Hunted (10 page)

She might act different in that regard, but he could see the other longing in her eyes. The one they all had. The one that said,
I just want to go home.

She most definitely wanted to go home, but she was hardly stupid. Wary. Cautious. Scared. And didn’t want any personal information about her shared. Did she have something more to hide?

A knock at the door drew him from his musings.

He turned, noted she hadn’t so much as stirred. Morgan was curled on the couch. Asleep.

The thick carpet cushioned his footfalls as he crossed to the door.

A waiter in a white jacket set the fare up on the table, the silver-domed lids not containing the aromas coming from the entrees. After he’d seen the man out, he opened the lids, checked to make certain they’d brought what he’d ordered, and then turned back to the sofa.

Quietly, he strode across the room and stood, watching her.

He ought to let her sleep. From the dark circles under her eyes, the too thin appearance, she’d had very little rest and appeared half starved.

Her hair was shorter, curled around her head and the bottom of her ears in a color that was neither light brown nor red, but some color in between.

With one finger he reached out and caressed her cheek. Why, he didn’t know. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her, but she looked so soft. And she was. He brushed his thumb over the shadows beneath her closed dark lashes.

Something about her had stirred something within him the first time he’d seen her in the photos dancing in that stupid club in Cheb. Maybe it was the faraway look in her eyes that had him wondering what she’d really been thinking. Or maybe it was simply that impossible light blue of her eyes. No, it was what was behind them.

Courage.

There was steel in her, there bloody well would have to be to survive as long as she had. But like acid, the experience with Jezek had corroded something in her. Or maybe it was the fact two brothers frantically searched for their sister. Either way, this woman pulled at him, even as he told himself she was no more or less than the others he’d helped get out.

He squatted on the floor beside the couch, studying her features. Her long legs were tucked up on the couch next to her, her face resting on her fist.

Carefully, he reached out and touched her shoulder, whispering, “The food’s here. Come on, now.” She stirred. “Wake up.”

She started and jerked back, pressing against the cushions.

He didn’t move, gave her a minute to study him and remember. Her eyes darted around the room, then settled back on him. Her chest fell on her exhale and she half sat up, raking her hand through her hair.

“Sorry.” She swung her legs to the floor and still he didn’t move.

“Don’t be. I almost didn’t wake you. You need rest, but you look like you could eat something as well.”

She nodded, swallowed, and blinked several times.

“I hate contacts,” she muttered, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

Finally, he stood. “Soup and bread is here.” He picked up the tea kettle and poured her a cup of the dark brew. Should have ordered chamomile. He glanced at her as he set the cup down. “You could take your coat off. We are staying a while.”

She stood, rubbing her arms as she shuffled to the table. “I’m cold. I’ll keep it on.”

Frowning, he walked to the wall unit and turned up the heat. “Sit. Eat.”

She blew out a breath and swiped another strand of hair off her forehead. “Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.”

Her shoulders shook once, twice.

He reached his hand out, but she jerked away, rubbing her face. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

He held his hand just short of touching her, then fisted it, lowering it back to his side. Some could only be helped so much, and if she didn’t want a shoulder to cry on, then he wouldn’t give her one. Even if he thought she bloody well needed one. Not exactly his forte in any case.

The chair creaked as he sat in it, shifting to hand her the bread.

For one minute she just looked at it, then up at him. Warily, she took the bread from him. “Why are you so nice to me?”

He thought for a minute, staring at her. Just what was going on in that mind now? He speared a piece of sausage from the plate and popped it in his mouth. Swallowing, he watched as she finally picked up her spoon and took a tentative bite of her soup. “Would you rather I wasn’t nice?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what I meant. What I’d
rather
.”

Laying his fork down beside his plate, he reached over and placed his hand atop hers until she looked at him. “I
won’t
hurt you.”

Her eyes narrowed and then she shrugged and went back to her soup. “No, if you’d wanted to do that, you could have any number of times.”

He watched as she ate. It shouldn’t bother him that she was scared and worried and didn’t trust him, or that she was so blasé about harm to herself.

But it did.

It did more than it should. He frowned over his breakfast, taking another bite. They ate in silence. When she sat back and closed her eyes, he didn’t say anything, just picked up another roll and buttered it, watching her.

“I can’t peg you,” she said softly.

He grinned at that, and passed her half the roll. She shook her head.

“I need to be”—he paused, bit into the roll—“pegged?”

Her eyes ran over his face, down his torso, and his gut tightened, twisted.

And it really, really shouldn’t.

She was a traumatized young woman.

Young.

And he was helping her.

Suddenly the images from the contact’s video, of her dancing against the pole in the club, spiked through his brain. She’d been wearing next to nothing but three triangles of silver sequins and those black fuck-me heels she’d had on when he picked her up.

He shook his head. She was watching him, her eyes on his.

“Most definitely. Men like you must be pegged.”

Food forgotten, he asked, “Why?”

Her brow arched. “It’s safer.”

“Safer? Safety is an illusion.”

“So are you.”

He chuckled at that. “Right you are, luv, right you are.”

She stiffened.

“What?”

“N-nothing.” Looking over her shoulder, she stood, shrugged out of her coat. “Is there one bathroom or two?”

“One.”

“Do you want it?” She leaned down to get her bag, but paused, closing her eyes.

He stood and walked over to her. “Are you all right?”

She backed away even as he reached for her. Rubbing her forehead she said, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little out of sorts.”

Understatement.

He took her elbow in a firm grip and tried to shake off his own irritation at her stiffness. Her bag had been packed by Becca and should have enough in it for the next couple of days.

“Your room is through here. You can have the loo first. Try to get some sleep.” He walked her to the antique bed and tossed the bag on it. The dark woods and neutral colors gave it a homey feel. Hopefully she would like it, and if she didn’t, he didn’t really give a damn. He just wanted her rested and better. Safe.

He leaned against the door frame.

She sat on the bed, yawning again. “What is the plan for the day?”

He’d planned for them to head out before noon. “We’ll see how things go on first. But we will head out to Paris later today, or early tomorrow.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Depends.”

“On?”

Her. Jezek. Whether they had time or not.

Pushing away from the doorway, he said, “Get some sleep and call out if you need anything.”

The room had a phone. She followed his gaze and sat staring at it.

“Don’t be stupid. You can ring anyone you want when we get to London.” He watched her watching the phone, the way her hands lay still in her lap. “Do I need to take the bloody thing?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. I don’t have anyone to call.”

Secretive and a contrast.

“What about those brothers who reported you missing?” he tried again.

A small thin smile tipped the corners of her mouth up. She looked down, picked at a nonexistent spot on her jeans. “I couldn’t call them.”

“Why not?” He frowned.

Shrugging, she said, looking him in the eye, “What the hell would I say to them after this long? Hi? Remember me? I’m your sister. Where have I been? What have I been doing? Oh, you know, just your average whorehouse. Doing johns and occasionally drugs.” Bitterness laced her words. “And you? How is everyone?” She jerked off the bed, paced to the windows and back. “I don’t have anyone to call.”

When put that way . . .

“All right.” He grabbed the knob and pulled the door behind him. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” she asked, frowning.

He smiled at her. “Worried about me?”

She narrowed her gaze and turned to unzip the carry-on, smartly sassing, “Not in the way you wished.”

He chuckled. “I like that about you.”

A brow arched as she looked at him over her shoulder. “What?”

“The fact that even in all this, you have this smart-arsed edge.”

She shook her head, fisted her hands at her sides. “You’re strange.”

“So I’ve been told.” Softer he said, “Get some rest.”

He shut the door and huffed out a breath. Raking a hand through his hair, he walked over to the curtains and jerked them shut, dimming the room from the rising sun. As he sat on the couch, his head thumped back and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. If he was lucky, he’d catch a few minutes here, and once he knew she was really asleep and that the door was secured, he might catch more than a few minutes in the other room.

The dim room was quiet, filled with the soft sound of the water running in the bathroom.

What was different here?

He stood and began to pace. He’d gotten other women out. There was always a detachment, but something here was different and he didn’t like it, liked even less that he couldn’t pinpoint it.

Jezek’s woman.

Bloody everlasting hell.

God Almighty.

If there was one thing the man known as John Ashbourne knew for certain, it was the fact Jezek not only liked his things; Jezek never shared and he never, ever just gave something away.

* * *

Mikhail Jezek threw his mug of rich Italian blended coffee. The mug shattered, black liquid splattering the pristine cream-colored walls and carpets, the brocade-covered chair.

He roared.

“We believe it to be them. I have a man on his way to see the security tapes at the checkpoint. It might be them, and again it might not,” Luther muttered.

Mikhail took a deep breath. The damned bitch. He’d almost had her broken. Almost. Tomorrow he had planned to bring her here. Bringing her home. To be with
him
.

He sat in the chair, tapping his fingers against his thigh. He had yet to alert the particular boss who owned the club where Dusk officially worked. The man would not be happy, yet saw the whores as expendable. He’d only say to get another damn girl and be done with it. Let it die.

But Mikhail couldn’t do that. This was Dusk . . .

The woman he’d wanted since he’d first seen her with that idiot Simon Dixon. Once—that was all it took. He’d known as he’d seen her across the street in the little shop she’d been in while he’d talked to the idiot.

Dixon had been easy enough to manipulate in two days so that he owed Mikhail so much money, they’d been forced to simply take his life. Not that the amount was all that high, just high enough there was no way Dixon could repay. Except with the beautiful Dusk. Which had been his plan. He hadn’t liked the fact Dixon had had her first, had touched her first. He had wanted the bastard dead and being in debt was a good enough reason.

Dusk who was Mikhail Jezek’s. After all his hard work to bend her, break her, make her wholly and completely his.

This was what it came to?

No. He fisted his hand and took a deep breath. “What else?”

“We’re still waiting on confirmation from the morgue on whether or not the remains from the arson last night are those of Peter. If they’re not, then I have nothing else to go on. I’m working completely on the assumption that the remains are Peter, the girl missing and Reyer with the diamonds.” Luther’s voice, unlike most of the men working under Mikhail, did not hold fear. Caution, upon occasion, but now it was all business. All facts and what he would do, how the operation was going.

Luther had previously been an officer under Milosevic. Luther was ruthless and exactly what Mikhail needed. Mikhail studied him. Noted he was dressed all in black, as usual. Expensive suit, not like his own, but still a nice custom cut. The shoulder holster and Sig were hidden under the black jacket. Luther was dark of hair, had a swarthy complexion from being out of doors. The man favored dark colors; his eyes were the only color on him. A strange greenish yellow color that Mikhail could never figure out if he liked or not.

“You checked all the rail stations, the metros, airport?”

“Yes, Jezek.”

He took another deep breath. “Did you locate those posing as Reyer and my woman? Those that were at the hotel?”

Luther shook his head. “Not as yet. But I know we will.”

He steepled his fingers and tapped the ends together. A log popped in the fireplace and still he waited. There really was nothing else to do. Damn it all.

 “Let me know what you find out on the border,” Mikhail muttered, staring into the fire. He leaned his head back, remembering. “Oh. You need to have someone remove that stupid girl from the third guest room.”

Luther, intent on turning, paused and said, “Why? Where do you want her moved to?”

He shrugged and looked again at the dark splatters that now marred his perfect rug. “I don’t care where you put the bitch. She’s dead. Just stick her somewhere she won’t be found.”

Was it his imagination, or did Luther’s eyes narrow at him. He blinked and rubbed his face, stared back at his man.

“As you wish,” Luther confirmed.

Mikhail watched as Luther strode out of the room. Where was Dusk? Stupid woman. He’d find her. He always found them sooner or later.