torture. Or so Nate thought as he pulled the expensive fabric around his neck. He dismissed the valet and finishing tying the cravat himself, pulling the length of cream fabric over and under itself. Loki lounged behind him, drinking coffee, watching as he tightened the noose at the base of his throat.