Touch of Darkness (14 page)

"Actually, presales are excellent," she said with chilly courtesy. "My publisher is talking
New York Times
best seller."

"Doesn't that just figure?"

She wanted to squash him like a bug—him and his flat lack of enthusiasm. "I've documented all my research, but if I can produce a real live piece of Varinski history—that will excite the press and give me the exposure I need. So although some kind of written record of Konstantine's corruption would be good, I can run with the icon, too, if that's what it is. It's all about publicity."

"All about publicity," he repeated. "When we started this conversation, I told you to start at the beginning, but I don't think you did. Who are the Varinskis to you?" He carefully spaced each word.

"What do you mean? Are you asking if they're relatives?" Her cheeks heated. "Because I am not related to those monsters. And I never slept with one!" He looked away, a quick flick of the eyes, then
back. "No. That's not what I'm asking. There are a lot of injustices in this world, Tasya Hunnicutt You know them. You've seen them. Why did you choose to try and destroy this evil?"

"Because it's the right thing to do." Lame answer. "Because that's what I do."

"No. With the other evils, you take pictures. You write a story. You move on to relative safety. With the Varinskis, once you declare yourself their enemy, there will be no safety ever again. And you know that. So again, I ask—why the Varinskis?"

"I'll have you know there are a few governments in this world who hate me for my stories." She hadn't thought Rurik would wonder about her motivation, or that he'd be so astute with his questioning. Most men were oblivious to everything except food, drink, and sex. Why did she have to get stuck with Mr. Interrogation?

"You
do
sense evil." He watched her emotion-lessly.

She squirmed in her chair. She knew where he was going.

"You sensed Clovus and his traps. You knew the Varinskis were out there."

"When they're close, I feel . . . there's a sickening buzz in my ears, and I get this hot flash that makes
me see flames."
Too close, Tasya! You're skating too close to the truth!

"Are there any other times you've felt that?"

She actually felt funny when he was around, but she put that down to a constant, low-level lust that afflicted her, and the way she forgot to breathe when she stared at him.

She
liked
to stare at him, at the golden brown eyes, the strong, harsh face, the muscled body that looked so good in clothes—and so much better out of them. She liked his scent, and she liked the way she felt when he touched her . . . like she was going to live forever. Forever, in a moment.

"Are there any other times you've felt that?" he repeated.

He wasn't going to let this one go.

And she wasn't going to talk about it—about that night so long ago, about the flames on the horizon, and how she'd screamed for her mommy because when those scary men were close, she was sick, so sick. "I am sorry, Rurik. It's partially my fault they bombed the site, but I swear, it never occurred to me they would."

"So you have felt it before." He was like a dog with a bone. "And still you have the nerve to say you don't believe in the supernatural."

Her temper had been wavering back and forth, and now it snapped. "That's not the supernatural. That's just a feeling!"

"A very useful one." He stood.

"Do
you
believe in the supernatural?"

"Very much so."

She couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. "An Air Force pilot who believes in ghoulies and ghosties?"

"An ex-Air Force pilot. Perhaps the ghoulies and ghosties are the reason I quit."

He wasn't making sense to her. She stood, too. "What do you think of what I'm doing?"

"I think you're going to get killed."

"But if I bring down a legacy of cruelty, won't that be worth it?"

"No. For I can't bear to think of a world without you in it." Before she suspected his intentions, he had her in his arms, pressed against his body. He was hard and hot, just the way she remembered, but less gentle. ... He wanted to kiss her, and he no longer had the patience for seduction. This was a kiss as violent as a storm, as complete as a climax. He used his tongue in her mouth, his teeth on her lower lip. He held her with one arm across her back while the other cupped her rear and massaged so deeply she shuddered, halfway to yielding.

Then he let her go. Let her go and stepped back. And walked out the door.

She touched her fingertips to her bruised lips, and closed her eyes. She had thought no one would mourn her if she died, and yet—Rurik might appear to be calm and stoic, but the man hid depths of pas
sion and anguish that raised her temperature and made her want to live, all at the same time.

In a sudden hurry, she raced into the corridor, intent on catching him.

He stood in the archway of the living room, where the television was blaring, and stared over the heads of Mrs. Reddenhurst and two of her guests.

Tasya stopped beside him.

A reporter stood in the rain before the collapsed mound on the Isle of Roi. Behind her, people worked under spotlights, digging frantically, as she said, "We don't know who bombed the site. The speculation is, of course, terrorists, but we do know two people are missing and presumed dead. But until their bodies are recovered, they're suspects in the blast."

And photos of Rurik and Tasya popped up on the screen.

Chapter 13

Tasya looked guilty and like she wanted to bolt, but Rurik needed to know if their masquerades were sufficient. "Mrs. Reddenhurst, my wife and I are going up now."

Mrs. Reddenhurst twisted in her wing chair. "Come in, come in. Meet the kind folk who've agreed to share their car with ye in the morning."

Rurik took Tasya's hand and led her into the small room. "We appreciate you letting us ride along with you, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly."

"Serena and Hamlin," Mr. Kelly said, and extended Ms hand. He was short, aging, with a round belly that overhung his belt, and a white beard. His wife matched him in height and girth, and both of them
beamed enthusiastically.

Apparently in the summer Santa Claus and his wife vacationed in the north of Scotland.

"Glad for the company, especially since you're sharing the petrol." He cocked his head. "I recognize you."

Shit.

"Or at least I recognize your accent. You're Yanks," he continued.

"We're from just north of you," Serena said, "from Canada. It's always good to see neighbors when we travel."

Tasya leaned against Rurik as if she needed the support.

"Remember that time we saw Fred and Carol in Florida?" Hamlin said. "That was wild. Wasn't that wild?"

"Fred and Carol Browning were our real neighbors, from our neighborhood, and our kids grew up together," Serena explained.

"And we saw them in Florida in February. Imagine that." Hamlin tucked his thumbs into his suspenders.

"Imagine," Tasya said weakly.

Before the Kellys could draw breath again, Rurik said, "Mrs. Reddenhurst, we want to thank you for the loan of your computer, and thank you for giving us shelter."

"Yes, thank you." Tasya took her hand.

"Ye're welcome, both of ye." Mrs. Reddenhurst
looked pleased by their courtesies. "You'll go up now?"

"Of course they will!" Hamlin said in hearty amusement. "They're newlyweds!"

Serena gave a laugh to match his. "Tomorrow the car windows will be steamed up all the way!"

It was going to be a long ride to Edinburgh.

Rurik pushed Tasya toward the corridor and up the stairs.

"None of them recognize us from the pictures on TV," she said in a low voice.

"We've got a chance of getting to France incognito, then." He followed close on her heels as she climbed the stairs to the second floor.

She stopped on the landing. "You don't have to go to France with me."

"Believe me. I do."

"No, really. I've put you in danger."

He laughed briefly and bitterly. He'd already been in danger, but she'd definitely added to the mix. "I have a better idea. Why don't I send you to safety while I go to France after the Varinski treasure?"

"No." He answered himself at the same time she answered him.

"I need to find the treasure for myself." Her eyes were big and blue and earnest.

"Because that's better for the PR?" He could barely contain his irritation.

When he thought about her plan—write a book about the Varinskis, and do a good enough job to make it a blockbuster—he wanted to shout at her. Tasya Hunnicutt, the most savvy world traveler he'd ever met, imagined that she could take on the longest-lived, most deadly cartel in the world, and win.

The Varinskis made the Mafia look like altar boys, and why?

Because old Konstantine
had
made a deal with the devil, and the devil knew his stuff.

So what if Tasya didn't believe in demons and shape-shifters?

Rurik lived with the proof—and the consequences— every day.

So he
was
going to France with her, and when they located the icon ... he would take it from her.

Because they were chasing the icon that could save his father's life, and more important—his soul.

Tasya would be angry, but Tasya would have to learn to live with it, because Rurik intended to keep her.

"You should go back to the dig," she said. "Leave me to track down the Varinski treasure."

His temper wavered between hot frustration and cold intent. Putting his fingers over her lips, he said, "Don't even suggest that. I'm not leaving you to face the Varinskis alone."

Her eyes filled with tears. She looked down, snuffled, said, "I'm sorry, I must be really tired."

She thought he was a good guy, a human guy, and her willful foolishness, not to mention the coming confrontation, made him more furious. "We both are. I'm going to take a shower. Mrs. Reddenhurst said she would loan you one of her nightgowns. Don't wait up."

"I won't." She looked up. "Rurik, I really am sorry I got your excavation blown up."

She thought he was angry because of the site. Could she be any more wrong?

Without waiting for an answer, she sprinted up the stairs.

He watched her and said softly, "Don't worry. You're going to pay—in more ways than one."

***

Tasya slept a long time, the absolute blackout of exhaustion, then slowly bobbed up toward consciousness.

She was cocooned in warmth . . . except for that one foot dangling off the bed. It hung out of the covers, and her toes were cold.

But the rest of her was so warm ... so relaxed. , . . The dream was the best she'd ever had.

Of Rurik turning her onto her back. Of Rurik lifting Mrs. Reddenhurst's ridiculous, voluminous flannel nightgown. "Of Rurik sliding his fingers into her
panties and stroking her just above her clit. . . building sensation slowly, letting her rest, building again. . . . The cold air in the attic pinched at her face, chapped her lips . . . and Rurik held himself above her, a large, dark, predatory shadow in the predawn light.

All she needed was for him to touch her a little more often, with a little more intimacy, and maybe a little pressure. . . .

She rolled her hips, a voluptuous invitation to invade rather than loiter.

A laugh rumbled out of him, and he slid his bare leg between hers. "No, this one's not going to be easy."

And she woke with a start. "What?"

She was too sleepy and confused to comprehend what he said, or even exactly what was happening.

Because if he'd decided to take matters into his own hands and screw her senseless—and although she knew she had very important, very reasonable objections to that idea, right now she didn't oppose having the decision made for her—then why was he arousing her but not mounting her? Why wasn't he sweeping her along with the force of his passion?