Cold Silence (A High Stakes Thriller) (12 page)

Jogging back to the car, she told herself she would not allow that to happen. No matter what, Kirov would not win. She took a few minutes to watch for anyone nearby and started the car to head home. She had always made these trips with Ryan safe at home. He always knew she was going but never where. She set the silent alarm downstairs, and they each had cell phones that they talked on when she was in the car. She held her phone in her hands now, willing it to ring and knowing it wouldn't. Ryan's was already packed into the trunk.

Only determination fueled her drive home. She was going to find Ryan if it killed her. And she knew quite well that it might.

Chapter 11

Jennifer Townsend woke up Saturday morning looking horrible. Seated in front of the mirror, she spread Preparation H around her eyes and then dotted it along the corners of her mouth where the swelling was still bad. Whenever she saw the Preparation H tube, it reminded her of her sister. Her perfect sister. Tiffany Townsend Sheffield. Married to a ninth-district judge, with two beautiful girls. President of the Junior League, on the board of the country club, she was her parents' dream. One child, her father had told her mother. You can have one child. His own pending judgeship meant his wife had a lot of duties to take care of, and one child would be plenty burden on his schedule.

But Tiffany had been so easy that Emily Townsend had convinced her husband to have one more. Jennifer had been a difficult pregnancy. Emily had been sick during one of the judge's most trying times. Then Jennifer had been colicky and a miserable, unattractive child. Nothing she'd done had ever been good enough for Judge Townsend. Not quite good enough grades, never fast enough in track, never pretty enough or polite enough or funny enough. Never Tiffany enough.

So after college, Jennifer had done the least Tiffany-ish thing: She'd sought a career in law enforcement. Not just law enforcement, but the most distinguished branch, in the eyes of her father: She'd joined the FBI. And they'd accepted her. And she'd loved it from day one. The people were sharp and no-nonsense. They didn't care about hair or makeup. They wanted results. And results were something Jennifer could deliver.

But even Jennifer's success with the Bureau was deemed too pedestrian by the esteemed judge. It had taken that to make her realize nothing would ever be good enough. It still didn't take away the hurt.

But she had more than Tiffany did now. She didn't envy her sister anymore. The last thing Jennifer wanted was to be a soccer mom in worn pink sweats. That was Tiffany. Jennifer had a high-powered job in which she was an expert in her field And she was sexy. Dmitri made her feel sexy—sexier than she ever had before him. She knew there was something naughty about his family that made it a little more exciting, but Dmitri was legit. He had his own importing business, separate from his father, and he did quite well. And yet he was still rough and edgy. That was what had kept her with him. It was never dull, never what was expected, like her life growing up.

She looked back at the spots where the Preparation H had soaked into her skin. It was a trick her sister had taught her. Of course, Tiffany and her perfect husband had never had a real argument, Jennifer was sure. In fact, she'd be amazed if they ever really talked. Her husband had about as much passion as their father—zilch. Tiffany had used Preparation H in high school for those mornings when she woke up with puffy eyes from crying over some cute boy.

This was one of the first times Jennifer had used it. She looked down at the makeup bottles that covered the vanity of the second bathroom for something that would do the trick, but even the theater makeup didn't completely cover the bruise. She looked back in the mirror and leaned against the sink.

Catching one of the bruises on her thigh, she jumped back and let the side of her robe fall open, biting back a cry. She had a welt from where he'd grabbed her that was just now reaching premium tenderness.

She looked at her eye and debated ways to hide the bruise from her nosy colleagues at work. But none came to mind. It was Saturday, but the office would still be full of people. She probably should just work from home.

Dmitri was still dead asleep in bed. Too much Ketel One vodka. She had a headache herself. They'd gone to a late-night club after she left work and then had come back and gone straight to bed to conclude the making-up process. She hadn't gotten much sleep, but she was tired and sore in the way that reminded her of how incredible Dmitri was.

Normally she would have taken a hot shower and dragged herself to work, but the bruise by her eye was still too obvious. It had been impossible to even get by Mei for a couple of hours, so she couldn't risk a full day.

She twisted the cabochon rings on her finger and considered the ramifications of not going in to work. Mei could struggle through this case without her.

Screw it, she decided. She'd call in and then get back into bed with Dmitri. If he didn't have any appointments this morning, they could even make breakfast. Dmitri made a wonderful western omelet. It was the first thing he had ever cooked for her, and she still thought it was ironic that the best western omelet she'd ever had was made by a native Russian.

She picked the cordless phone off the sink where she'd left it last night, and cleared her throat before dialing Mei's number.

Mei answered on the second ring. The tiny choppy accent in her soft voice made it sound like she was on a bumpy elevator ride.

Jennifer shrugged off the irritation she always felt when she heard it. "It's Jennifer," she croaked, taking a few big breaths through her mouth to dry her throat out and make her sound worse.

"Hi," Mei answered coolly. Anyone else and Jennifer would have taken offense, but Mei always sounded like that. Until the night before, Jennifer had never seen Mei upset enough to raise her voice. The downcast eyes and soft features, her low voice, it all reminded Jennifer of Tiffany. Perfect Tiffany.

"I'm a little sick."

"Okay," Mei said, and Jennifer could feel the anger in her tone. Whatever. She didn't have to explain anything to Mei.

There was an awkward silence.

"You want me to take care of anything for you?" Mei asked, her tone softening.

"No, thanks. I'll check my messages and all from here. I'm just a little under the weather—like the flu or something," she lied. "Back and neck are sore, throat hurts, that kind of thing. I know we were supposed to work on case 297 this weekend, but I just need to rest up."

"No, you definitely shouldn't come in. Take a hot bath. Put some green tea in the bath and grated ginger; they're good for healing."

Jennifer shook her head and cleared the tears from her throat. "Green tea and ginger," Jennifer repeated.

"Yeah. It sounds funny, like you're making yourself into tea. But it works. Must be an old Chinese thing. You can drink them, too. Also, if you can get your hands on any Cucurbitaceae fruit—a lot of herbal places call it the magic herb. Chinese call it the longevity fruit. It's good too, very sweet, and will help with the pain and recovery. Come to think of it, I think I know where to get some extract. I'll send it over later. Is there anything else you need?"

The way Mei sounded, Jennifer was beginning to think she was really concerned. "No. I'll be fine. I'm here if you need anything, and I'll be checking Email. And I may try to come in later," she added, mostly for show.

"Okay. Feel better."

Jennifer felt relieved. Mei worked all the time, anyway. She could cover for Jennifer over the weekend. She didn't seem to have anything else but work, after all. Maybe she just liked working all the time. Jennifer didn't care.

Jennifer had started to hang up when she heard Mei's voice.

"Hello?" Jennifer said into the receiver. She traced eights across and around the bruise on her thigh, testing its sensitivity and imagining herself in a bath with grated ginger.

"Yeah, I forgot to tell you that your sister called late last night. I picked up your extension because it was so late and I thought it might be an emergency."

Jennifer halted, her finger pressed into the bruise's sorest spot. Her sister, Tiffany, would never call. Even if one of her parents were dead, surely it would be Tiffany's husband who would deliver the news. Tiffany would be too distraught, and probably too caught up in the details of the funeral.

My sister, Jennifer repeated silently.

"Did you hear me?" Mei asked.

She lifted her finger off her leg. "Yeah. Sorry. I thought I heard the doorbell. Did she leave a message?"

"No. Just that she'd try you again later."

"Okay," Jennifer said casually, the thoughts now racing in her head. That definitely didn't sound like Tiffany. Tiffany would have left a long-winded message, screeching and cooing in all the right spots and sighing when the note taker didn't write fast enough. Or was she wrong? Could it have been Tiffany?

She hung up and stared at the phone. She had no idea what her sister's number was. She crossed through the bedroom and looked at Dmitri's tanned chest, eager to get back in bed beside him. Curiosity pulled her to the small spare bedroom she used as an office. She found her briefcase and reached for her phone when she felt her beeper go off on vibrate mode.

She lifted the pager and scanned the screen. Three new pages. She scanned the first two, which were Bureau business from yesterday, then got to the third:
91105453.

"Jesus," she whispered, cupping her hand over her mouth as soon as she'd spoken. Only one person would know that code. How could it be? She'd been gone for years.

The eight numbers burned into her mind until she could see them imprinted when she blinked. Was this some sort of joke?

The 911 for emergency, the 0 for a break, and the last four digits of her badge number. It had to be her. Megan Riggs had paged her.

Jennifer hit the two buttons to erase the message as she felt her shoulders droop. She fingered her rings and thought about what an incredible surprise Megan Riggs would be for Dmitri. He would be thrilled. Finally the guilt would be gone. They could appease his father and put it to rest.

She turned back and nearly ran into Dmitri.

She gasped and laughed as she touched his chest. "You scared the shit out of me. I called in so I don't have to go to work today. I was just coming back to get into bed with you."

"It sounded like you were sneaking around," he replied, his face set in a frown.

She ran her fingertip down his chest. "Look who's cranky today." She raised the beeper in her hand. "Just checking my messages."

Still frowning, he took the beeper from her hand and put it back in her briefcase. Then he took her hand. "Come back to bed. It's too early."

"I'm coming," she told him in Russian. She thought about mentioning Megan Riggs and decided to wait. She didn't want to get his hopes up, but if the message really was from Megan, things were definitely looking up.

He sank onto the bed and pulled her into his lap with a heavy thrust. The bruise on her leg knocked against his knee and she let out a groan. Dmitri took it for excitement and rolled her onto her back, spreading the robe with strong hands and cupping her breasts. She let her head fall back as she arched toward him.

When she looked up again, he had shed the white cotton Calvin Klein boxers and was coming toward her.

She grinned at his body, his passion protruding.

He reached down and grabbed her buttocks and lifted himself onto her, thrusting himself inside in a deft motion that took her breath away.

For the moment, she pushed her pathetic sister and Megan Riggs from her mind and let Dmitri fill it as he was filling her body.

She and Dmitri were meant to be. All they needed to do was help his father and Dmitri swore they would be free of it. Jennifer had no problems with that. Megan Riggs deserved what she had coming. She never should have betrayed Jennifer's trust.

Yes, she and Dmitri would be together, and getting Megan Riggs would merely be icing on their wedding cake.

Chapter 12