Xtraordinary (2 page)

He knew he'd scored a direct hit. Yusup had served briefly as a pilot in the Russian Armed Forces before his career took a turn for the deadly, and he was extremely proud of his fleet of private jets, of which the Bombardier Challenger CL-600 was the crown jewel. “Ah, you appreciate her,” he said approvingly. “When things settle down, I shall take you up myself. We'll fly to Grozny, eh, what do you say? Visit the winter lodge at Veduchi?”

“When things settle down,” Ricardo agreed, matching Yusup's oily smile with one of his own. “Now, however, I think we had better search for more broken links in our gilded chain.”

Yusup threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, Ricardo! You have the gift of words, yes? You could talk the feathers off a duck. All right. I'll take the package and let Mohmad know that he should have the Challenger ready to take off in the hour.”

As Ricardo handed over his bag and said his goodbyes, leaving the corpse for Yusup's associate to clean up, he reflected that if only he'd been here an hour earlier it might be Yusup's blood on the floor rather than Anwar's.

CHAPTER FOUR

Chelsea stepped out of the shower, her aching muscles soothed by the hot spray, and toweled off. The punishing session at the gym hadn't completely settled her uneasy swirl of emotions, but it had helped. Maybe tonight she'd be able to sleep without the turbulent, erotic dreams that woke her in the wee hours, then receded before she could remember the details. Every one featured a brooding, dark man who could never be mistaken for anyone but Ricardo…and she desperately wished she could remember what her dream lover had been doing, even if it was only her subconscious at work.

She slathered on the body lotion that had been a gift from the Fairy Godfathers, the two men who'd virtually raised her after her father had died and she'd run away from her abusive stepfather at the age of fourteen. Chelsea had spent her teen years living in the back room of Donny and Rufus's salon, but she'd been too busy teaching herself about art to focus on the hair and skincare services that were her benefactors' bread and butter. Now, even though she would be thirty next year, Donny and Rufus were still trying to turn her into a well-groomed lady.

Until Chelsea met Ricardo, she'd been content with her somewhat sloppy, edgy look. As a gallery owner in a sketchy part of town, she could get away with the biker boots, thrift-shop jeans, and street-fair shirts. None of her lovers seemed to mind her unkempt mop of dirty blond hair, and the scant assortment of cosmetics in her bathroom cabinet were adequate for the occasional night out.

But when Ricardo sent a beautiful beribboned box containing an evening gown and satin heels before their second date, she had gone to the Fairy Godfathers for help. Thrilled that their little girl was finally embracing her feminine side, Donny had highlighted and cut her hair, and Rufus had prescribed a regimen of expensive creams and serums. They'd steered her to an aesthetician, who now scrupulously maintained Chelsea's waxing and facials, and gifted her with a bounty of makeup in its own luxurious case.

Donny and Rufus had thrown open the door to a world Chelsea had never dreamed she'd be entitled to inhabit. But that was the effect Ricardo had had on her in their short acquaintance: it was as if he held up a magic mirror that reflected a side of her she'd never known existed. Part of it was that she'd never dared to believe that she had a right to true beauty, a right to sparkle and shine like other women.

But there was something else Ricardo had brought out in her: a dark, sensuous, even shocking vein of need that their nights together had uncovered, and which they had only begun to explore.
That
, she figured, was what was behind her disturbing dreams.

As she smoothed the mango-scented lotion on her arms and legs, Chelsea's hands stroked farther and farther up her thighs, until her fingertips lightly grazed her slick, smooth mound. Each Brazilian wax after the first had been less painful, and she was now accustomed to the lack of hair, the sensation of fabric brushing directly against her most sensitive areas.

Slowly, tentatively, warmed by the steam trapped in the tiny bathroom, she thrummed her fingers against her clit, then rubbed them up and down her pussy lips, releasing the moisture pooling there. Every night she woke from her feverish dreams, she touched herself, arching against her own hand, desperate for release. And she found it, after a fashion—if you could call the shuddering desperate spasm of sensation
release
.

But it wasn't. Not when it was followed the next morning by an aching need that couldn't be sated, that haunted her through her days, while she was closing out invoices or reviewing catalogs or meeting with clients and artists.
Damn him
—Ricardo's memory followed her even though he had left her behind.

She slumped against the cold tiled wall of her bathroom, her toes almost bumping against the vanity in the miniscule room, and parted her legs, exploring the dewy folds of her pussy with her fingertips. As evening entertainment went, it was better than going through the mail or seeing what was on Netflix. Maybe she'd even have a beer when she was done, see if the Dodgers game was on TV—

A knocking at her front door interrupted her explorations, and she hastily reached for her towel.

Her landlord was too cheap to fix the intercom on the old apartment building, and her fellow tenants weren't exactly meticulous about security. Someone must have let her visitor in, or else they slipped in after the door was left ajar. Chelsea hurriedly wrapped the towel around herself and went to the door.

She peered through the peephole, but the dimly-lit hall was empty. She opened the door a couple inches, planning to leave the chain in place, but to her surprise the door swung open the rest of the way. The chain dangled in two pieces. When she examined the links more closely, she saw that the metal had been cut, the edges jagged and sharp.

Only then did she notice the scrap of paper that had been shoved underneath the door. On a torn, plain white sheet, a short message had been scrawled in bold marker:

Tell your boyfriend if he keeps feeding the filthy dogs, next time you die.

CHAPTER FIVE

Half an hour later Chelsea was walking briskly along the most brightly lit street in the neighborhood, having slipped out the back of the apartment building through a narrow door that had once been used for deliveries. Every time she passed someone on the sidewalk, she flinched; somewhere in the night, the person who'd threatened her was out there. She took slim comfort in the cars that passed, even though the heavy traffic was the reason she'd chosen this route: if she was attacked, maybe someone would stop—or maybe, as had happened all too often in this part of town, they would look the other way and keep going, reluctant to get involved or risk their own safety.

When she got to the alley, her thudding heart slowed just a little. For some reason she felt safe here, even if she barely knew the owners of the little café, even if one was elderly and the other was portly and looked like he wouldn't survive a tug-of-war without suffering a heart attack.

She made her way down the alley to the outdoor patio, her hope fading as she reached the closed door, the hand-painted “Closed” sign hung from a nail. She hadn't considered the possibility that the café wouldn't be open, but it was nearly ten o'clock on a weeknight. A few blocks away, the bars and bodegas and nightclubs of the changing neighborhood buzzed with energy all night long; but not, apparently, the little Russian café.

Still, light seeped out from underneath the door, and she could make out the faint strains of music coming from within. She knocked, tentatively at first, and then pounding with her fist.

Moments later the door swung open. The man who stood in the doorway drying a rustic glass with a cotton towel was flushed pink, his thinning hair plastered to his scalp. An apron was tied around his generous middle. Behind him, a woman called out something in Russian.

His look of curiosity quickly changed to a wide smile. “Chelsea! What a nice surprise! You have come to join us for little
zakuska
?”

Without waiting for a response he threw the door all the way open and stepped aside for her to enter, letting loose a string of Russian. Inside, the old man who'd waited on Chelsea only that afternoon was seated at a table playing cards with an equally elderly woman in a flowered dress. Ricardo had introduced Chelsea to Alexander, the man who'd opened the door, and his father Boris. But she'd never met the woman before.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “I don't mean to barge in here and—but—”

“What is matter?” the old man said, lurching out of the chair as quickly as he could, given his age. He came over and grabbed her hands; his fingers were warm and surprisingly strong.

“I just—someone came to my door tonight—they left this.” Chelsea dug the folded note from her pocket and held it out. “I didn't know where else to go.”

Boris took the note and held it so both men could read it. Alexander looked up in alarm.

“Tonight you received this?”

“Yes.”

“Have you told Ricardo?”

“That's just it—I don't know how to contact him. I thought…”

What had she thought, exactly? That the owners of a café where Ricardo was known to drink tea would for some reason know how to find him? How did she know they would even care? She wouldn't blame them for being angry that she had interrupted their evening.

But as the two men conferred in Russian, the woman approached Chelsea and took her hand between hers. “You are Ricardo's
podruga
?” she asked in even more heavily accented English than her husband.

“No—I mean yes—” Chelsea wasn't even sure what the word meant, but she wasn't sure she was Ricardo's anything. “I mean, it's complicated.”

“Ah. Complicated.” The woman drew the word out, pronouncing each syllable carefully. “Love is always complicated, yes? Come, I bring drink.”

“No, no, Darya,” her husband interrupted gently. “We must to contact Ricardo.”

“You contact. I take care of her,” the woman said, pulling on Chelsea's arm. She allowed herself to be led, almost weak with relief that the three of them were willing to help.

Though what good would they be against someone for whom locks meant nothing?

Alexander was already on the phone, pacing with it pressed to his ear. “Ricardo! Where are you?” he demanded, then a brief pause, and then he stopped in the middle of the floor and looked at Chelsea while he spoke. “Chelsea is here. Someone was at her apartment. They left a note—yes—no, worse.” He signaled to Boris, who handed over the sheet of paper. “‘Tell your boyfriend if he keeps feeding the filthy dogs, next time you die.'”

Hearing the words out loud made Chelsea cold with terror all over again, but the elderly woman pressed a glass into her hand and pointed to a chair. “I am Darya,” she said. “Now you drink that.”

“Yes,” Alexander was saying. “Yes. I think that is best. Don't worry. We will take care of her until you arrive.”

Then he hung up.

“What did he say?” Chelsea said anxiously.

“He is very angry with himself. He will be here soon, the plane is landing in one hour.”

“The plane?”

“Yes, he is returning from his trip tonight.” Alexander looked at her quizzically, and Chelsea knew he was curious about why she didn't know her boyfriend's schedule. And she couldn't blame him for thinking that, since she'd been with Ricardo when she first came to the café—and since the note used the word.

There didn't seem to be much point in correcting him now, especially since Ricardo was coming here.

He was coming
here
. Chelsea looked down at her outfit, new emotions suddenly competing with her terror and the relief of having found someone to help. She was dressed in the first clothes she could grab, an old pair of jeans and a shabby T-shirt she liked to sleep in; she'd done nothing to her face or hair since getting out of the shower and discovering the note. Her hair was drying into a mass of waves around her shoulders, and if the Fairy Godfathers were here, they would be horrified that she had skipped a blow-dry—death threat or not.

“I should just go,” Chelsea said. “Ricardo can come to my place.”

Immediately all three of her hosts started speaking. Boris's rose above the competing voices. “It is not possible! If we let you to leave, Ricardo he will kill us.” Seeing her look of horror, he frowned, placing his hand over his heart. “Is just expression. Ricardo is good friend to us. But he trusts us take care of you. Now. What I can make for you? Nice
okroshka
? Little
pelmeni
?”

#

An hour later Chelsea had drunk a glass of sweet, honey-laced tea and nibbled at a savory meat pastry to make her hosts happy. She had done what she could with her appearance, given the paltry supplies in the makeup bag she kept in her purse. There was nothing to be done about the T-shirt, unfortunately, or the torn jeans or beat-up sneakers.

She was looking at an old photo album with Darya, admiring photos of little Alexander riding a bicycle, when there was a sharp knock at the door. Chelsea froze, her heart beating a staccato rhythm.

When Boris opened the door, Ricardo shoved past him into the room, stopping cold when his eyes met hers. His expression was thunderous, but when she gave him a wobbly smile, he relaxed fractionally and turned to greet Boris, accepting the old man's hearty hug. He shook hands with Alexander and kissed Darya's papery cheek.

Then he was standing in front of her. Should she get up? She could feel everyone's eyes on her, and she didn't trust her body not to betray the complex tangle of emotions she was feeling. Because seeing Ricardo again hadn't been what she expected. Yes, he was every bit as gorgeous as she remembered him—the flight from wherever he'd been hadn't mussed his beautiful linen jacket or his thick, black hair; only a hint of beard indicated that he'd been traveling. And her body jerked to awareness, desire beating in her blood like her own heartbeat.