Scent of Darkness (32 page)

She wasn't stupid. She knew he was showing her that no matter the circumstances, he could provide for her, and well.

Yeah, yeah. She "was determined not to be impressed—but she was.

After dinner, they went home and watched some television or read . . . and went to bed together.

As a strategy,
every damned minute
seemed pretty successful. No matter how hard she tried to hang on to her resentment, he kept charming her. She kept forgetting about Zorana's damned prophecy that had made Jasha give her an insulting proposal of marriage, and remembering only how pleasant he was to be with, and how knowledgeable, and all the reasons she'd fallen in love with him in the first place. Plus as the discomfort from her period faded, she had those additional memories. . . .

Everything about their mating had been primal, exhilarating, violent in its lust, tender in its passion. His hands on her breasts, his weight on her body, the slow thrust inside, the quickening beat . . . last night she'd dreamed of it, and him, and woke up on the verge of orgasm. She'd lain there trembling, trying to calm herself before he woke up. She knew him. If he realized how horny she was, he'd take advantage.

But apparently she'd succeeded in hiding her arousal, because the bastard hadn't stirred.

The one time she could have pretended she was asleep and dreaming and not responsible
_/
and he hadn't come through.

Face it. He was undependable.

But she'd paid him back. She wore suits to the office, suits with skirts demurely hemmed at the middle of her knees, and pleats at the bottom, and sometimes a slit at the back. Today she wore a black jacket and a pencil-thin skirt, and under the jacket she wore a hot-pink satin blouse. She'd caught him looking at her legs with a hunger that gave her a little of her own back.

Oh, and she always put makeup on the mark on her back. Just in case.

At least that part of the week had been fun.

"What do you suggest?" he asked.

"Huh?" She stared at him. Was he asking if he should propose? Or if he should seduce? Or what restaurant they should go to tonight?

"Should I call Boris and talk to him?"

"Oh." Thank God she'd said nothing dumber than
Huh?
"The Varinski you killed said they hadn't tracked your parents, and I think we can assume that's true. But somehow they've nailed you and your brother—"

At the mention of Rurik, his eyes got that red glow deep inside.

The discovery at Rurik's dig had hit the networks even before Rurik had landed in Scotland—the opening of a thousand-year-old tomb filled with gold had fit every news editor's needs on a slow news day. And when
someone
blew the tomb sky-high, and Rurik and the photojournalist Tasya Hunnicutt disappeared, the reporters had gone mad with excitement.

And continued, "So taking the initiative and making the call might impress these guys. They're certainly into posturing."

"Animals—and men—spray to mark territory. I have the better stream right now, because I can tell Boris
I
killed his sons."

"Yes." She loved it when they tossed ideas back and forth; she always had. These ideas were so much more important than any they'd ever dealt with before, and she knew he valued her input. "He knows his killers haven't checked in, but he may not even know they're dead."

"Depending on whether he has surveillance on me, he may think we're all dead. So if you agree it's a good idea, I'm going to call Boris."

"I agree, but it's the middle of the night there right now."

Jasha picked up the phone and smiled with that toothy grin that always presaged trouble for his challengers. "All the better."

Chapter 31

Boris cut the connection and clutched his wiry hair in his hands.

Two Varinskis were dead.

And one his own son.

He had lots of sons; one more or less didn't matter.

But Gavrie had been the Varinskis' best tracker, eager and willing, good with electronics, yet he knew how to use a wolf predator's most important tool, the nose. He hadn't been too bright, but he'd been a powerful warrior. Yet why would the boy need those skills?

The sons of the degenerate Konstantine couldn't defeat a true Varinski.

Yet somehow this spit-wad son of Konstantine's had defeated Gavrie and left his body to be found and desecrated by the American police. Boris was no closer to knowing Konstantine's location so he could kill him and all his spawn—and reverse the decay of the great Varinski family.

True, he had given Jasha news to break a brother's heart and he knew he'd shocked the boy, but he also knew the boy didn't believe him.

For good reason. Rurik still lived.

But not for long. Not for long.

Boris wanted to roar, to go out in the great room and kick Varinski ass, but what good would that do? Most of the boys would sit there, their mouths hanging open, not understanding his fury. The ones who did understand would snigger and mock, and his son Vadim would watch him coolly and try to judge if now was the time to strike Boris down.

Power was slipping between Boris's fingers—and why?

Because of Konstantine and his bitch Gypsy. Because Konstantine betrayed his family. Betrayed everything the Varinskis stood for—murder, terror, and profit. For how could a family remain united when brother killed brother in defense of a mere woman? For the sake of . . . love.

Boris spit on the floor, then shouted for one of the women to come and clean it up. While she worked he paced, paying no attention to her flinching and her moaning.

At first, when Konstantine had killed his father, Boris and his brothers thought only of revenge. Boris had marshaled the forces of the Varinskis to track Konstantine and his wife—Boris spit on the floor again—to kill them both. Kill them hideously, slowly, painfully.

But Konstantine was too clever for them. The couple had disappeared off the face of the earth.

That had led to trouble. Boris's brothers and nephews had rumbled that Boris had failed them. Boris had had to assert his dominance through treachery and struggle. Thirty-five years ago, his mind and his reflexes had been clever and quick, and within a year he'd been firmly in command.

By then Konstantine's trail was cold, as was Boris's mind.

Let the traitor go. He didn't matter. What did matter was moving the Varinski operation into the modern world. Faxes, computers, tracking devices—the old leaders didn't like them, and old men don't change easily, but Boris was young. Boris had the chance to remake the family into a modern corporation with tendrils of terror that encompassed the whole world.

Even now, Boris thought it was a good plan.

Except that slowly it became obvious that the devil was displeased. The deal was unraveling.

First one son was born with a limp. Then another was missing a finger. Then one turned, and he "was not a wolf, or an eagle, or a tiger. He was a ferret, a small, sneaky, disgusting rodent with sharp teeth and beady eyes.

Never in a thousand years had such a change occurred.

Boris killed him, of course, before anyone knew.

But it was only the beginning. Within five years, other sons turned/ and they were snakes, and weasels—predators, yes, but not noble predators.

They made Boris shudder in revulsion.

Not all of the boys born were lesser beasts. But more all the time, and some of them, once they changed, never quite changed back.

Worse, for the first time, the ravages of time struck at the Varinskis. The boys' teeth rotted. The old men's fingers grew stiff. Uncle Ivan sat in the corner, blind, with a white film over his eyes, and that was the scariest thing of all.

For Uncle Ivan saw things, things no one else could see. Last year, in the dead of winter, he had said things to Boris. ...

Ivan's bent old fingers scrabbled to grab the front of Boris's shirt. With surprising strength, he pulled him close, and with breath that smelled of rot and a voice deep and unlike his own, he whispered, "For a thousand years, the pact with me has held firm. But now, Boris Varinski, it is failing. Every day hell's fire comes closer, for Konstan-tine and his whelps continue on this earth. Eliminate them, and you save the pact. Fail, and I will torment your soul through eternity." Ivan's eyes glowed, not red, like a true Varinski's, but blue like a coal.

Boris shuddered and pulled away—and knew he'd been handed an ultimatum from the devil himself.

The final straw occurred when Boris took a pack of the young ones hunting. They tracked their prey, a couple with a young son they'd been paid to remove, and during the fight, Boris was shot in the leg. He howled with pain, then laughed, then came home to mend.

The wound had healed, but not as quickly as wounds had in the past, and it left him with a twinge in his hip.

A twinge. A twinge! Varinskis did not suffer twinges. They healed at once. It was part of the pact—or the pact as it had been.

After a month, Boris went on a solitary hunting trip—for a doctor. He'd found one in Minsk. The weary young doctor obviously had never heard of the Varinskis, or didn't believe, or didn't care, because he took an X-ray and curtly told Boris he had arthritis.

Arthritis! He, Boris Varinski, the leader of the Varinskis, had arthritis! His grandfather had lived to be 127. It was said the great Konstantine himself lived to be 150.

And Boris . . . Boris was only 53.

Boris had killed the doctor, of course, and his only pleasure was seeing the man's futile struggles, seeing his eyes bulge and his cheeks turn purple, then black, and the light of life fade from his lying, stupid face.

Then Boris had gone home, secretly took his medicine, and told no one.

But always Vadim watched him, his eyes alight with malice.

Did the boy know? How? It wasn't possible that he had followed Boris . . . was it?

Lifting his head, Boris stared out into the yard where weeds grew above the fence and broken vehicles littered the ground, and his brain raced along the familiar track.

The Varinski troubles had started when his uncle Konstantine had grown soft and let that Gypsy bitch possess him.

So it followed that when Boris destroyed Konstantine and his whole family, then the devil would be pleased once more. Then the sons would become as they were before—whole, cruel, and noble. Then Boris would be well without twinges of age that foretold his downfall. And Vadim would slink back into the pack, his gaze downcast and his air respectful.

Yes. That was what would happen.

And now Boris knew how to bring Konstantine out of hiding.

Picking up the phone, he made a call to the Varinski stationed in Napa Valley.

In his office, Jasha sat on his weight bench and worked his biceps over and over until his mind cleared of anger and he could think once more.

Ann was right. Jasha had caught Boris off guard.

But Boris had caught Jasha off guard, too. In his heavy accent, he had said, "So I hear your brother has disappeared from Scotland. Perhaps he has met with an accident, heh? So dangerous, this archaeological excavation, and so unfortunate when bad things happen. Of course, should we come across his body, we'll ship him home to you. After all, you're relatives."

Jasha didn't believe him; they hadn't heard from Rurik since the explosion, but his brother was not so easily killed.

Yet the fact that the Varinskis were tracking Ru-rik's activities meant they'd wormed their way much further into the Wilder secrets than Jasha had realized.

He needed to increase security at his home and his winery.

Ann stuck her head in the door. "How did it go?"

Most important, Jasha needed to keep Ann safe at all costs. "I've got to make another call, but I'll tell you about it later."

He watched as she nodded and backed out to give him privacy.

Tell her about it later?

Hell, he'd be lucky if she was speaking to him later.

Chapter 32

At five o'clock, Ann slipped the laptop into the case, turned to Jasha, and said, "I'm going to spend some time with Kresley. I'll come to your house later." She always called it
your house
—it was a small defense in the battle between them. She didn't expect Jasha to say anything except,
Okay, I'll meet you at home.

Calling it
home
was his return volley.

Yet tonight, when his gaze met hers, his eyes were narrowed and rimmed in fire.

"What's wrong?" She thought she knew. The phone call to Boris had left Jasha intense and quiet. She recognized that attitude—he had instigated a plan he considered necessary, but of which no one else would approve.

She didn't realize
she
was the one who wouldn't like his plan.

"Go to your condo and pick up your cat, and bring him home.” he said.

His tone made her bristle, but she kept her voice even and reasonable. "Kresley doesn't like you."