Power Play: A Romance Collection

by Lauren Landish

  “Tell me everything. Now, Emma.”

  She jumps at the harsh order but does as I say. “My sister. She’s the one who told me about the party and asked me to go. She told me about you, and Caleb, your dad, and about the company. The basics, at least. She even told me about Nikolai.”

  I’m still as a statue at her side. “She knows a lot.”

  Warning bells are going off like mad in my head, but I still want to hear it.

  Whatever it is, Emma needs to tell me this.

  “She does . . . because she’s FBI.”

  Her admission is barely mumbled but is still like an electric cattle prod to my spine, vaulting me off the couch to gain a bit of separation before my instinct to strike back at Emma’s apparent betrayal causes me to do something stupid.

  For a moment, I wish I could have a time machine, to go back to the night of the party and ignore her, to let Caleb play a few games with her before casually letting her walk out the door, oblivious to what really goes on in my life.

  But the next instant, I realize I wouldn’t change a single moment of the past. It brought me here, brought us here . . . and that could be worth the pain, the price. Life was dangerous before, but shit just got interesting.

  Still, now that the words are coming, Emma can’t stop them. I could make her stop, order her to or put my hand over her mouth, but I need to hear the truth as much as she needs to give it.

  Maybe it’ll give me some insight into how to stop this before it spins out of control.

  “She asked me to come to the party, told me what I needed to know to help me get intel, insight, and report back to her. To the FBI.”

  I stop my pacing, turning to her, the accusation hot on my tongue and out of my mouth before I can stop it. “You’re a trap. You really are a honey pot.”

  Obviously, I’m not as cool with this as part of me wants to be. The betrayal cuts me to the core, even as I know that I should’ve seen this coming. I’m as angry at myself as I am at Emma.

  Somehow, the part that bugs me the most right this second is that I’m going to have to apologize to my brother. Caleb was right.

  I fucking hate it when he’s right.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her I don’t think you had anything to do with your dad or Anna and that this whole thing with Nikolai is aboveboard as far as I know, though I really don’t even know what’s actually going on there.”

  “Anna? Who?” I ask, confused and almost not getting the reference out of context.

  “Anna Russo,” she says sadly. “They think you had something to do with your dad’s death and with Anna’s.”

  I’m shocked again. Not at Emma’s words, but at the sheer ignorance that is the FBI. How stupid can they be?

  But the thought is bitter, because I’m just as stupid, maybe more.

  I thought Emma . . . I really thought we . . .

  The thought is cut short by my phone ringing. I’d let it go, but that particular ringtone is assigned to one person only.

  I point at Emma, walking over to my desk. “Don’t speak, don’t move,” I order, picking up my phone. “Yes.”

  “Da. Stone. We meet to discuss in one hour. Bring the girl. She amuses me.”

  Nikolai’s voice is jovial, simple, and relaxed. But I know with a sinking dread that if he so much as gets one whiff of the truth about Emma, it’s not going to be bad.

  It’s going to be deadly.

  But still, I have to try. “I’m not sure if Kitty can get away. I’ll have to check her schedule, but I can meet with you and we can discuss business.”

  Nikolai is not to be dissuaded, however. “You, me, girl. One hour. I’ll send address.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you soon,” I say, knowing it’s my only option.

  I turn to Emma. “Nikolai wants to meet with us. Now.”

  She shakes her head, absolutely aghast. “No, no. We can’t. Not like this. We need to talk first, Nathan.”

  That’s a luxury we can’t afford. “Seems fate has something else in store. We don’t have time. Let’s go,” I say, grabbing her by the arm and scooping her to her feet as I roughly guide her out.

  It’s not how I’d like to handle her unless it was for a specific and sexy cause, but since she’s been lying to me all along, I’d say a little roughness is warranted. I even take a small delight in tossing her in the backseat of my car, her legs going askew as she virtually tumbles in wildly. Her pissed off glare as I sit down feels like a small victory.

  I give the driver the address Nikolai sent and am surprised to find we’ve come to a stop at Rockefeller Plaza.

  “Pull your hair back, and if he asks, you were exercising,” I snap as the door opens. “Other than that . . . don’t say a word.”

  “I understand.”

  I reluctantly get out with Emma, and almost before my driver closes the door behind us, Nikolai is instantly visible. He’s a large man, but it’s more that the power comes off him in waves. Even here, in a center for the arts and for good, clean fun, he acts like the common people of New York mean nothing to him.

  “Come, Stone. Sit and we chat.”

  This is the meeting I’ve been waiting for, exactly what I need. But now I desperately need Emma to not be here for this. I don’t want to believe she’s a threat, but I have to.

  The only saving grace is that Nikolai doesn’t know the full reason for my requested visit to the caves. Still, everything feels a bit too out of control and risky. Caleb has always teased me about being a bit of a control freak, but even if I didn’t have those tendencies, I think this situation would set my every nerve on edge. There are just too many variables, and that can only lead to disaster.

  “Wow, so pretty,” Emma offers as small talk, looking over the rink of skaters. “Wish I could do that.” And even though it’s polite and meaningless, I’m mad that she didn’t keep her mouth shut like I’d just ordered her too.

  “Da, it reminds me of home,” Nikolai says, sounding almost human. “Cold, icy, but still it is vibrant in a way Russia is not. Like . . .” He pauses like he’s searching for the right word. “Like magic but not that.”

  Emma tries to help. “Childlike? Wondrous? Whimsical?”

  Nikolai snaps, and for the first time, I see something on his face I’ve never thought possible . . . an actual smile. “Yes, whimsical.” He says the syllables slowly and then nods, like he’s trying to remember the actual pronunciation. It’s oddly endearing to hear him speak fondly of the kids playing and skating along. After watching for a moment, however, he remembers who he is and why he’s here, snapping back into himself. “So tell me more about this deal.”

  I have to be careful, oh, so very careful about what I say. I’ve already known that consistency is key, keeping my story the same no matter how many times he asks.

  But there’s a new gamble here, and I need to account for the FBI so that if Emma does go blabbing to her sister, they don’t have any suspicions about what I’m doing talking to Nikolai.

  The last thing I need while searching Nikolai’s caves is for the US Government to show up and do it first.

  “I’ll fly in under your protection order, and your travel team will meet me. A guide through the jungle path, an opportunity to spread my dad’s ashes as he wished in the cave that was special to him. Guide escorts us safely out to airport. Plane takes off with no holds, no problems. In and out, safely.”

  It’s the bare bones of the deal, or at least what I’m asking for. I’m loathe to discuss his side, the pink diamonds, because that might lead to questions on how I got them. And I won’t throw Caleb under the bus like that with the FBI’s representative noting every word.

  “How many in your team?”

  “Me, maybe my brother. Though his relationship with Dad was rocky at best. So he might not come. Go-minute decision on his part.”

  Nikolai rolls his eyes. “Baby brothers. Difficult creatures, I imagine.”

  I nod, pursing my lips b
ecause right now, I should be apologizing to Caleb big time.

  “Gear?”

  “Backpacks and bags. We provide everything. It’s on my ass to keep myself alive. It’s a long trek. I’ll bring my own supplies and provisions.”

  Part of the reason I’m insisting on my own equipment is that one, I wouldn’t trust anything Nikolai might provide. Secondly, I don’t want anyone associated with Nikolai having any chance to snoop around and see Dad’s maps. But I don’t tell him that part.

  “Mmm, as I thought. I will tell Papa,” he says, vowing to share the information.

  I’m disappointed. I’d hoped that this was merely a last check-through for any issues before agreeing to the deal. But patience is a virtue, and while I’m not a virtuous man, I’m a patient hunter. And that’s what this is. For all the maneuvering and polite words, it’s a hunt.

  “I look forward to hearing his assent,” I reply, ending the meeting with a handshake before heading back to my car with Emma. I don’t say a word to her, taking every ugly word I want to scream and stuffing it down, same as I’ve always done.

  “Where can we drop you off?” I ask, and Emma mumbles to take her home. I let my driver know and sit back in my seat, not even reaching across to open the door for her when we arrive. She looks from me to the building, words building in her throat as she searches for something, anything, to say to make this okay.

  There’s nothing.

  “Get out, Emma.” My voice is dead-calm and even, belying none of the tumultuous tornado on a whirlwind path of destruction that’s raging through my heart.

  She huffs, laughing though nothing is fucking funny about any of this, but my curiosity gets the better of me. “What? What’s so funny?”

  Her smile is as scathing as her words. “Claire warned me you’re dangerous, that you’d hurt me without giving it a second thought. She was right, but not in the way she figured. Because this right here, the cold shoulder and dismissive goodbye, unfeeling and uncaring . . . this hurts, just not the way she implied.”

  I don’t think, I react.

  My hand reaches out, grabbing around her neck and holding her against the seat. Even as I hold her very life in my hands, her head turns to me, seeking me out in any way, in every way. Her skin is soft beneath my hand, her thin neck so fragile I could snap it so easily.

  A foreign thought that scares me.

  But when her hands move up to mine, it’s not to fight me. Instead, her fingers trace light patterns on the back of my hand, slow and tentative, worried not that I could hurt her but that I could push her away.

  I stroke her hair, whispering in her ear. “Tell me the truth. The total truth.”

  She swallows against my palm and speaks in choked sobs. “I don’t know what this is, exactly, but I’m developing real feelings for you. It feels like I’m going all in, because my sister gave me an ultimatum . . . her or you. My own sister. I should choose her easily, right? But here I am, telling you everything, knowing that it could make you hate me. And even though I’m putting it all on the line for you, baring everything I’ve got so we can truly know each other, you’re punishing me for it.”

  She began softly, but by the end of her diatribe, she’s angry.

  At me, at herself, at the situation.

  Me fucking too, Kitty.

  The name, not an endearment this time, burns through me.

  My fingers tighten instinctively, and she cries out, grabbing at my hand now and giving up any hope that I’ll give her kindness.

  She struggles beneath me. “I’m sorry! I should’ve told you before, everything at once. But I didn’t know how you’d react. I guess I hoped you’d feel the same way about me, especially after last night, and you’d forgive me. But I can see I was wrong.”

  The words echo in the car for a moment, quickly swallowed up by her tears as she repeats them over and over. I was wrong, I was wrong. The salty wetness of her repentance flows down her cheeks, covering my hand in her guilty apologies.

  She wrenches away from me, diving for the door and getting out. She runs for the building but looks back to see if I’m going to chase her down.

  I meet her eyes one last time . . . and close the car door. It’s the cruelest punishment I can give, but it’s not just for her, it’s for me too. It’s a punishment for my idiocy, for letting her in before I could trust her.

  Clearing my throat, I look up at my driver. “Let’s go.”

  Slowly, my car pulls away from the brightest and the darkest star in my sky.

  She had me for a moment. Whole and complete, she had me, and I would have explored and given anything to have her.

  But it was a mirage.

  And I’m not going to deal with mirages anymore in my life.

  Chapter 17

  Kyle

  It’s been days since the dinner with Carly where I freaked out. Days since I’ve seen her at all.

  I’ve forced myself away from her shows, the market where we ran into each other, and most importantly, from Strega’s.

  I say forced because it has required dedicated and extreme restraint on my part. I’ve wanted to hunt her down, to apologize for freaking out.

  I want to explain to Carly that the person she draws from my depths isn’t me, not anymore. It’s only a ghostly echo of someone I used to be but is easily wiped away like the mirage it is.

  So the mere fact that an apology has crossed my mind makes me that much more certain that staying away is exactly what I need to do.

  It’s still what I’m planning to do, even as I finally give in and go to Strega’s café.

  It’s Saturday night, so I know Carly will be working to make the most money with the date-night crowds out for a romantic stroll. That I know that with certainty both relieves me and pisses me off. Why do I know her schedule? Why do I care?

  I shove the questions down, focusing on the one thing I need and can have . . . coffee.

  Because despite my best efforts, I can’t quite get the hang of a European coffee maker, and I need a cup of coffee.

  The coffee maker thing is an excuse, and I know it. But even as a loner who hates people, I need social interaction sometimes. Just superficial ones to stave off the lonely descent into oblivion.

  And Strega has become a stern but friendly face, one who won’t pry at my past and ruin the blank hollowness I’ve carefully cultivated.

  Besides, she does have the best coffee in town.

  “Ah, you need cappuccino and a biscotto too,” Strega says, not even letting me choose my damn order.

  “I don’t want a cookie, just coffee.” I tell her like my word is law.

  But she ignores it completely.

  “Stronzino, I did not offer you a cookie,” she says with a smile, but her eyes are shooting daggers. “I said you would be getting a biscotto. Do not insult it by calling it a mere cookie. It is what you need and it is what you will get. And you will eat it or risk offending me as your host.”

  She scoots away faster than I’d think she’d be able to with the mass of chairs blocking her way.

  Faster than I can believe possible, she’s back, setting a small cup and plate down kindly, two biscotti resting on the edge. “Mandorla . . . sweet almond, because you need some sweetness in your life. Eat it.”

  I virtually gulp my coffee down, pointedly not touching the cookie—sorry, biscotti—as I try to hide.

  This was a bad idea. I thought I could do this, be minimally social and civil for a few minutes, satisfy that annoying itch for human contact that still yearns deep inside me beneath the layers of anger like a dandelion shoving its way to sunlight through the tiniest crack in the sidewalk.

  I used to be friendly—it was in my nature—but no longer, I think, yanking the dandelion out of my soul and wadding it up before tossing it over my shoulder.

  In my head, of course. I have yet to find a dandelion growing on any part of my body, and there’s no actual weed in the middle of Strega’s. She wouldn’t allow such nonsense, not eve
n on the centers of her tables in some uselessly pretty centerpiece.

  I slump down in my chair, thinking about just leaving the half cup and the biscotti to make a bolt for the door. I’ve already got my eye on it when it opens.

  You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.

  Carly comes in like a damn ray of sunshine, all smiles and sparkles and shit. Her hair is wild and she has on slim black pants that hug her curves and a T-shirt from a museum I haven’t bothered to visit.

  Why is she here?

  Irrationally, I’m angry at her for not doing as I’d expected.

  It used to be my damn job to figure people out, find their routines, and manipulate them, but I can’t seem to find the system with her. I haven’t yet figured out her fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants schedule and it makes me angry.

  I’m pissed at myself for failing, at her for being here. And largely, for the tiny bit of happiness I feel when I see her before I shove it back down in the black hole of my soul. Carly had said her ex was like a black hole. She has no fucking idea what that’s really like as she sits on the edge of my darkness, dangling her feet in the danger like it’s a fucking pond.

  I rise, intending to leave, needing to escape like the weakling I fucking am.

  But the movement catches her eye and she walks straight to me, a big smile on her face like she’s forgotten that I kicked her out in the middle of dinner.

  “Hey, Kyle,” she says easily. “How’s it hanging?”

  I try to brush past her, roughly tossing out the accusation. “Thought you wouldn’t be here.”

  She laughs. “Liar. You came here for me, though if you want to play Grumpy Gus again, that’s fine.”

  Her relaxed chill surprises me, and her words hit too close to home. “I came here because I thought you’d be working and I could get a cup of coffee in peace. I’ve missed Strega’s coffee.”

  I say it like she’s been keeping me from Strega’s coffee when the truth is, my own issues have kept me away.