Dangerous Secrets (3 page)

“Have you known each other long?”

Nick didn’t even blink at the personal nature of the question. “No. We just met today.”

Emilio narrowed his eyes. “So, do you live in this area or are you just passing through?”

Charity gasped. Emilio was
grilling
Nick, exactly as if she were his daughter and Nick an unwanted suitor. She opened her mouth to protest when she caught Nick’s smiling gaze. He winked, subtly, and shook his head. The message was clear.
Don’t interfere. It’s okay.

“Actually, I live in Manhattan, but I’m thinking of relocating and have been scouting out areas. I’m also looking to make some investments. I retired a couple of months ago from my job in a big brokerage firm and cashed in on the bull market before it turned south. I’d like to set up my own little boutique brokerage firm, but I haven’t decided where yet. All I know is that I wouldn’t mind eventually getting out of Manhattan. So my life is pretty much up in the air at the moment.”

How clever of him,
Charity thought. He managed to convey very neatly that he was single, well off, unencumbered, and willing to settle down here in a few short sentences. She had no idea if what Nick said was true or not, but it definitely got Emilio off his back.

Emilio’s face relaxed. “Well, enjoy your evening. It was nice meeting you, Mr….,” he paused delicately.

“Ames. Nicholas Ames. And the pleasure is mine.”

Emilio stood as the waiter arrived with a bottle of Prosecco, two tall crystal flutes, and a platter full of delicacies with mouthwatering scents that he placed on the coffee table.

Looked like Nick had passed some kind of test. And not just with Emilio.

Charity popped a hot
oliva ascolana
, a stuffed, breaded, and lightly fried olive, in her mouth and barely kept from moaning. “Try one of these,” she urged. “They’re—”

“Olive ascolane,” Nick said and she looked at him, surprised. He smiled. “I’ve got my own Emilio, back in Manhattan. Off Bleecker. Only his name is Mario and he comes from Ancona. Makes fabulous olive ascolane, and the best Bolognese sauce in the world.” He chewed thoughtfully. “These olives beat Mario’s, though. Hands down. That’s got to be our secret.” He winked again. “I don’t dare tell Mario. He’d ban me forever.”

A log in the huge hearth broke apart, falling into fiery pieces in a shower of sparks. Heat blossomed in the room, painting her skin with its glow.

It wasn’t just the fire warming her up. The fire was a convenient excuse for the heat, which had surged up inside her at Nick’s wink. Incandescent, almost shocking in its power.

She could feel the heat from his body, more intense even than the heat from the fire. Or at least it felt that way.

She wasn’t naive. Nick was flirting with her. It was mild, but unmistakable—the old man-woman game she’d once played so well and so lightly and had almost forgotten. How long had it been since she’d gone out to dinner with someone attractive and flirted? Way too long, to judge by her intense reaction.

Had he noticed? Those deep blue eyes seemed so observant. It was very likely she’d flushed. Her skin was like a beacon advertising every emotion flitting through her.

This wouldn’t do. Charity forced herself to sit back, still her nerves, and smile blandly into Nick’s eyes, when—shockingly—what she really wanted to do was climb into his lap,
nuzzle her face up against that square jaw, find out with her hands whether he was as hard underneath that elegant suit as she suspected. Place her lips precisely against his throat, where she could see the fine line where his whiskers stopped. Feel his heartbeat against her mouth. Lick that smooth, tan skin.

Whoa.
Think of something else.

By the time they’d made their happy way through the fried mozzarella balls, tiny calamari, and huge fried Pantelleria capers, their table was ready.

Dario appeared as if by magic and escorted them to their table with a maximum of fuss. It was the best table in the restaurant and it took him a full ten minutes to get them settled. He seated Charity like an empress, whisked away a water glass with a spot on it as if it had been full of cockroaches, and guided them through their orders. He suggested that they let him take care of the wine. “Something special for you, Miss Charity.”

He came back with a bottle of Barolo from their special reserve, uncorked it deftly, and poured a finger into Nick’s glass. But even though Nick nodded his pleasure, it wasn’t until Charity had sipped and smiled that Dario relaxed.

He needn’t have worried. It was like drinking bottled sunshine.

“Wonderful,” Charity murmured. Dario beamed and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Well.” Nick sat back in his chair. He hadn’t taken his eyes from her face through the entire wine pouring. “I didn’t realize I’d invited royalty out to dinner. Why didn’t you tell me you were the queen of Parker’s Ridge?”

She smiled. “It
was
a little over the top, wasn’t it?”

“Absolutely.” He looked over his shoulder at Emilio chat
ting with some guests, then back at her. “Are you guys secretly related?”

“No, of course not.” Though at times, belonging to the big, boisterous Luraghi family sounded wonderful. She was an only child and her parents were dead. Her only family was her frail and ailing aunt and uncle. “I, um, helped Emilio’s daughter last year when she came to the library to do some research.”

“From what I’ve seen, they’re grateful for something a little more serious than explaining the Dewey decimal system to a student.”

She sipped some more of that wonderful wine. “We use the Library of Congress classification system.”

“Charity…”

She sighed and told a prettier version of the truth. “Emilio’s family is great. It’s a big one and they are all very close. Sometimes, though, that closeness can get a little…intense. His youngest daughter, Anna, felt hemmed in and used to come in a lot to the library for research projects. We became friends. She’d been having problems in school, but after a while she got back on track.”

It had been much more serious than that. Anna Luraghi had been cutting classes, dabbling in drugs, and moving arrow-straight toward the hard stuff. She’d fancied herself in love with a nasty little weasel Charity suspected of being a pusher.

Anna had been on the road to self-destruction, so desperately unhappy that Charity’s heart had gone out to her. She’d spent hours and hours talking with Anna, who clearly needed an adult she could respect outside the family to talk to. Emilio was a wonderful father, caring and involved, but his idea of dealing with a problem was to yell at it until it went away.

Anna was now at MIT, doing fabulously well, dating the cutest computer nerd on the Eastern Seaboard. Ever since, Emilio and his family treated Charity like she could walk on water.

Nick had listened to her with a slight smile on his lips, eyes narrowed, intent. His eyes were just magnificent. Dark, cobalt blue framed by black lush eyelashes any woman would kill for. They were beautiful, yet somehow managed to fit his purely male face.

“There’s more to it than that, but you’re clearly not talking, so we’ll skip over to another topic of conversation. What should it be? The weather? Books? Movies? I’d like to rule out politics and religion on principle. Other than that, I’m fine with anything you choose.”

This was startling. Charity wasn’t used to men who actually paid attention to what she said. Who let the woman get the conversational ball rolling.

Most dates listened with half an ear until the conversation bumped around to their main topic of interest—themselves. They’d make exceptions for their jobs, cars, and, lately, plasma TVs, but that was about it.

So Nick Ames was not only the sexiest man she’d ever met, he was also highly intelligent and perceptive. It meant that the gentle irony she sometimes used, and that always zinged right over her date’s head, had to be curbed.

She smiled. “Well, books are always good.”

“I should imagine so, seeing as how you’re a librarian.”

“No Marian the Librarian cracks,” Charity warned, alarmed. She’d heard them all.

His eyes were so very blue. He held up a large hand, index and middle fingers raised. His mouth tightly repressed a smile. “Not a one, Scout’s honor.”

“Were you a Boy Scout?”

“Made Eagle. Yes, ma’am. Racked up the highest number of points in my troop. So—getting back to you, how did you end up being a librarian in Parker’s Ridge?”

Make a long story short
, Charity thought. “Well, I love books and tend to have a reasonably organized mind, so library science seemed like a good choice for undergraduate studies.”

Before taking off for Paris, her lifelong dream. And she’d almost managed it, too, with a grant to study French literature in Paris and a one-way economy-class ticket. She’d put her few belongings in storage and had one foot out the door when Uncle Franklin had called to say that Aunt Vera suddenly couldn’t remember the names of the days of the week.

There had been no question of what she had to do. The next day she was back in Parker’s Ridge, plane ticket refunded, applying for old Mrs. Lambert’s job.

“And why are you here?” He was listening so intently, you’d think she was telling some thrilling tale. “Why settle in Parker’s Ridge? It’s pretty, but it’s small.”

Charity repressed a sigh. Yes, it was small. And remote.
Definitely
not Paris.

She was here because this is where her duty lay. But that was too depressing to say, certainly in those terms. Charity had learned that the word
duty
should be used very sparingly in the modern-day world. She sidestepped. “My family’s been in Parker’s Ridge for over two hundred years.” No matter that she’d longed to escape the ties, the ties had brought her back.

He filled their glasses and lifted his. “Well, if it can keep
the Prewitt family happy for two hundred years, Parker’s Ridge must have a lot of hidden virtues. I propose a toast, then, to Parker’s Ridge.”

She lifted her own glass and he touched his to hers. The clear ring of pure crystal sounded and he smiled at her over the glasses filled with bright, ruby red wine.

His smile went through her like lightning, an electric current that jolted her, inside and out. Suddenly, everything took on a heightened tone. The fire in the room burned brighter, the luscious smells from the surrounding tables were more potent, the silverware gleamed more brilliantly. She was aware of everything around her and especially of the big man sitting across the table from her, watching her closely.

There was no mistaking the masculine interest. She’d seen it enough in men, though not very often lately, to tell the truth. It seemed that lately she’d been living in a totally sex-free zone. But right now, in Emilio’s restaurant, sex was in the air and…she was up for it.

Charity’s heart skipped a beat at the thought. Wow. She was up for sex with this man. Right
now.
She’d never done anything like this in her life. Never even wanted to.

It took her a while before she felt ready to go to bed with a man. Weeks, sometimes.

But with a clarity that astounded her, she knew that she was going to sleep with this man. Soon. Maybe even
tonight
. Oh yeah. Instead of going to bed with a hot water bottle and the latest Michael Connelly, she might be going to bed with this sexy, totally hot man she’d met just this morning.

Her thigh muscles clenched at the thought. It was scary and exhilarating at the same time.

Her head instantly went into caution mode, listing all the reasons she shouldn’t do this. She didn’t know him. He could have a disease—though, frankly, the way he looked, not even her anxious subconscious took that one seriously. He radiated health and strength. Or…he could be a serial killer. They could find her dead body in a lake of blood and no clues. They’d interview Emilio and he’d say
he looked fine to me. We had no idea he was a monster
.

Or—or he could be into something really kinky, something she’d hate, like handcuffs or spanking.
Ew.

Luckily, her body wasn’t paying her anxious, neurotic mind any attention at all. It didn’t really have to because any possible danger was all in her head. Her body wasn’t picking up on any vibes of serial killerness or kinkiness. All it perceived was a gorgeous, healthy male with a healthy interest in her, which she was feeling right back.

Oh yeah.

She held her glass up and saw that her hand was trembling. The liquid rippled against the sides of the glinting crystal glass. He was watching. He saw. Those deep blue eyes were perceptive. He was looking at her as if he could walk around inside her mind. So he could see her hand trembling and would notice the flush she could feel rising from her breasts. She had to work to bring her breathing pattern back down to normal.

This was a little scary. Charity was a reader, and like most readers, she lived mainly inside her own head. She was most comfortable on the sidelines of life, observing. Consequently, she was used to studying people without being studied back. It was disconcerting to think that he was reading her desire. That he could read
her.

Put it back on a light, impersonal footing.

“Well then, I propose a toast of my own.” Again, their glasses clinked, with a clear ring of crystal. “To…to Nick Ames.”

And may he stay awhile in Parker’s Ridge.

Surveillance van
A mile from Vassily Worontzoff’s mansion
November 18

John Di Stefano held up a bottle of Coke and wished with all his heart that it was a beer. But this was a job, and alcohol and work didn’t mix, to his regret. A beer sounded great right now, to wash the taste of frustration out of his mouth.

To an impossible job.
He held the Coke bottle up long enough to make the silent toast, then chugged its contents down.

He’d been holed up with Nick Ireland, aka Iceman, and Alexei Nestrenko in a surveillance van for the past week now and the inside of the van looked it and smelled it. Stale pizza lay in boxes piled on top of takeout cartons and ramen noodle containers, and the stench of unwashed male permeated the closed space. It was goddamned cold, too, since turning on
the engine for heat too often would leave a telltale plume of exhaust.

The surveillance van was painted a mottled green that blended well with the pine trees surrounding them. They were a mile from Vassily Worontzoff’s mansion, high up in the hills, with a direct line of sight that allowed the laser-microwave beam to pick up vibrations off the French windows of Worontzoff’s study and digitally transform them into sound.

There were taps on the phones, but Worontzoff used the landline sparingly. Iceman had wanted ten dishes in an array around the mansion. He’d pounded desks, which usually worked—a Delta operator was like a lion in the geeky Tech section of the Unit—but this time the brass stood firm. One listening device. One. Larry down in Tech said it was the best way to keep surveillance from a distance.

Anything Worontzoff said in his study could be heard. They heard all conversations Worontzoff had in his study and landline conversations. Nothing specific had been said yet, but according to Alexei, something was brewing.

There had been chatter, a lot of chatter in the past months. The NSA had intercepted a message between two tangos in Islamabad about “the Russian in Vermont.” A mole in a Mafiya network in Bulgaria operated by Worontzoff’s organization had said that something big was in the pipeline. But it was all bits and pieces with no smoking gun.

Alexei was their smartest analyst and could speak Russian, Georgian, Bulgarian, Polish, and Ukrainian. He’d been sitting with heavy earphones on for over a week, listening to Worontzoff and his staff basically pick the lint out of their bellybuttons. And listening to music.

There were probably three thousand people of Rus
sian extraction in Vermont, but only one
Russian
. The big man himself. Vassily Worontzoff wasn’t the grand old man of literature everyone thought he was, but rather the head of the Russian Mafiya in America, come to straighten out the assorted and disorganized scumbags in Brighton Beach, making mere millions off gas tax fraud and girls when there were billions to be made off counterfeit medicines and organ transplants and arms, the bigger the better.

Di Stefano almost choked on the mouthful of stale nachos as sounds came from his partner’s headset. Something going down! At last!

“What? What did he say?” Di Stefano rounded on Alexei and fought the urge to grab the smaller man’s grubby sweatshirt and shake the words out of him.

Slowly, deliberately, Alexei lifted one earphone away from his ear. The other he kept covered with the foam rubber earpiece. Alexei had been offered earbuds and even a sleek, pricey Bang & Olufsen headset that conducted sound through the ear bone, but he’d refused them all. He wanted to hear everything, he said, and for that he needed the big old-fashioned foam rubber pads that covered his ears.

They couldn’t operate the laser beam at night. The light beam became visible in the dark. But from first light to last, Alexei was on duty, eating and drinking and pissing and crapping with at least one ear covered at all times, listening.

This was what the Unit was all about—a secret government agency tasked with studying the growing contacts between terrorism and international organized crime, bringing together military operatives and law enforcement officers to combat this unholy alliance.

Alexei blinked as if coming out of a trance. “Not much. He picked up the phone and said hello, listened, then said
excel
lent
, then listened some more, then said
have a safe journey, my friend.
That’s all I heard him say.”

John’s mind raced. “Okay, okay. He’s happy about something. He’s happy about something that’s moving. Or rather someone that’s moving.” Di Stefano closed his eyes at the thought of all the bad people who could be moving around. “So now all we have to do is find out what it is that he’s so happy about, if it’s coming here and when.”

Alexei, who was a 36-level Doom player, grinned and lifted his can of diet Coke. “Piece a cake.”