Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (23 page)

 “Hello, Miss Pereira, this is Agent Monteverdi, part of the FBI’s organized crime . . . I mean—you know who I am. Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that while the FBI cannot issue you a formal commendation, I would like to personally express my gratitude to you. Your diligence and hard work has allowed us to dismantle and prosecute a significant number of members of the Bratva who operate along the eastern seaboard underneath Vladimir Drakonov, and with the information you’ve uncovered, we’ll be setting our sights for the Bratva’s very head. I understand you are now employed with the Beckwith Consulting firm, and while I cannot, as a government official, provide any sort of endorsement for such firm, I will not hesitate in my personal interactions to recommend your services. Thank you.” 

 “Hey, Jael, it’s Todd. You got my flowers, right? My card? Well, I’m sure you’re still pretty out of it, but I wanted to let you know that Helen Ng has agreed to work with you. Like, in a big way. And, uh, after that profile in the student paper that Fiona Callahan wrote on you, let’s just say . . . uh, business is going to be good. Really good. So I wanted to—I wanted to ask if you’d be my partner. Uh—in the
firm
, I mean. My business partner. You can run the investigative branch of the consultancy. I think you’d be perfect for it. What do you think?” 

I missed a lot while I was in the hospital. 

The Eagles won the Thanksgiving Classic, even without Sergei, thanks to two goals in the third period from Marcus Wright. By the end of the game, the police were already waiting to take Vadim Karparov, the Forge player Vladimir had hired to injure Sergei, into custody for questioning. Ravik Ranacek got picked up as well, I hear, prompting a deeper probe from the league into the question of just how many hockey players might have ties to organized crime.  

Then there was the FBI’s probe itself. Over a hundred arrests across the East Coast and rising. Without Vladimir at the head of his wing of the Bratva, everyone he commanded feels little compunction to keep his secrets. The agency’s tearing out all kinds of illicit operations at their roots—gambling, match fixing, drug smuggling, arms smuggling, kidnapping, sex trafficking, money laundering—you name it, Vladimir was into it. And it’s all burning to the ground. 

I got an A grade on my internship, a B- in Criminal Justice Procedure, and an A in Advanced Translation. I was formally excused from the final exam in Translation, and got a week extension for the Procedure final. 

Sergei, I’m told, recovered fully from his trauma and came off the Eagles’ injury list in the first week of December. 

I agreed to a brief interview with Fiona Callahan, the nosy reporter from my college, while I was at the hospital, recovering from the surgery to reattach my bicep and repair some other minor damage from the gunshot wound. I explained what I could about my involvement in Vladimir’s demise and his organization’s dismantling, but I tried to keep Sergei out of it. He never wanted to be a part of this in the first place. After saving his life, I figured that keeping his name—and details of his real personality, not the role he plays—out of the press to the extent I could, would be the icing on the cake. 

I don’t expect Sergei to ever forgive me. But maybe, just maybe, I can repay my debts. 

It’s the first week of Winter Break. I’ve been home from the hospital for three days, and Beth and Monique invited themselves over to help me study for my Procedure final and pack for the move. Now that I’ve got a decent cash flow coming in through Todd’s consulting firm, I’m moving into a modest one-bedroom closer to downtown DC and the school campus. Secure entrances, fitness center, granite countertops, and enough room that my twin bed won’t have to serve triple duty as couch and dining table. 

I don’t have much crap to move—clothes and toiletries, mostly—but Beth and Monique are doing all the packing while I work one-handed on the case files for Helen Ng. My right arm’s still in a sling, so I’m having one hell of a time trying to navigate all the spreadsheets Helen sent over while I hunt for evidence of money laundering. 

Forensic accounting. Yep. Living that glamorous Clarice Starling life. 

Beth holds up a plastic container from inside my mini-fridge, crusted over with mold. “Do I even want to know?” 

I wrinkle my nose. “Well, I wasn’t exactly anticipating a two-week hospital stay.” 

Monique looks up from the cardboard box of shoes she’s sorting through. “Oh. Looks like you have a visitor, Jael.” 

I freeze mid-pivot table.  

“
Zdravstvuitye!
” I hear Beth greet someone in her bluegrass-tinged Russian. “Come on in! Yeah, she’s right inside.” 

Monique hops to her feet. “We’re just gonna, uh . . . go get some coffee.” 

I shut the laptop, sit upright on my mattress, and turn toward the entranceway as Monique and Beth scamper out the door, tugging on their coats as they go. 

Sergei Drakonov ducks—he literally has to duck—inside the doorway and steps into the middle of my one-room shithole. He’s wearing a red plaid Henley with dark-wash jeans; his hair’s messy and damp, like he came from showering after Eagles practice. I notice the fading green of a bruise on his forehead, but otherwise, he looks healthy as can be. 

Better than healthy. He looks incredible. Like some dark pall has lifted from him, and he can move easier, breathe easier, smile easier now. 

And he is smiling. Smiling as he looks over me, in my yoga pants and house sweater, my hair messy and knotted in a bun on top of my head. I flush deep red as I realize how lame I look next to this Russian god. Not that he seems to mind. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back, looking as nervous as I feel. 

“‘Love can’t be contained in any phrase,’” he quotes, gaze steady on mine. “‘For love, all we can do is sigh in secret.’” 

Sergei Yesenin’s “Kiss.” One of the first poems I translated for class. “‘A kiss’s name cannot be uttered,’” I quote back. 

“‘From love, no pledge can be demanded. Both joy and pain follow in its trail. To call you mine, I can whisper only once we have torn away that veil.’” 

I tuck my knees under my chin and will myself not to cry. 

Sergei steps toward me, then drops to his knees before my bed, so we’re roughly eye to eye. “Everything you did,” he says quietly, “you did to protect me.” 

I manage to nod as a lump rises in my throat. 

“I understand why. Honestly, I do. Because I kept things from you for the same reason. The details of my brother’s work. What he was like.” 

“It didn’t work,” I say. “For either of us. The secrets only hurt us both.” 

Sergei reaches for my face, fingers brushing against my cheek. He’s so cold from being outside, yet I can feel my skin heating from his touch. I turn my head to the side, just slightly, so I can press my lips against his fingertips. 

“I’m so sorry, Jael.” He brings his other hand to my face. “I should have listened to you.” 

I bite my lower lip. “I should have told you. I’m sorry, too.” 

“You saved my life. You went above and beyond—everything you’ve done just proves that you’re a good person inside. Even if you didn’t tell me when you should have, even if it didn’t follow the rules, you cared. You fought for what you believed in.” 

I laugh softly. “And everything you did proves to me that you’re stubborn as shit.” 

He laughs too, eyes crinkling into half moons. God, he looks so gorgeous when he’s happy. “This is true.” 

“But also—resilient. You didn’t have to stand up to Vladimir, but you did. You fought for what was right, too.” 

Now it’s his turn to darken. He leans in closer, still cupping my face in his hands. “I wanted to make you proud of me.” 

My forehead angles toward his until they come to rest together. I’m staring right into his eyes, feeling the warmth of his breath on my skin. I’ve missed this. But more than this—I’ve missed
him
. How easily he makes me laugh, how he makes me feel safe no matter what threatens us both. And now, I’m not pretending. I’m not recording anything or reporting back to anyone. It feels so unbelievably freeing to have a moment alone with him all to ourselves. 

“I’ve always been proud of you,” I whisper. “And I never stopped loving you. It was never just for show.” 

“I’ll never stop loving you,” Sergei says. 

He kisses me like a fresh, cleansing rain, washing away all my fear and frustration with just the soft touch of his lips to mine. He smells of warmth and cedar—like a cozy winter night. And kissing him feels like coming home. 

Sergei leans back, a huge grin stuck on his face, showing off that missing tooth. “Do you think . . . we can try? Try again?” he asks. “No more secrets. Just you and me.” 

That does it—a single tear squeezes from the corner of my eye as joy swells in my chest. “I think we can do just that.” 

He kisses me again, deepening it this time, tongues tangling together, his fingers snagging in my hair. A fire burns inside of me as he slips one hand around the back of my head, cradling me against him. I want to taste every inch of him—remember the way he feels. Learn it all over again. The fingers of my left hand graze against his back, trailing along the hard cords of muscle as I press him closer to me. 

“Oh—” Too close. I jerk back and gesture toward my right arm in the sling. 

“Shit. Sorry.” Sergei releases me, grinning sheepishly, and lowers his hands to my thighs. “I guess we’ll have to get creative, huh?” 

I raise one eyebrow. “Creative? What exactly do you have in mind?” 

His blue eyes sparkle as he presses his lips to my forehead. “Something like this.” He lowers his mouth to kiss the center of my chest, just above the neckline of my undershirt. “And this.” Then he drops to his knees again, kneeling before my bed, and gently, carefully eases up the hem of my shirt. He drags his tongue in a slow circle beneath my navel. “Maybe this, too.” 

I suck in my breath, heat flaring between my thighs. Yep. I’ve
really
missed this. “My friends will be back soon,” I warn him. 

He arches one eyebrow, looking up at me from between my legs. How he can look so filthy and so utterly innocent at the same time. “Oh, I don’t think they will.” 

“How can you be sure?” I ask, as he slips his fingers beneath the waistband of my yoga pants. I lift my hips up to help him and say a silent prayer I’m wearing cute underwear. 

But then it doesn’t matter—he strips that away, too. 

“Because I told them to give us some time.” 

I start to object, but then his tongue grazes the edge of my clit, and I forget all reason as pleasure blossoms through me. 

“Oh, fuck,” I pant, rolling onto my back. “You feel so incredible.” 

He laughs to himself as he parts my folds with his fingers and traces his tongue in a careful circle. I grip his hair with my good hand and close my eyes. Even in this dingy basement, even with one arm in a sling, Sergei never fails to make me feel like the sexiest woman alive. Like I’m worth the effort. Like I want to make him feel, too. 

His tongue makes short, quick strokes, leaving me gasping for air. I clench my hand into a fist around his hair as my hips buck off of the mattress. The climax rushes through me, a torrent of sparks and lust and elation. I slump back down, smiling and dazed.