Limbo Man (17 page)

And . . . God help her, she liked him. At the moment they were partners. Which meant that Seryozha was using her for his own ends, just as she was using him. They were plunging together down the rabbit hole, and Vee could only pray he knew what he was doing. The alternative was an Armageddon that reduced her personal worries to infinitesimal.

Turn off the angst, Frost. Sleep’s knit up the raveled sleeve and all that. Back to the job.

A hand cupped her bottom. “Hungry?”

“Uh . . . starving.” Damn him—all he had to do was touch her and her nerve endings went off like bottle rockets.

“Then get a move on. Thirty minutes ’til supper arrives. You’ll find boutique boxes on the couch.”

Thirty minutes to get showered and dressed didn’t leave time for what she had in mind. “I suppose you’re one of those people who can tell time even when they’re asleep,” Vee grumbled.

“Naturally.” He patted her panties in what she’d swear was the most patronizing gesture possible. “Unless you wish to dine nude, you will get up now. Oof!”

Vee bit her lip, hoping, too late, that her fist hadn’t opened one of the wounds on his chest. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but the mission was too important for Seryozha to be slowed down because she had lost the notorious Frost temper. Fortunately, the bedcovers must have cushioned the bl—

She was on her back, pinned to the bed by a very large body flattening her into the mattress. And he was laughing, damn him. Laughing.

Or maybe not.

“We do not have time for games, Valentina. Or temper tantrums. You are fortunate I allow you to sleep and eat. Now give me a kiss and say you are sorry.”

“Your accent is slipping,” Vee whispered sweetly.

“
Govnó!
You dangerous woman, Valentina Frost. Most dangerous.”

He kissed her.

Chapter 12

Two seconds. Just a friendly good-girl-it’s-time-to-get-up kiss.

Five seconds. His lips refused to disengage.

Ten. His body pressed harder against hers. Blood rushed to his groin.

Bombs. Multiple bombs. Disaster worse than 9/11
.

With one of the nastier Russian “mother” profanities, Sergei rolled off the bed, springing to his feet with a scowl, to find Vee staring at him with a look almost as grim as his own. The pit yawned, they both knew it. No matter what orders she’d had, they couldn’t risk being distracted. But what he’d seen in her eyes, what he’d felt as she melted into him, twining her arms around his neck . . .

Perhaps he was wrong . . . perhaps tackling the elephant in the room head on would make them stronger . . .

And perhaps whoever had the bomb would have a change of heart and toss it into the nearest ocean.

He knew why this thing that loomed between them was called an elephant. It was all-powerful, overwhelming. Demanding their attention before they could move an inch.
Govnó!
He’d never let sex rule his life, he wasn’t going to start now.

“Dress in box,” he barked. “Put on now or no time for supper. Meeting friend in”—he made a show of peering at the bedside clock—“forty-seven minutes.”

She was quick, the blonde American FBI agent, as she returned dressed to kill, as the odd American idiom went. And,
Bozhe moi
, she was stunning. He’d not forgotten to buy the items she would need to go with the high-waisted black dress—high heels, a purse just large enough to hold her smaller gun, minimal lacy panties he had no trouble picturing beneath the clinging silk knit. Had she put on the matching bra? He couldn’t tell. Probably not, since she’d told him not to buy one.
Stubborn
was her middle name. The necklace and earrings were Svarovski crystals set in twenty-four carat gold. Nice, very nice. Eye candy, head to toe. A suitable companion for Sergei Tokarev, who was known for the superior quality of his female companions.

He gave her an abrupt nod of approval and caught her flash of disappointment before the haughty professionalism of the daughter of the Deputy
Chief
of Homeland Security took over. Evidently, she had expected a more romantic reaction when all his attention was focused on keeping them both alive. Unfortunate. Which was why his romances were always fleeting.

Supper had arrived while Vee was dressing. Any camaraderie they had developed over the past few days was noticeably absent while they worked their way through filet mignon, baked potato, house salad, and a rich merlot. As Sergei gazed with approval at the crisp amber topping on his crême brulée, he asked, “Blackjack—you play?”

“Why don’t we simply converse in Russian, Vee responded sweetly, “so I don’t have to endure your fractured English?”

For the benefit of whoever was listening, or perhaps watching, he should slap her. For the breach of rules, he should toss her out on her ear. End of game. But as the remark of a feisty new girlfriend, he couldn’t fault her. And Tokarev was known for his soft spot for women, many of whom spoke Russian, so what the hell . . .

“Naughty, Valentina,” he responded in Russian. “You will pay for that later.” He repeated his question about blackjack.

“Enough not to lose too badly.”

“Good. I like blackjack.” He rolled his eyes, promising an explanation later, then addressed himself to his favorite desert.

Later
came while they were standing in front of the elevators, ignoring the call button. “We will parade through the casino,” Sergei said, still in Russian. “Give everyone a good look. I am well known here. Then we will have a brief argument—I do not wish to play blackjack. I leave you there and go to my meeting. It will look as if I am off to play poker, as I am known to prefer it.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t go alone. Someone’s trying to kill you!”

“I must. Petrovski will talk only if I am alone.”

Vee’s mouth snapped shut over whatever she was about to say. She stared. “Petrovski? Arkadi Petrovski?” she inquired, sharpening her are-you-crazy stare to a look that said,
Now I know you’re crazy
.

“You know Petrovski?”

“I was well briefed. He’s head of the East Coast
Organizatsiya
. Your boss. You’re walking into the lion’s den.”

“Not quite.” Sergei shook his head. “There are two factions. One wants me dead, yes, but Arkadi is my friend.”

Vee drew herself up to her full height, plus three-inch heels, and tried to stare him down, even though she still had to look almost straight up. She could be very funny, his Valentina. He almost made the mistake of smiling.

“I’m your minder,” she told him, “and I say it’s too dangerous.”

“No one asked you,
dushenka
. Only I know what must be done to put an end to this. That is why the bad guys are after me. You have no choice but to do as I say.”

Glowering, Vee stepped back, toed the carpet, hands fisted at her sides. He knew she wanted to lash out, shout at him, but she was too much of a professional to do it. Her only choices were to do as he’d ordered or stage the scene of all scenes and have him do something drastic like knock her unconscious.

“I am sorry,” Sergei murmured, “but tonight even Arkadi must do as I say. My turn. I am become Boss, you understand?”

I am become Death
. Vee recognized the phrasing and knew it wasn’t accidental. Sergei was too good a linguist to echo Oppenheimer’s words by accident. She understood. Silently, she nodded.

Sergei pushed the elevator’s Down button.

Just inside the casino’s vending concourse, Sergei paused with his back to the wall. Before him was a sea of brightly lit shops and kiosks, selling everything from jewelry, high-end shoes and purses to children’s toys and tacky tourist souvenirs. Anything to make sure visitors spent whatever money they had left after the gaming tables and slot machines did their jobs. On the far side of the concourse, in stark contrast to the bling, loomed a cavern so dark it looked like a black hole next to an exploding star. His goal. The lounge where non-gambling patrons could buy a drink. For gamblers, drinks were free.

Was Arkadi already there? How many men had he brought with him? How many were watching him now? And were they all Arkadi’s men? Since he’d set up the meet, there had been time for word to spread. For the guns to come out. If certain factions wanted him dead, even an array of eager shoppers wouldn’t stop them.

But for some strange reason—in spite of what happened in New York—he had a feeling the bad guys wanted him alive. It was one of the reasons he needed to speak with Arkadi. Boris Leonov wanted his job, most particularly the brokering of the bomb deal, a sure stepping stone to the hierarchy of the
Organizatsiya
, with Arkadi Petrovski’s job clearly on the horizon.

But Leonov couldn’t get to Square One without the U-236 or access to a bomb tech who understood antique nukes. Sergei had both. No matter which way Leonov turned, Sergei Tokarev held the trump cards. Which was probably how he’d ended up in the East River. Torture gone wrong.

But had it gone wrong? That thought haunted him. Had he lost his usefulness because he told them something vital, something now lost in the void . . .

Never
. Time to get his head out of useless speculation and face the here and now.

Sergei wound around the tightly packed kiosks swarming with shoppers who seemed determined to spend their last dime. He climbed the steps to the raised lounge and plunged into the gloom, moving straight to the bar, giving his eyes time to adjust. With his back to the solid mahogany, he scanned the room, locating Arkadi’s three bodyguards—all men known to him—before finding Petrovski alone at a table in the corner. So far, so good.

As Sergei approached, Arkadi Petrovski reached for the vodka bottle, obviously intending to pour drinks into the two shot glasses sitting on the table. His hand froze, the bottle plunked onto the table with a crack all too close to the sound of a .22. Heads turned, the bodyguards reached for their guns. Impatiently, Petrovski waved them away. He took a second, firmer grip on the bottle and poured.

Sergei slid onto the bench seat next to his boss. Both of them had their backs to the wall. Arkadi Petrovski was a solidly built Russian, who looked like the well-fed Commissar he once had been. Except that now he was much better dressed in a custom-made three-piece suit that would have made a Cosa Nostra don proud. He sported an impressive mane of graying hair, keen steel-gray eyes, and a tie that made Sergei wince. As usual.

“You will forgive an old man his shock,” Petrovski said. “The tales are true then. You should not be alive.”

Sergei had a sudden flash of seeing himself in the mirror on the airplane. That was what . . . two days ago? Not much time for improvement. No wonder Arkadi was shocked. “You should have seen me two weeks ago,” he returned easily, as if he actually remembered those days in the hospital. “But as you see, I am alive, if a bit battered.”

Petrovski nodded, looking solemn, and handed him one of the shot glasses. “
Zadróvyeh!
” The two men slugged back their drinks in one gulp. A necessary ritual before talk could begin. “Should I add
‘Za lyoobóf
?” Arkadi inquired slyly, raising one shaggy brow.

“You are a dirty old man,” Sergei replied, pouring a second round. “
To love
then, and to your spy network, which never fails to impress.” They drank. “And speaking of love, perhaps you can spare Vanya to keep my friend company at the blackjack table. I would not be happy if anything happened to her while we talk.”

One glance and the bodyguard Vanya was beside them. “You will keep an eye on Sergei’s woman, the so-beautiful blonde who is currently playing blackjack. No harm is to come to her.”

Vanya winked at Sergei and left.

“You are mad,” Petrovski snapped as the bodyguard was swallowed by the brilliant light outside the lounge. “Get rid of her. That woman will be the death of you. If you don’t have the stomach for it, I have plenty of men who do. This is a problem I can take off your hands.”

“Touch her and you die, old man.”

“Two weeks in captivity and they’ve brainwashed you? I don’t believe it,” Petrovski scoffed. “Sergei Tokarev is too tough to crumble, even to a beauty like that one.”

“But, as we both know, I am not Sergei Tokarev,” Seryozha countered smoothly.

Petrovski’s hands clenched. His fist came close to slamming into the table. “You are a rogue, a madman with his own agenda. For all these years I have given you cover. I should have purged you from the
Organizatsiya
long ago. And if you were not the son of my only sister,” he added more softly, “I might have done so. Our blood tie demands that I listen to you, even though I know I risk everything. And for what? So the Americans will not lose one of their cities? Must I care when they are the only country in the world to actually
use
a nuclear bomb?”

“It is a matter of honor,” Sergei hissed through gritted teeth. “And morality. Just because the Americans dropped two bombs to end a war that had tainted every corner of the globe—a war that killed twenty-three million of
our
people, must I remind you?—doesn’t mean anyone should ever do it again.”