Cold Light of Day (11 page)

He gave her a terse nod.

She needed to talk to Angel, to apologize, but a little time to recover and cool down might be a good thing. She hoped the bastards hadn’t hurt her. She needed to make this stop. Now. Before anyone else was injured or terrorized. “I guess my plan is to go to the Russian Ambassador’s home, beg forgiveness, and hope they decide to leave me alone.”

“Seriously?
That’s
your plan?” He was looking at her like she was an idiot. “To turn yourself in and beg for mercy?”

“If I go home they’ll find me—even if I run away for a few weeks or months they can afford to wait me out. Then I’ll be right back where I started, minus a job and most of my savings. I can’t abandon my mother and father right now either.” She wouldn’t be hard to find in Colorado. “The only way I can think of to end this is to apologize and promise I won’t do it again. Dad always said the Russians liked people to grovel, so I’ll grovel.” The idea that her dad was dying was worse than the thought of having to apologize to the man who she believed had a hand putting him in prison. Much worse.

“You are fricking unbelievable.”

Her spine stiffened. “Why thank you so much, Special Agent Lazlo. You’re fricking unbelievable, too.”

She turned on her heel and marched away, pushing through the main doors. Most women probably fell at his feet, blinded by the action hero build and chest full of medals. They hadn’t been arrested or insulted by the man.

Outside the frigid air took her breath, but the scent of freedom made up for the chill. The freedom might not last long.

She hunched her shoulders as defeat pressed down on her. Time to pay the piper. “I need to call a cab.” She dug into her pocket, searching for her cell phone before remembering she didn’t have it. In her rush to escape, she’d left it with the other guy, Alex Parker. No way was she going back inside, just in case they changed their minds about releasing her. She’d have to walk and see if she could flag down a cab.

“I’ll give you a ride,” Lazlo offered.

She backed away. “You don’t have to do that. I’ve caused you enough trouble for one night.”

“Lady, you’ve caused me enough trouble for a lifetime.” A wry smile crossed his features, but there was something in his eyes…a calm patience that told her he was used to getting his own way.

She batted her eyelids dramatically. “You’re such a charmer, Special Agent Lazlo. I don’t know how the ladies resist you.”

“And yet they continue to do so.”

“Maybe that’s why you were so quick with the handcuffs?” she suggested with an arched look. “To stop the ladies running screaming at the earliest opportunity?”

Amusement lit his eyes. “Hadn’t thought of that, but thanks for the tip.” Before she had time to refuse, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and propelled her toward the SUV he’d left in the secure parking lot.
Fine
. He lifted her into the front seat. Gritting her teeth against being manhandled, she drew in a deep breath to calm herself. Getting a ride would be the most expedient way of getting to 16th Street so she should just be grateful.

Sure.

He was eye-level with her. Their faces so close she could see the thickness of his lashes around those mesmerizing eyes. She tried to control the shivers that wracked her body. She didn’t know if it was cold, fear, or this man’s nearness that affected her. Probably a combination of all three. “Thank you.”

His smile turned wolfish. “You’re welcome.” He slammed her door and she jolted. Next she heard him opening the trunk and unzipping something. He spoke briefly on the phone. By the time he got in the driver’s seat, he’d removed his flak jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The thick cords of muscle ran the length of his forearms, and flexed when he gripped the steering wheel. Her eyes flicked over him. He wasn’t just good looking, he was perfect.

The scent of clean sweat mingled with his cologne—warm, male, virile.
Dammit
. She fidgeted uneasily. Why couldn’t he have a paunch and some flab? Maybe a broken nose or a unibrow, with a severe case of BO?

It’s just pheromones, she reminded herself. Basic biology. But her pheromone receptors were doing a happy dance and her breath became tight in her chest as her pulse picked up.

Thank God she was wearing enough clothes to disguise the rest of her body’s unwanted arousal, but from the glint in his eyes he knew exactly what he did to her. She looked out the window, but his reflection stared back at her in the glass and her breath caught. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong man.

Definitely, wrong woman.

“I need a coffee, how about you? Might be your last chance?” The words were nonchalant, verging on callous.

Her gaze swung back to his as her mouth dropped open.
What the…?

“Hey.” His shrug was almost jaunty. “I need coffee. You’re determined to do this. I’ve been ordered to stand down. I can’t stop you, but at least I can buy you a drink first.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. He probably thought she deserved whatever she got and maybe he was right. But she didn’t want to go to the Russians, dammit. She didn’t want to grovel before Dorokhov. “I don’t see that I have any alternative.”

“You could run away? Go under the radar?”

“They’ll find me. Unlike the FBI, I don’t have unlimited resources. Plus, I like my job. I’m good at it.”

“Pity you didn’t think of that beforehand.”

“My dad is
dying.
I know he didn’t do all the things he was accused of.” Her voice broke. Embarrassed, she looked away.

He started the engine, adjusted the temperature, pulled away, and swung onto 9th Street without making any more snide remarks. It took her a moment to get her emotions under control. She was tired, scared, defeated. She didn’t need him to rub her nose in her failings.

After a few minutes he found a coffee shop that was still open and he pulled up outside, leaving the engine running, the heater blasting. “What shall I get you?”

It was the middle of the night, she was tired. Caffeine might help.

“Hot chocolate would be great, thanks.” She dug into her wallet for some change but he was already gone. She dropped a five-dollar note into the change holder on the console. She swiveled to see if there were any cars following but, except for the few vehicles that were already here when they arrived, there was no one on the roads.

She doubted the Russians would tail them from FBI HQ. They could afford to be patient. She couldn’t.

Lazlo came back a few minutes later and handed her a large cup. “Server gave you whipped cream. Hope that’s okay.”

She’d drink gasoline as long as it was warm. “That’s fine, thank you.”

He sank heavily into the leather seat, blowing on his coffee to cool it. “I’m so exhausted I could pass out.”

“I’m sorry for keeping you up.”
Jeez
. The guy was seriously lacking in tact.

“That was a crazy stunt you pulled back there. You should have just seduced Raminski and bugged his bedroom instead.”

The idea sent a shudder through her bones. “I’m not the seductress type. More Angel’s forte.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” At first he stared straight ahead. Then he looked her in the eye. “You could have seduced me with very little effort.” The flatness of his tone told her it was too late now.

The thought that she’d stood a chance with a guy like him sent a shot of something sharp and aching through her chest. Hot guys like Lazlo didn’t date nerd girls like her. But something about his expression, the memory of the way he’d looked at her when she’d stood on the sidewalk outside the embassy, told her it might have been true. And she’d messed it up, along with everything else.

It would have been messed up anyway, as soon as he learned her identity, so the point was moot. But the reminder of that earlier connection was unsettling.
What ifs
and
maybes
rolled through her system like breakers on a beach. To cover her disquiet she took a large swallow of hot chocolate. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You’d have had a hell of a shock if you’d made it to third base.”

He choked on his coffee.

Laughter felt good. It felt honest.

She smiled softly. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in my problems, Special Agent Lazlo. I really am sorry.”

“Call me Matt and, trust me, I figured that out.”

“Matt, short for Matthew?”

Something about her question amused him. His eyes crinkled at the outer corners. “Matthias. My father claimed to be a Bulgarian Roma and named me accordingly.”

“You come from gypsy stock?” Her eyes searched his face for some trace but she found none.

He shrugged. “My dad was an asshole of dubious heritage. My mother is a British aristocrat, which pretty much makes me a mongrel. He married her hoping to get his hands on a fortune and dumped her when her parents cut her out of the will.” His expression changed. Grew tense.

“Does that make you a lord?” She tried to lighten the atmosphere by teasing him.

“No, but you can call me ‘sir’ if you like.” His grin was wicked before he obviously remembered who he was flirting with. He sobered. “The title probably went to some long lost cousin.”

“You don’t know?” The heat of the SUV was making her sleepy. Combined with the adrenaline crash, it made her yawn. “Don’t you watch
Downton Abby
?”

He raised a quizzical brow as if he didn’t know what she was talking about. “Her family disowned her when she married my father. Dad dumped her when she got to the States, but they never reached out to help her. I never felt the urge to look up dear old granny and grampa.”

“That’s rough.”

“Not really. Mom was a fighter.” He sipped his coffee. Obviously in no hurry to leave yet. “She did great. She found work in a school and raised me on her own. She resented the hell out of any implication she needed a man to support her.”

“Where does she live now?” She’d meant the question as a stall tactic, but realized she honestly wanted to know more about him. She drank more chocolate, grateful for the way it melted the chill inside her bones.

“Near me.” He cleared the grit from his throat. “She suffered a brain aneurysm two years ago and never made a proper recovery.”
Oh, no.
“She’s in a nursing home. Hasn’t woken up since the second stroke.” He said it in such a controlled manner she knew it affected him greatly.

She knew how hard it was to have a parent who was ill and whom you couldn’t help, no matter how desperately you wanted to. She wanted to place her hand over his but didn’t have the nerve. “You’re looking after her. That’s all you can do.”

“What else would I do? I’m her son, not some asshole husband,” he growled, then sent her a rueful smile. “Sorry.”

“Do I sense a little repressed anger? I know a good therapist if you need one.”

“Ha. Because you’re so balanced? Give me their number I’ll make sure they didn’t get their license out of a cereal box.”

“Funny.” A massive yawn stretched her mouth wide. She covered it with her free hand. “Oh, sorry. I’m just so tired all of a sudden.”

Matt took the cup from fingers that felt clumsy and wooden. He slipped it into the cup holder. “Close your eyes for a few minutes. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

“Okay.” She tried to keep her eyes open but the harder she tried the heavier her lids became. “I’m sorry about your mother,” she mumbled, wanting him to know that she’d heard his pain and she cared despite everything that had happened.

“Just get some rest.” His voice was rough.

A five-minute catnap was all she needed. She clenched her fingers in her lap and prayed Dorokhov didn’t want any grisly mementos. She wasn’t a brave person. She tended to retreat in the face of danger. Everything about tonight had been out of character and look what it had gained her? Trouble. Great big heaps of trouble. No way was she ever trying anything like this ever again. Hopefully Dorokhov would embrace a little Christmas spirit and maybe let her clean floors for a week. Whatever it took to go back to her normal, boring life.

*     *     *

It was two
AM and Andrei Dorokhov sat staring at the fire, sipping expensive brandy. Natalie had gone to bed an hour ago, irritated by his bad mood. She didn’t understand. He hoped she never understood. The cell phone in his pants’ pocket rang. He shifted and pulled it out. He didn’t know the caller, but answered it anyway.

A man’s voice. Easily recognizable even after fourteen years of aggravated silence. “Last time we spoke I held a knife to your throat and made you promise never to return to the States. Did you forget so easily, Andrei?”

“I forget nothing,
blyat
.”

“You’ve caused quite the shit storm. You just couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Your goddamn Russian ego couldn’t take some perceived slight to your manliness. She’s just a kid looking for answers and you try to take her out? What did you think she’d discover if she bugged you?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Andrei suggested slyly.

There was a long pause. “It was over and done with. Why did you have to come back?”

“Are you losing your nerve, old friend?” Andrei taunted the other man.

“I’m no friend of yours, asshole.”

He wasn’t sure which of them had more to lose should the truth come out, but neither wanted it to happen. “You forget all the fun we had spinning those tales.”

“It was never
fun,
” the man gritted out.

“The photographs suggested otherwise.” Andrei slid in the reminder like a knife, but instantly regretted it.

“You’re not the only one with photographs, Andrei.”

Sweat formed on his back. “Those were staged and you know it.” He’d been drugged and disgusting things had been done to him. It made him feel ill to even think about it. One day he was going to gut the man on the end of the line, and enjoy doing it.

“Didn’t look staged from where I was sitting. Obviously there are some hellish good actors out there because even asleep you looked like you were enjoying it.”

Andrei felt gore rise up inside him.

“Anyway,” the voice was cheerful now, “we all know how homophobic the politburo was. I don’t figure the Russians have progressed much in that area, but maybe I’m wrong. Hey, you’ll probably find a lot of friends in—”