Scent of Darkness (13 page)

"Come and see what's in our local paper this morning." He turned the laptop and shoved it toward the seat beside him.

She walked across the kitchen, no longer self-conscious, and perched on the stool.

The headline read, CALIFORNIA HUNTER ARRESTED FOR INTOXICATION.

Jasha stood. 'Til get your coffee. Do you want eggs?" "Til do it." She started to get up again. "Read." Hand on her shoulder, he pressed her down.

Californian Eric Lofts mas arrested yesterday after he drove to the police department and
burst in, claiming he'd been attached by a Wolf Man while out in the woods. Mr. Lofts claimed the Wolf Man changed from a wolf to a human man who broke his rifle, then back into a wolf to chase him to his car. As proof, he displayed a fresh bite on his neck. Under further questioning, Mr. Lofts admitted he'd provoked the attack when the "Wolf Man" caught him illegally shooting at one of the packs that runs the Olympic Mountains. Mr. Lofts's blood alcohol level tested at .12, and he was arrested for public intoxication, DUI, hunting without a license, and shooting at an endangered species protected by federal law. He has been released on ten thousand dollars' bail.

"They didn't believe a word he said." Ann accepted the coffee and took a sip. Jasha knew how she liked it—French roast served with nonfat milk and a packet of sweetener. They'd spent many an evening at the office drinking far too much coffee as they worked deals with wholesalers or planned their next expansion.

"I told you so." Jasha sounded insufferably smug as he broke eggs into a bowl and whisked them into a froth. "Cheese?"

"Please." They'd done this before, too—prepared a quick meal so they could keep working. "But what about the bite on his neck?"

"They probably think he pissed off someone's dog." He tossed butter into the pan and turned on the burner.

"I suppose." After such a night, and so many revelations, it seemed amazing to find themselves sliding into domesticity. But what better time to ask a few subtle questions?

"Why did the icon burn you?" She winced. She didn't do subtle well.

He cast her a sideways glance. "I'll tell you that story after we eat."

"Will I like the story better after we eat?"

"No, but with some stories, a full stomach helps. Before that, I want to know exactly, word for word, what happened at the office to bring you here." He poured the mixture into the pan and pushed the wheat bread down in the toaster.

"I told you. The Ukrainians are threatening to cancel the deal if you don't respond right away."

"Word for word," he repeated. He put the plate in front of her and kissed her cheek. "Don't look so worried. We'll get this figured out. We always do." He pulled out his stool. "We're a good team. We always have been."

"Yes. We always have been." But this was the same pep talk he always gave her around the office. And they were more than a team now. They were lovers, and their relationship would stand the test of time.

Wouldn't it?

For her intelligence and acumen, Jasha respected Ann more than any other person he'd ever met, so he knew she would draw comfort from his familiar words of confidence.

If the coming battle proved as grueling as it was shaping up to be, she'd use every bit of that intelligence and acumen. She was the ideal woman to stand at his side. She was timid, yes, but she hid an inner strength. More than that, she was loyal. She would never run.

Last night, he'd suffered doubts about her suitability as his mate.

In the clear light of morning, he realized that fate had given him the right woman to keep by his side.

And when they won the battle—and they would, somehow they would—she'd give him strong children. Maybe even a daughter.

He looked at her with an eye for potential breeding.

She was tall and would easily carry his babies. The combination of their genes would produce handsome offspring, and with her astute intelligence and his competitive business sense, the Wilders would come to rule the wine world.

She saw him watching her, and lifted her brows. "What?"

"You're much prettier than Meghan Nakamura."

"For a man with supposedly good taste in women, it took you long enough to notice." Frost dripped from Ann's voice.

"I do have good taste in women." He smiled charmingly and thought,
But I don't understand them.
Because he had no idea what he'd said to make her mad.

She ate her eggs and her toast, drank her orange juice and her coffee, refilled both their cups, then turned to him. "Tell me about you. Why are you . . . like you are?"

This morning, she couldn't yet bring herself to speak of his wolfy state, as Firebird called it. She'd back stepped into disbelief.

"Like I am?" He lifted his brows.

"You know. Part . . . half . . . sometimes a ..." She knew him so well. She knew he was chuckling at her. "You have a dog door and you don't have a dog!"

"I'll tell you about me, but first—take me through the events that brought you here. Besides the fact that you're infatuated with me, I mean." He chuckled.

Ann didn't.

Perhaps it was a little early in their relationship to tease her. It didn't feel early, but perhaps he needed to remember she'd never been intimate with a man before, and endeavor to make her feel always at ease with him—for there might come a time when her trust signified the difference between life and death. "You know my family is from Russia," he said. "My father's family are Cossacks. My mother's family is Romany. Gypsy."

Ann propped her chin on her hand and studied him. "Really? Your mother is a Gypsy?"

"My parents had to leave Russia. Her tribe didn't want her to be with my fattier, and my father's family doesn't approve of marriage.”

"To a Romany, you mean."

"Especially not to a Romany." He'd heard the story on one chill winter night when he was seventeen, a senior in high school. He'd been accepted to MET and, like all young men, anxious to strike out on his own.

But when his father had said he wanted to tell the tale only once, Jasha had listened, because the old man loved to tell stories over and over and over.

But not about his past Never about the Old Country.

"Does anyone else in your family . . . you know . . . ?" She looked anxious, as if she didn't know whether to hope he was the only one or be relieved that there were others.

"All the guys."

"All the guys? Only the guys?"

"It's complicated." And he didn't know how many more shocks she could bear. Although this morning she looked more like the unflappable Ann Smith and less like the creature created of storm and passion.

Which one was the true Ann Smith?

"I suppose it must be. But maybe that's why your mother's family wasn't happy about the marriage."

"Because they're prejudiced against guys who turn into wolves? We could march on the Kremlin and demand equal rights."

Ann still wasn't smiling.

Man, he was giving her his best stuff, and she was not amused.

Yes, this was definitely the real Ann Smith. While he found humor in the difficulties of life, she waited for him to finish joking, and put him back on track.

But man, how he hated to tell her the truth. "There's a good chance my father's family is carrying a grudge."

"Because your parents got married?" She sounded incredulous.

"Oh, yeah."

"They've been carrying a grudge for thirty-some years?"

If she only knew. "A thousand years is nothing to them."

"Why do you say that?"

"I've got insider information." Sooner or later, he'd have to tell her the whole story . . . but he didn't want to. He suspected that when she discovered what a pile she'd stepped into, she'd want to run for the hills. He wouldn't blame her—but he would have to stop her.

"Now tell me what you know about the Ukrainian deal—"

"I got a fax." Before he could pin her down, she said, "It was waiting for me when I went in three days ago.”

"The day after the Fourth of July?"

"Yes."

"Doesn't that just figure?"

"The fax said they'd decided to agree to our terms, but only if you'd meet with them by the end of the week."

"Meet with them? Where?"

"In your office."

His eyes narrowed as he weighed the possibilities.

Had the Varinskis tracked him? His dad's paranoia had always seemed exactly that—the paranoia of a stern old man with a terrible secret to hide. Yet in all his years in business, Jasha had never seen any indication that anyone from the Old Country cared about his little family.

Yet he never took chances. He'd covered his tracks. He'd hacked into public computers, removed records, made himself an enigma with no past . . . just in case.

"They want to close the deal. They want to meet you in person and get your signature," she said.

To threaten him? To kill him?

To find out his family's location and destroy them?

"What did you tell them?" he asked.

"That you were out of the office at a family function—"

If they'd been fishing for information, they'd pulled in a whale. "What did they say to that?"

"They didn't
say
anything. It was a flurry of faxes, and they made no comment about your activities.” She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for his next question. When he said nothing, she continued: "I said I'd contact you, but to please be patient."

"They refused."

"They were very gruff, yes, so I told them I'd bring the contracts and we'd go over them. I convinced them to wait."

He ran his gaze over her. Had they followed her? Had they put a tracking device on her? What else had she inadvertently told them? "Did you bring the whole file?"

"Of course!" He'd insulted his superefficient secretary. She slid off the stool, fetched her briefcase, and spread the contracts and the faxes across the table.

He looked through them. Everything was organized according to time frame. He read them with a new eye, and he heard his mother's voice as clearly as if she sat beside him.

The sons of Oleg Varinski have found you. You are not safe.

Chapter 13

The hair rose on the back of Jasha's neck. He looked directly at Ann, sitting quietly, watching him, and clearly trying to comprehend his thoughts.

If the Varinskis had followed her, she would never have known it. If they ever realized what she'd done, what she was—the finder of the icon, the woman the Madonna had chosen—she wouldn't stand a chance
in hell
of survival.

With more urgency, he asked, "Did they send you anything to give to me? A token of their goodwill? Anything?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Jasha." She sounded exasperated. "You can trust me to know whether I've been given something to bring you."

"I do.”

"Then act like it!"

"It's not that I don't trust you. I don't trust them."

"They're wine distributors." She threw out her hands in a gesture of exasperation. ''What's not to trust?"

"You're naive." She was an innocent in all this, drawn into the depths of an ancient pledge because of her loyalty to him.

"Naive? About
business?"
She half rose off the stool. "Isn't that another term for
stupid!"

He'd offended her. He put down the sheaf of papers and looked her in the eyes. "No."

"Oh." She settled back onto the stool. "Okay."

When she backed off, he suffered a pang of regret. After three years of working together five or six days a week, a chase through the woods, and one long evening of making love, she still didn't feel secure enough with him to rake him over the coals. When he took her to meet his mother, she'd teach Ann everything she needed to know about coal raking.

But for right now, he needed to get one step ahead of the Varinskis. Ann was his responsibility, and he had to save her. The world seldom saw such wide-eyed ingenuousness, and he would protect it, and her. "This morning, I thought we'd take a walk down to your car."

She blinked at his sudden change of subject. "Okay."

"See if it managed to hang on to the cliff. Then I can get a tow truck up here and you'll know what to tell your insurance company." His father always said a good lie was the right mixture of truth and seizing an opportunity. And when the old man was right, he was right. "Do you want to change?"

She looked down at her feet. "I didn't bring any walking shoes or jeans. I only have this stuff."

He looked her over. "You look great in that stuff." She did look great, a tall, slender woman with legs clear up to her neck. Last night, after the bath, he'd been restless, holding her in his arms, wanting to do more, knowing he couldn't.

She, on the other hand, had slept soundly, exhausted by the day.