Smoke and Mirrors (10 page)

“Did you even
tell
the police?” Nell demanded.

“He couldn’t, could he?” Anna said dryly. “He’d just broken out of prison.
I
told the police. One or two cops even looked for them for a little while—until they died or their families were threatened. After that, the case seemed to close of its own accord.”

“That’s crazy, outrageous, wrong…!”

“Doesn’t stop it happening.”

“Then what will?” Nell demanded.

Rodion said, “We pinned our hopes on democracy once. Only it never quite materialised.”

“There’s more hope for the next election,” Ilya said judiciously.

Nell glanced around them. “You’re political activists as well as thieves?”

“We were once. That’s what Rodion was imprisoned for,” Ilya said. “Well, that and the bank job, which the authorities meant to discredit the whole opposition with. Worked too. Now we’re not really welcomed by any party.”

“Who needs politics?” Rodion said, lifting a small chessboard off a curly legged chess table. “When they can play games and drink vodka? Do you play chess, Nell?”

“A bit.”

“Good.” He sat down on the sofa, opposite her, and placed the chessboard on his knees. “You can be white.”

The feeling of unreality began to settle over her again. While they all argued about various political figures in Zavrekestan and Russia and what each might bring to a position of power, Nell played chess with Rodion. Although the board wobbled occasionally in its precarious position on his knees, on the whole, it remained remarkably stable.

Rodion played his initial moves quickly, almost automatically, until after the fourth, he began to smile. “You don’t play by the book,” he said with satisfaction.

“I’ve never read the book. I play from instinct.”

“It’s the best way,” he said, taking her pawn. He held her gaze while he did it, and she wondered if they were still talking about chess.

“I think so,” she agreed, delicately helping herself to one of his.

The music played on and was changed back to the same band she’d heard this afternoon. She asked about them while she played, and the talk shifted more to music. Between that and the chess, Nell’s mind was fully occupied. For some reason, she didn’t want to lose to Rodion. She wanted to prove herself a worthy opponent. Once or twice, she found his gaze on her face rather than the board, as if trying to guess what her next move might be. She gazed back innocently, until his lips quirked upward and he made his move.

But she was outplayed and knew it. “I can’t get out of this, can I?”

He shook his head, and she sighed, pushing her king over in token of defeat. He shoved the board onto the cushion beside him, and she suddenly became aware of the intimacy of their position. At some point in the game, she’d wriggled the pouffe nearer him, so now she sat close enough to lean her elbows on his knees.

Her heart lurched at the possibility. If she did just that, what would he do? Lean down and kiss her in front of everyone? Something told her he wouldn’t care about the presence of others, that if he wanted to kiss her, he just would, with quite as much sensuality as he’d shown earlier. Her skin grew warm with the memory, with the possibilities.

As if he knew, he touched her cheek with two fingertips, slid them down to her lips. Her breath caught, and he smiled, stroking and lightly pressing with his fingers. She could almost imagine it was his mouth. She wanted it to be his lips. She wanted to feel again the excitement of holding him, kissing him…

She knew how he kissed now, and she liked it. She liked it a great deal too much, and she wanted more. She wanted to feel his arms around her, holding her naked body to his. She wanted to feel him sliding inside her, making love to her…
Just to know
, she pleaded with herself.

What if
she
leaned into
him
now, reached up and kissed his parted lips and just invited him to bed? Her heart thundered. What would it be like with him?

Even his most casual touch melted her bones, so what would the most intimate caress of all do to her? To him? The dream of making love with him flashed inevitably across her mind. Would he look like that? All wild and sexy, extracting every inch of sensual pleasure from their every move…

Her heart thundered. Lust raged within her, dampening between her thighs. Something about him inspired her to be reckless, dangerous, bold. To be as exciting as she’d ever wanted to be…

As if that would make any difference. As if any of that would make him really want her. He needed to free his brother and sister from a monster, and she’d agreed to help. He was mourning Irina.

She dragged her gaze away from his intense, unreadable eyes.

“I’m tired,” she said breathlessly. “I have to go to bed.” She stumbled as she stood up, knew it probably looked far too much like fleeing, but right now all that mattered was that she didn’t give in to the urges tugging and pulling at her body.

Chapter Eight

“Hey,” Anna called after her as she began to climb the stairs.

She glanced back over her shoulder. Anna stood in the hall, gripping the handle of the closed sitting room door, behind which the men still sat, talking, presumably plotting and planning.

“Thanks,” Anna said. “For saying yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Nell blurted. “It’s too easy to forget that some things go way beyond the trivia of most people’s so-called tragedies. I don’t know how you live with this.”

“By trying not to live with it any longer. Without Rodion, I’d go mad, because there would be no possible way out.”

But then, without Rodion, they wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Through no fault of Anna’s, Rodion and his peculiar powers had attracted the Bear’s attention. Anna just lived with the consequences. She supposed Rodion lived with that too.

“I hope you find it,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat. “And the children.”

She couldn’t say any more. Hastily, she ran up the rest of the stairs, seeking the security and the solitude of her own room.

It didn’t help. She was still bombarded with desires and doubts. But at least away from him, she could think about more than hot, sweaty bodies.

Staring out in the night, watching clouds scud across the almost full moon and the scattering of stars visible in the sky, she wrestled with her self-righteous conscience and found it wanting.

The trouble was, no one had all the facts. Least of all, Derryn.

Derryn, whom she’d thought of as mysterious for almost two hours until she’d encountered the far deeper enigma of Rodion. How often had Derryn even crossed her mind since she’d come to this house? In her quest to learn about her “captor”, she’d been working strictly for herself. She’d known nothing of Rodion when he’d brought her here, except that he’d intrigued her far more than he should, considering what Derryn had told her.

But then, what exactly
had
Derryn told her? In the phone call she’d received barely five minutes after the agency offered her the police translation job, he’d said only, “We’d appreciate your help in a matter of national security.” Which had just been enticing enough to get her to his office on her way to the police station…

****

Until that phone call, she’d never even heard of Derryn. He was a total stranger, and when his office turned out to be a flat in the New Town, she almost bolted. In fact, she would have done had it not been for the businesslike female “assistant” who bade her so briskly to come in.

The office was carpeted just as plushly as the rest of the flat, but it contained three busy people, plus several ugly office desks and chairs and computers. From one of those desks rose a middle-aged man in a smart grey suit and spectacles, looking like a banker and sounding both plausible and avuncular.

“I’m James Derryn. Thank you for coming, Miss Black. I wouldn’t have troubled you except that my colleague Tony Lomas said you were friends at university.”

At which point, Tony stuck his familiar head up over a computer screen and grinned at her. They’d never been friends, of course, but they had known each other enough to say hello, and his presence here with Derryn was both soothing and intriguing—because it had always been rumoured that Tony had joined one of the secret services after graduation.

And so she never doubted Derryn or his mission.

“Sit down,” Derryn invited, waving one hand to the seat opposite. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” Nell pounced, in desperate need of caffeine to stave off the sense of unreality. A cup of coffee appeared almost miraculously at her elbow while Derryn explained.

“It’s about this job you’ve just been sent to.”

“At the police station, yes. You said as much on the phone. The agency asked me to do it. In fact, it’s the first work they’ve ever sent my way. It’s not my normal line of work.”

“You normally translate literature,” Derryn said. It wasn’t a question. “Specializing in Russian novels and poetry.”

Nell narrowed her eyes over her coffee cup. “Did Tony tell you that?” She hadn’t spoken to Tony since graduation six years before. Although he could have heard about her via mutual friends if he’d tried hard enough.

“No,” Derryn admitted. “The agency did. Please don’t look so alarmed, Miss Black. Our interest is not so much in you, except in so far as you can help us. We’re primarily interested in the arson suspect the police want you to translate for. We believe he threatens our national security.”

Nell blinked. “Who is he?” she managed.

Derryn shrugged, as if names were of no consequence. Looking back, she realised he’d deliberately avoided divulging it because she was an amateur and likely to give away the fact that she knew it. Instead, he gave her a description. “A citizen of the republic of Zavrekestan, as you’ve probably gathered. An escaped convict, thief, political dissident, general troublemaker. But one of unique talents which pose a considerable risk to our own and other countries. Let me just say he gets in and out of buildings that should be impossible to get near, taking various bits of gear that should be impossible to steal. And he covers his tracks with incendiary devices that no one’s managed to find, let alone trace. He has worrying links to Afghanistan and the drugs trade…”

Here, Derryn cut himself off with an apologetic smile. “I won’t bore you with any more details. But you’ll appreciate our concerns about terrorism.”

Nell nodded dubiously. This was a world way beyond her knowledge or experience. It sounded more like a James Bond movie.

“The thing is,” Derryn continued, leaning forward to place his steepled hands under his chin, “we’ve never been this close to him before. Not only is he in the UK, but the police have picked him up on suspicion of arson. It’s too good a chance to miss.”

“Er—how can
I
help?” Nell asked, baffled.

“Attract his attention. Stick with him.” Derryn smiled faintly as her jaw fell open. “You’re an innocent with an excuse to talk to him. He’s a long way from home, and you speak his language. He’s known to be far from immune to female charms.”

“Oh, come on,” Nell exclaimed. “Do I
look
like Mata Hari?”

Dressing for the occasion had involved her pulling on a clean sweater above the jeans she already wore and dragging a comb through her hair. She hadn’t imagined any need to primp just to visit the local nick.

“Oh, trust me, you’ll do,” Derryn said with conviction. “If he doesn’t bite, we’ve lost nothing. But if he notices you, if you run into him again when he leaves the police station—”

“You’re letting him go?” Nell interrupted in naïve astonishment.

Derryn shrugged. “The police will have to. There’ll be no evidence to keep him in. There never is. And when he goes, if you bump into him again
by accident
, ladle on a bit of understated sympathy, he might just give something away.”

“Give what away?” Nell asked, flummoxed.

“I have no idea. But at this stage, nothing is unimportant. What
is
important is that you stick to the rules. Talk to him if possible in public places. A street corner, a café. Meet him later for lunch, a drink, whatever. But do not go
anywhere
with him where you are not in full control of getting out again. And most of all, keep in touch with us at all times.”

He passed a card across the desk. “Put this number into your phone. Call it or text it when you leave the police station, and again as soon as you make any further contact…”

****

No one had seemed to doubt that she’d do it, and when Derryn had quite casually mentioned the fee she’d receive on top of the agency pay for translating, she hadn’t had many objections of her own. She’d had nothing to lose and a month’s mortgage payment plus a boost to the holiday fund to gain. So she’d squashed down her inevitable nerves and talked herself into it.

Derryn had sent her into another room with the female assistant, who’d given her the smart suit and the sexy shirt, made up her face and done her hair. Which was why Lamont and Rodion had had to wait so long for her…

She’d gone into it blind. Now at least she knew enough to make a few decisions of her own. She’d seen no hint of terrorism, and even such crimes as there were seemed to have been committed largely under coercion.

Rodion and the others could all be lying to her, of course. But it was a very strange, elaborate, ridiculous lie, just to get her to give a place and a time to D.S. Lamont.

Abruptly, she spun away from the window and hurried to the door. No doubts now: it was confession time. She’d catch Rodion before he went to bed.

From the stairs, she heard a burst of male laughter coming from the sitting room, and then the sound of Anna’s voice.

Damn. She’d rather catch him on his own. She didn’t really want to beg for a private interview…

Crossing the landing where the others had their bedrooms, she paused. A light was on in Rodion’s room. She walked toward it, and, hearing movement inside, she took a deep breath and tapped on the half-open door. “Rodion?”

“Yes? Come in.”

She pushed open the door and halted in shock.

He was alone and undressing for bed. His shirt was off, and the top button on his jeans already undone. The effect was undoubtedly and overwhelmingly sexy: muscles rippled in his powerful upper arms; his shoulders and chest were broad, his belly flat with a line of fine, blond hair leading down into the gap in his jeans. Oh yes, he was sex on legs, but that wasn’t what paralyzed her.

He frowned and walked toward her, no doubt alarmed by her speechless stare. She couldn’t take her eyes off the tattooed flames licking up his arms or the fiery phoenix on his chest.

“Turn around,” she whispered.

He stopped a foot away from her. “What?”

“Please. Turn round, let me see your back.”

A smile flickered across his face, a spark very like lust lighting his eyes. But at least he obeyed. And there was the blazing sun and its fireballs spitting down his spine. The flames from the phoenix on his front were just visible curling over his left shoulder.

He said, “I met this amazing tattoo artist in prison.”

“But the flames on your arms were done earlier, weren’t they? By a friend in your village.”

He turned back to face her, his eyes piercing. “How do you know that?”

She opened her mouth to answer but couldn’t speak. She swallowed hard and tried again.

“I dreamed it,” she whispered. “I saw your tattoos in a dream, knew all about them. I thought it was just my imagination because of all the fire stuff I’d seen and heard since I met you. But they’re real. There’s no way I could have imagined these for myself. Oh fuck, Rodion, they’re real.”

He closed the distance between them, lifted his naked, tattooed arms, and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Yes, they’re real. I told you your dreams were a gift.”

“But what the hell do I do with them?”

He smiled, half teasing. “Tell me about them, of course.”

She shook her head, still too stunned to respond in kind.

“For instance,” he said, “were we as close as this in your dream?”

“Closer,” she said distractedly. She stared up at him in horror. “Oh shit, does this mean the auras are real too?”

“You see auras?” He sounded more amused than anything, so she glared at him.

“It’s isn’t bloody funny!”

“Who’s laughing? What colour is mine?”

“Red and orange, like fire, of course.” She dragged her hands through her hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “How can this crap be real? I don’t want it to be real!”

“Shh-shh.” His hands slid over her shoulders to her back and drew her loosely against his naked chest. “It’s no big deal. This stuff has always been there. You can use it or ignore it as you choose. It doesn’t change who you are.”

“Doesn’t it?” she said into his chest. His skin was warm and smelled of the sea. She had a sudden urge to lick it. Her heart was drumming, the dream issue drowning in her sudden resurgence of physical awareness.

Somehow, she’d ended up in his arms again, and Jesus help her, they felt good and strong and safe around her, his palms firm on her back. His naked chest against her cheek rose and fell with his breathing. Desire pooled between her thighs.

“No,” he said.

She lifted her head to look for clarification, to put some distance between them, but that was a mistake too, for she found his mouth a mere inch from hers. Her breath shuddered. Her heart tried to jump into her suddenly dry throat. Avoiding the unbearable intensity of his eyes, she lowered her gaze to his chest and the visible part of the tattoo which was so bright and so finely drawn as to be beautiful.

Just because she wanted to, she lifted one hand and touched the phoenix, tracing its outline, following the flames up to his shoulder. His breath quickened, which pleased her far more than it should.

She swallowed, laying her palm flat across his chest. “You scare the crap out of me.”

“I know.”

“So why do I want…?” She broke off, her hand sliding upward and closing convulsively on his shoulder.
Why do I want you so much I can’t breathe? Why can’t I bear the thought of never seeing you again? This is all wrong, and yet…and yet…

The skin of his shoulder felt smooth and supple. The flames rippled to the caress of her fingers. With peculiar dread, she lifted her gaze back to his warm, intense eyes. She’d never been in such a situation before, had no idea what to do.

His lips curved. “Why do you want what?” he asked softly. “Me?”

“Is it so obvious?”

“Nothing about you is obvious.” His head dipped against her hair. His breath kissed her ear, and she shivered. “I’m just naturally optimistic.”

“Don’t be. I won’t do anything about it.” But his throat was tantalizingly close to her lips. She inhaled the warm, tempting scent of his skin until even her toes began to curl up with desire. Before she could ruin everything and give in to the urge to kiss his neck, he straightened, and she found herself staring instead at his lips.

“Why not?” he asked. Even the tiny movement of his mouth sent the butterflies dancing and diving in her stomach. Pure lust pooled between her thighs, hot and damp and urgent.