Dangerous Passion (12 page)

“And Shota?”

“Yessir.”

“I want dinner in fifteen minutes.” Of the four chefs, two were always on duty. His men often ate on the premises. There would be excellent food ready at all hours.

“Absolutely, sir.” Shota sounded relieved at being on familiar terrain. The cooks could provide a superb meal for fifty at the drop of a hat.

“Good man,” Drake said. “And one more thing.”

“Sir.”

“From now on, until I order otherwise, you are the only person who enters my personal quarters unless I invite them up. You bring in the food and the other things I asked for, personally. Have someone help you get it to the door but you are the only one to cross that threshold, is that clear?”

He knew Shota would read it as testimony of Drake’s faith in him, and it was.

“Perfectly clear, sir. And…” Drake could almost imagine Shota blushing. “Thank you, sir.”

Drake switched the intercom off. He got up and went to a sideboard holding liqueurs and cigars in a humidor. The cigars were a monthly courtesy from Fidel and he idly wondered what would happen when Fidel went. No doubt the shipments would stop. Times changed. They were changing right now.

He poured himself a stiff glass of Courvoisier XO and sat down on the couch with a sigh and took a long slug.

What excellent medicine alcohol was. Unless you were a slave to it, as most of the Russians he knew were, it was one of life’s great pleasures.

He sipped, enjoying everything about the moment. Extreme danger did that—heightened his senses, made him aware of the fullness of life.

The fire crackled pleasantly, the flames licking upward in intense colors, bathing the room in a warm pink glow. Two floors below, chefs were readying his dinner, which he was certain would be superb. The Courvoisier was a warm pool in his stomach, radiating heat outward.

He sat and basked in the firelight, savoring the clean taste of the cognac; safe in his fortress, he emptied his mind of all cares, all worries, and waited for the most beautiful woman in the world to come out of his bathroom.

How long would it take for him to shed this life? To effectively die? A week? Two weeks?

Whatever, as the Americans said.

At some point she was going to have to get out of this sinfully, outrageously luxurious tub. It was simply too wonderful, wallowing in the water, feeling the strong jets massaging her aching muscles.

She’d looked, but there had been no essential oils, so it was just unadorned New York water, which was fine.

Actually, though the bathroom was beyond sumptuous, she was astonished at the lack of personal care products.

Drake was obviously well-to-do. Filthy rich, actually. He could afford every skin care product in the world. But looking for some oil to put in the tub, all she’d found was masses of thick, blindingly white towels, something like fifty unused toothbrushes, ditto toothpaste, a year’s supply of a very ordinary soap, shampoo and an electric razor. That was it.

Amazing.

A few months ago she’d briefly dated the guy in her bank who took care of investments. She’d been called into his office, wondering whether she’d done something wrong, only to find that the bank had been tracking her swelling account. Their investment expert, Lawrence Kelsey, had wanted to explain a number of investment opportunities guaranteed to make her money grow.

In the end, it all seemed like a vast amount of work and more of a distraction than anything else. But at the end of the session, while shaking her hand, he’d held it tightly and asked her out to dinner.

And, in a moment of weakness and loneliness, totally against her better judgment, she’d accepted.

Dinner had been at a posh Japanese restaurant, where the food was excellent. She’d been able to concentrate on the food because Lawrence had kept up a running commentary on his banking career, with a little hour-long detour on his new plasma TV. She hadn’t had to do anything but stay awake, nod occasionally and enjoy the fantastic tempura.

She’d even accepted going back to his apartment, fully understanding that they might end up in bed together, testimony more to her worry that she’d forget what sex was like than to his powers of seduction. She’d asked to use the bathroom and had found herself simply openmouthed with amazement at the vast array of skin care products and cosmetics and eau de colognes in an enormous white lacquer vanity. She’d felt quite ashamed of her own miserly collection. A quarter of an hour later, pleading a vicious headache, she was on her way back home.

Drake had nothing like that. For all the sybaritic luxury of the room, it was definitely a very masculine man’s bathroom.

She tilted her head back over the rim and emptied her mind, feeling her muscles relax slowly, one by one. Someone had set the jets at maximum and she relished the gentle pummeling. Her mind drifted. She might even have fallen briefly asleep, because she suddenly jerked upright, noting that her fingers had become as wrinkled as prunes.

She felt no sense of hurry, though. Drake hadn’t given her any feeling that he expected her to be quick, which was good. She was overwhelmed with exhaustion and found she could only move slowly.

The white towels were the thickest she’d ever seen. Once she’d toweled herself off and dried her hair, she noted the neatly folded black outfit on top of a cupboard. Opening the soft material out, she saw what a gi was. One of those pajama-like outfits she’d seen in martial arts movies. The material was thick silk.

Grace looked at her clothes on the floor. Muddy, bloody and ripped. Including the panties. Just the thought of putting any of her filthy clothes back on repelled her. With a shrug, she donned the jacket and pants. He was right, it was perhaps the only thing of his which could possibly fit her. In the movies she’d seen, the outfit’s sleeves were three quarter length, but this covered her hands. She turned the sleeves up and wrapped the jacket around herself. The pants were too long, but not long enough to trip over. The drawstring waist was perfect. She contemplated her sodden shoes and opted to stay barefoot.

Okay. Time to leave the bathroom.

She realized that this time had been like a little respite for her. There were so many things she had to face once she went out into that bedroom, including Drake and this insane attraction he seemed to hold for her.

She knew nothing about him. The intense spike of fear she’d felt in the elevator had abated, but there was an underlying unease. No one knew where she was and she now realized she
couldn’t
go home. In every way, she was in Drake’s power. Being attracted to him didn’t make things better, it made them worse.

Gathering her courage, she placed her hand against the white door and pushed.

Drake heard the bathroom door open. Steam escaped from the bathroom, curling around Grace in silver tendrils as she stood in the open doorway.

Christ, she was beautiful.

And scared.

He stood, a male’s instinctive reaction in the presence of a beautiful woman.

Her entire body language spoke of distress. Eyes huge and fixed on him, not really knowing whether he was friend or foe, she was curled in on herself, seeking comfort from herself. She tucked her hands under her armpits to hide the fact that they were shaking. She was barefoot, one foot curled over the other. Her feet were extraordinarily pretty—pale, narrow and high-arched.

Drake walked up to her and untucked a hand from where it was clamped against her side. Slowly, watching her eyes carefully, he brought her trembling hand to his mouth.

Her eyes widened.

He smiled at her. “You’re looking a little better. I’m glad. I’ve had some food brought up. You’ve had a bad shock and some warm food would do you good.”

Drake released her hand and held himself utterly still. It was the only thing he could do. She must be feeling as if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole, only not into Wonderland but into Horrorland. He was lucky she wasn’t screaming at him, calling the police.

Drake knew it was absolutely essential that he gain her trust and then bind her to him in all ways. This long journey they were undertaking together had to begin now. The only way he knew to take that first step was to remain still, opening himself to her.

Drake had spent a lifetime scaring scary men. At first out of desperate self-defense and then later—when he grew in strength, prestige and wealth—as a tactic. He was good at it. He was strong, smart, rich. Utterly ruthless. Those qualities gave off an aura that usually was enough to tell any man confronting him to back off. The kind of man who didn’t perceive it was usually stupid, inevitably on the losing end, and often ended up dead.

Intimidation was second nature to him. He lived in a feral world. He knew how to stay on top by being more feral than most. None of his weapons, though, were any help here, with Grace. He didn’t want to intimidate her, he wanted—needed—to seduce her.

Step number one in seduction—make sure the woman doesn’t fear you.

So he stayed perfectly still, moving only his lungs, holding her hand carefully. Not too loose, not too tight. He was close enough to smell her, but not so close he was invading the buffer space every animal needs.

They stood there, Drake watching her calmly, utterly still. Slowly, her breathing evened out and she straightened. At some level, deeper than words, she realized she didn’t need to guard her vital organs, which is what she’d subconsciously been doing in holding herself so tightly.

His stillness reassured her. Someone who means you harm gives off minute signals, muscles bunching and readying themselves for attack. He deliberately relaxed every muscle, cleared his mind of all thoughts, and made himself open to her, something he never did with anyone.

It worked. The vein beating in her neck took on a slower rhythm, her hand relaxed in his.

“Come,” he said finally, tugging lightly. “Dinner is waiting for us. Let’s go before it gets cool.”

Grace stood for just a moment longer, watching his eyes. Whatever it was she was looking for, she found it. “Okay,” she said softly, and stepped forward.

Drake looked down at her feet and frowned. “You’re barefoot. I’m sorry I don’t have any slippers that would fit you. Maybe one of the maids has a pair of slippers.”

She smiled slightly. “Don’t worry about it. The floor is mainly rugs and I’m used to going barefoot in my house. I’m okay.”

He didn’t like the idea, though he had to admit that he enjoyed looking at her pretty, bare feet. But she might catch cold. He made a mental note to tell Shota to add several pairs of Ferragamo slippers to the list of things to buy her.

They walked down the big hallway together. He didn’t release her hand and she didn’t tug it free. Drake was so taken by her presence at his side, by the feel of her soft hand in his, that he was almost at the door of the dining room before he realized that it was the first time in memory that he’d walked hand in hand with a woman.

Such a strange and intimate connection, in some ways more intimate than fucking. You can fuck a woman you don’t particularly care for. Easy. But you don’t hold her hand. Holding hands signifies an intimate connection, one of trust and affection.

They weren’t there yet. But they would be. They had to be.

“Go on,” he said, holding the door open for her. She looked up at him and, reassured by what she saw on his face, walked into the room.

Shota had outdone himself. Through his amazing radar, Shota had understood that this wasn’t a business dinner. He’d brought out Drake’s best china and what looked like all his silverware. Drake had no idea what make the china plates were. When they’d arrived in Manhattan, he’d simply told Shota to buy the best, and he had. Gleaming, delicate white plates with silver rims, crystal glasses, creamy white candles in silver candlesticks. The candles were lit. Together with a few low lamps, they were the only illumination in the huge room except for the enormous crackling fire.

The table looked appealing and intimate, not at all what it looked like when set for his solitary dinners. When he ate here, it was for fuel. This looked like a little ceremony.

It must have appealed to the artist in her, because as he watched her, a small smile curved her lips. “Very pretty,” she said softly.

He nodded. It
was
very pretty.

No one had ever drummed manners into him. He’d grown up on the streets, fighting his way to the top. No one had ever told him how men are supposed to behave in society, with ladies. His formative years had been spent with warlords, generals and rebel leaders. Later, he befriended a few alcoholic war journalists and the odd rough CIA operative, none of whom had any manners worth speaking about.

But Drake knew how to observe, how to blend in. So he knew that he was supposed to accompany Grace to her chair, pull it out and wait for her to sit before sitting down himself. He’d seen it done. He knew how it was supposed to go.

But it wasn’t to conform to some abstract society ideal that had him walking her to her chair and pulling it out.

It came utterly naturally, instinctively. From the deepest part of his being. It gave him enormous pleasure to take her to his table, to make sure that she was comfortably seated before taking a seat himself. It felt absolutely right. Nothing to do with manners and everything to do with gut-deep instinct.

His cooks had outdone themselves. Warm and nutritious, he’d asked. Apparently that meant soup. Soup that was…green, he discovered as he filled her bowl.

“I have no idea what this is.” He filled his own bowl and waited until she picked up her spoon and delicately tasted the soup. “I hope it’s good. My cooks seem to know what they’re doing. Usually.”

“It’s delicious,” she said softly. “And just for the record, it’s watercress soup.”

Watercress. Jesus. He knew every gun that had ever been manufactured. Every hold in every martial art. This was beyond him. What the fuck was watercress?

“An herb. It grows wild.” She watched him with a small smile, answering his unspoken question. “Try it. You’ll like it. It’s really very good.”

He did. It was.

They were both hungry and ate their way quickly through the food. Drake knew the food was all good, fantastic even, but he could hardly taste it. He was completely taken up with Grace Larsen. At his table, by his side.

In the past year that he’d taken extraordinary risks just to see her, telling himself he was an idiot, he’d never thought he’d actually ever be sitting beside her, except in the middle of the night, in his dreams.

He was a fast healer, almost preternaturally so. He felt much better already, almost normal. He could feel strength returning minute by minute to his body, he could feel the blood circulating more strongly in his veins. Alas, most of it went straight to his cock.

He’d deliberately put on tight, stiff jeans, hoping it would act as a sort of a chastity belt, but it wasn’t working. Just watching her eat, move—hell,
breathe
—excited him.

Shit.

He had enormous mental discipline but mind games weren’t working. Not when he had Grace less than a foot from him, his gi gaping slightly over her breasts, showing the dips and shadows of her breasts, her delicate collarbones visible.

He clenched his fist on the table. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch her that his hand itched. He understood his cock, trying to punch its way through stiff denim. His cock wanted to reach out and touch her, too.

Actually, his cock wanted
in
her, in the worst way. It was as if he’d never had sex before, it was so intense.

They were making polite conversation, about the food, the tableware, the candlesticks—he could barely keep his mind on what they were saying—and all the time his head was flooded with images of her in his bed.

He wasn’t even fantasizing about foreplay—no, his head had gone straight to the main course. Fucking. Fucking Grace. Who was—whoa—not more than a foot away from him. Close enough for him to smell her, a delicate fragrance under the sharper smells of the food and the wood from the hearth. Close enough to see how fine-grained her skin was, what a lovely glowing color she had, as if sprinkled with pearl dust.

She favored loose clothing, so all the times he’d seen her at the gallery, he had to guess at what was underneath, but now, dressed in his gi, which she’d had to cinch around herself tightly or the whole damned thing would fall off, he could see exactly how she was made.

Perfectly. That’s how she was made.

She’d fit perfectly in his hands, fit perfectly under him. He could see them on his bed, long pale slender legs hugging his hips, arms around his neck, as he pumped inside her. She’d be soft there, too. Wet enough to take him, so that he could slide easily in and out of her. His hands—where the fuck were his hands in this scenario?

Holding that narrow waist, right at the sexy curve before it widened to her delicately round hips? But he also wanted to hold her breasts while fucking her, rasping a thumb across her nipple, feeling it turn hard as he moved inside her. But then he also wanted a hand in that glorious hair, feeling it curling softly over his arm like a female waterfall. But then what he
really
wanted was to hold her legs open with his hands, cup her knees and spread them so that he had full access to her cunt, nothing in the way, nothing between them…

Shit, he’d need four pairs of hands. How was that going to work?

Oh God, he was so hard it was painful. He found it next to impossible to banish the images of them on his bed, hard to soft, dark to pale. As he watched her avidly, watching each forkful go into her mouth—his cock envying the zucchini soufflé and gratin potatoes as they passed those lush lips, because that’s where it wanted to be—he could feel an electric tingle in his spine. His balls tightened, his hips were unconsciously moving, wanting to be in her, thrusting.

Oh God, he was seconds from an orgasm, right here, at the dinner table. Not only would it be embarrassing, but also, she wasn’t in any way ready to face the intensity of his sexual desire for her. It would alienate her, when he needed her by his side in every way.

So he called on every ounce of self-control he had and walked away. In his head, he pulled his cock out of Grace, got up from the bed and walked away.

One of the hardest things he’d ever done in a hard life.

And when the fog of lust retreated, he noticed what he should have noticed earlier.

Grace was making patterns in the white tablecloth with the tines of the dessert fork. The lost, lonely look was back.

Drake put a finger under her chin and turned her face to his. “What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking—wondering—where Harold is. Harold Feinstein. He was the gallery owner.”

Whose head was blown apart by a sniper’s bullet. “Yes,” he said gently. “I know who he was. His body is in all likelihood in the city morgue, awaiting an autopsy.”

Her eyes flared. “Autopsy? Why would they carry out an autopsy? I don’t think there’s any doubt about the way he died.”

“No. Of course not. But it will take a coroner to study the bullet wound. The authorities will be able to tell a lot about the shooter from the trajectory, trace elements in the flesh and from the recovered bullet. Clearly, you don’t watch
CSI.
” The bullet would have gone through Feinstein’s head like cream and had most likely ended up embedded into the hardwood floor of the gallery. The shooter wouldn’t have risked running in and prying it out, so the police would have found it and studied it. Drake was going to break into the NYPD forensics lab computer to see their report on the bullet and the gun.

She flushed. “Oh, of course they’d need an autopsy. How stupid of me. Sorry. I don’t actually have a TV, but even
I’ve
heard of C
SI
. I hope they find out who killed him. And who shot at us.”

Drake had every intention of finding out before the police. And exacting his revenge.

He ran a finger over the back of her hand, feeling the soft skin, the delicate tendons, then lifted his eyes. “Don’t apologize. I should think you’ve got better things to do with your time than watch dead bodies on TV.”