Prime Target (4 page)

“That the cat doesn’t like you? Not particularly.”

Everly tilts her head to one side. “The cat will come around, but I was speaking about the robbery.” Her gaze flicks to my shoulder and lower still to my thigh, as if she can still see the bullet holes. “I don’t know if I could ever come back here if it had happened to me.”

“Yet, here you are,” I say dryly, and she blushes a little.

She hefts the box and takes it to her usual spot, sitting down and curling her legs up beside her. “I won’t have an order for next week.”

A sort of panic sets in, my heart beating in staccato at the thought of her not making her weekly visit. Though we haven’t made much progress—okay,
I
haven’t made much progress—in our conversations, I can’t help but wonder how lonely my store would be without her in it. Actually, I do know. Six days a week, I know how it feels. It’s fucking miserable.

I’m
fucking miserable.

“Why is that?”

“Out-of-town guest.”

Male or female? It hadn’t occurred to me that Everly could be in a relationship with anyone, because every Wednesday at precisely four o’clock, Everly Andrews is mine.

The bell on the door rings and once again, Everly’s eyes widen, but this time, it’s in pure terror. “Roman…someone’s here. Maybe you should call the cops,” she says, her voice shaky. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out pepper spray and a cell phone. “Here.”

Pepper spray versus a gun?
Jesus.

Quickly, I check the monitor, taking note of the face before striding to her.

Carefully, I kneel beside the chair. Her scent washes over me, lightly floral and completely feminine. “You are perfectly safe. We’re perfectly safe. The man who just walked in is an old friend of mine.” Actually, he is more than a friend. Growing up, he was my mentor—a man who taught me far more than my own father. I trust him with my life.

Everly exhales, her body trembling. I take her hand in mine, reveling in the contact. She’s just as soft as I remember, her skin just as satiny and delicate. “Let’s put away the pepper spray, shall we, before it goes off on its own.”

She rewards me with a tremulous smile. I allow my thumb to pass over a knuckle, and her breath hitches. She leans forward slightly, mahogany waves spilling over her shoulders. Our eyes meet, and I’m helpless in this moment. The last time she was this close to me, I’d been shot.

Now, I’m perfectly healthy and perfectly willing to take her to my bed. Because of her, I haven’t been with anyone in months.
Months
. The thought of using another as a replacement for her leaves my mouth as dry as ashes in a dead hearth.

“Your friend,” she says, her lips inches from mine. Plump and pink.

Lickable.

I want to devour her, starting with that mouth.

“He’s browsing.”

She covers my hand with hers, but not to pull it away. Instead, she squeezes, and my dick gets hard. I close my eyes. This is no way to react to her still-present fear, but my body knows who’s touching it.

“Have lunch with me on Friday.”

My eyes pop open. “Pardon?”

“Lunch. You and me, we’ll eat and talk about books and non-shooting things. We won’t mention bullets or hospitals or nightmares of seeing a friend covered in blood,” she says, her smile quivering at the corners.

“You had nightmares?”

She nods. “I didn’t think I could ever come back here again.”

“Why did you?”

A little shrug and she looks away. I turn her face back to mine with my free hand. Heat arcs between us, my thumb dusts her lower lip, and her mouth parts. I dip my finger in slightly, and her tongue touches the tip before she pulls away.

A groan escapes before I can stop it. My sweet
solnyshko.
“Love, tell me why you came back.”

“Because my friend, who was
shot twice
, came back. If you can be strong and brave, Roman, then so can I.” Her hand moves from mine, and she starts to dig around in her purse. “But I don’t want you to be as afraid as I am, so I bought you something.”

There’s nothing I can say in this moment. I’m utterly gutted and transfixed by her, by her words. By her genuine concern.

By her pronouncement.
My friend.

“You bought something for me?” I finally manage as her hand reappears, fingers clutching a medium-sized envelope.

Worrying the side of her lip, she says, “Self-defense, gun safety, training, and permit classes—I can’t remember the exact name for it, but the gift certificate covers it all. They teach everything.”

“I can’t—”

“Please take it. We can take the classes together.”

It nearly kills me to hear that sort of invitation from her. Petrov’s revenge has marked her. It has affected Everly in a way that I would have never allowed, given the choice. Only that bloody bastard took it away from me.

“Or not,” she adds.

“I will accompany you, so that we can learn together.”

Beautiful eyes light up, but she’s still a bit wary. “You will?”

He will pay for that wariness, even without a contract. “I promise.” I draw an X over my heart, where it beats for her and only her, then I take the envelope and tuck it into the side pocket of my trousers.

I bring her hand to my lips, pressing upon it a kiss that I long to replicate in far more erotic areas. The side of her neck, the backs of her knees…her inner thighs as they part for me. As she digs her fingers into my shoulders and moans my name while I pleasure her.

I slash the image from my mind, willing my traitorous body to ignore the surge of lust that threatens to overwhelm and break down every last bit of iron will I’ve erected.

Of course, none of this can ever happen, no one can ever know the depths of feeling I have for her—physically or emotionally. Both are dangerous.

Regretfully, my heart feels as though it’s about to burst out of my chest. I pull away, breaking the sweetest of contacts I’ve had with another in a very, very long time.

She brushes my hair back from where it has fallen over my forehead. I want to lean into her touch, to let her linger longer. I can’t remember the last time I was touched like this. Maybe when I was a child, before my mother sent me to live with my grandfather.

“There. Now you look like the Roman I know,” she pronounces. “Seller of rare books and procurer of romance novels.”

You don’t know me at all
, I think sadly.
I bring death even while I right wrongs
. “Thank you.” I rise to my full height and brush at the invisible lint on the cuffs of my sleeves. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my friend.”

“Oh,” she says, as if remembering we aren’t the only two people in my shop. Her earlier terror is gone, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go easier on Petrov when I find him. Quite the opposite actually. “You go on; I need to leave in a few minutes anyway. I’ll see you Friday night for our first class. It’s at seven, so we can eat before we go or after. Or…you don’t have to eat with me at all.”

Like a date? And what happened to having lunch with her?
Stupid man—you can’t have lunch with her. You can’t have anything with her at all, beyond these walls. Meeting with her in the park was fucking madness.
“What if we pick the same restaurant? Shall we sit at separate tables and pretend not to know one another?”

She tilts her head to one side again. Adorably, I might add. “Are you flirting with me, Roman?”

I catch sight of my customer leaning against the counter, his inquisitive eyes missing nothing. He’s amused by us, I realize.

Suddenly, I can’t respond in kind to her. It feels wrong. My instincts are warning me to stop this flirtation.

I shrug. “I’m not sure of my dinner plans yet. I’ll meet you at class, yes?”

“Sure. Whatever. See you at class,” she answers with a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about lunch this week or whenever. I, ah, forgot I have plans with my out-of-town guest.” A lie. The air vibrates with it. I’ve just hurt her. Again. There’s no way she’ll push for more.

“Brilliant.” I focus my attention on the man at the counter, watching Everly gather her things in my peripheral vision. She looks defeated.

She turns suddenly, her mouth opening like she has more to say, and my body tenses. Then she gives herself a little shake, and her mouth snaps shut. She hitches the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, scooping the box of books into her arms before barreling toward the front of the store.

The door opens with a bang, from her hip hitting against it. The cat I found in the alleyway slips out with her, flicking its tail proudly. I stand there, watching as both of them disappear from view.

“W
omen. Always wanting
what they can’t have, eh?” Viktor Chapeyev knows about the shooting and Everly’s role in saving me. He
always
knows.

At fifty-five, he’s still just as intimidating as the first time I met him as a boy of twelve. Same white-blond hair, same black eyes, and same charming smile. A great many have met their Maker after seeing Viktor’s visage. Sixteen years later, none of that has changed.

“She’s spooked from Petrov’s handiwork and wants me to take self-defense classes with her,” I explain.

Piercing, black eyes assess my words. “She knows nothing?”

“Less than zero,” I mutter as he passes a book to me.

“I’m interested in selling this,” he says.

I turn it over and read the title.
The Secret Lives of Kings
. “Royalty,” I say, nonplussed.

Besides the implication of the title, there are only three copies of this 1835 tome in the entire world. When it was published, kingdoms came tumbling down, because it created such a stir. Newspapers, pamphlets, and posters copied the scandalous truths of those in power, and it had gone, for lack of a better term, viral.

If I truly ran this store as a business, I’d be gobsmacked right now.

“
Viva la revolucion,
” Viktor says with a smirk, and so begins information dissemination. “It’s a fairly recent regime change, though the family is an old one. Hence…” He pats the book.

Before Snowden revealed what he knew and the entire world became aware of the far reach of the NSA, the
Bratva
embraced technology, the easy flow of encrypted information from continent to continent. Now, many—including me—have returned to the old ways, with the occasional use of technology to help.

“Ah, yes. How long have they reigned?”
How much time do I have?

“Not long—two months.”
A month to study my prey and formulate a plan. Then a month to execute and get paid. Standard.

“What are they known for?”
What’s the crime?

“Parties, community service, and lavish spending.”
Prostitution, intimidation, and bankrupting their citizens.

“Sounds rather common, don’t you think?”
Method of execution?

“Not at all. However, I read that the prince avoids feather pillows. Fear of birds or something like that.”
Smothering… A very personal vendetta the financier has against this prince, then.

“Hopefully, someone will help him conquer it. In the meantime, I’m more than happy to purchase this book from you—for a fair price.”
I accept.

We go through the motions of haggling and settle on a price.

“You drive a hard bargain, Roman.” Viktor nods. “You know, it’s not good for a man to be alone. As your friend, I feel it’s my duty to give you some advice.”

Warning sirens blare in my head. “And that would be?”

“Go out with Ms. Andrews.” He waves a hand in the air. “Be a young man in springtime.”

“It’s autumn,” I say flatly.

“Whatever the season, no one is guaranteed anything but death.”

My death or hers? “I appreciate your advice, but—”

“No buts.”

I clench my jaw, my fists, and hold my entire body perfectly still, even as I want to smash in his face. He’s threatening Everly, but for what reason? I’ve assured him she knows less than nothing and I’ve agreed to the deal. “The attention might be unwanted.”

“The attention will be welcomed. People will wonder if they never see you out and about.”

Message: My cloistered life is not acceptable anymore to the
Bratva
and Viktor is delivering the news himself. For that, I am thankful, but at the same time I am furious with my family.

They want me to blend in, while all I want to do is disappear once I pay my debt to my grandfather for not executing my mother when she showed up, unannounced, with me in tow. For giving me a life and attention when all that my father showed me was death and indifference. Not that my grandfather is innocent—far from it.

But he’s not a megalomaniac like my father. And he believes family comes first. Always.

I force my jaw to relax and bare my teeth at him in a parody of a smile. “I’ll ask her to dinner Friday night, before class.”

“Very good, Nikolai. Very good.” With another tap on the cover of
The Secret Lives of Kings
, he leaves my shop, whistling.

I pick up my phone and dial the number I’ve memorized, but never used.

“Hello?”

“Everly? This is Roman.”

Silence and then, “Did I leave something behind?”

“No.”

“Did you forget that I didn’t order anything this week?”

“No.” Yes, this is a perfectly normal conversation to have with the woman you want to spend more time with. Perfectly, bloody normal.

“Then I’m not sure… Do I owe you money?” she asks, and I want to bang my head against the nearest wall.

“No,” I bark into the phone, and then take a deep breath. “I would like to invite you to have dinner with me Friday night before our class.”

“Oh,” she breathes.

Is this a good
oh
or a you-had-your-chance-but-I’ve-moved-on
oh
? “I could collect you around six?”

“Collect me?” she asks, clearly bewildered by this turn of events.

“Pick you up at your place,” I clarify.

Silence again. I drop my head into my free hand, positive she will say no. “That sounds fine. My address is fifteen Magnolia Way—it’s an old house split into a duplex, so I’m B. See you in a couple of days.”