Wyatt

by Susan May Warren

  Then his gaze flickered over to her mother and he dropped his hand.

  “That’s my mother,” she said.

  “So that’s where she gets it,” he said. Offered her a quick smile. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  He turned back to RJ. “We’ll figure it out later. For now—let’s get out of here.”

  He headed toward the door.

  Her mother followed him. But on her way out, she glanced over her shoulder at RJ. “I definitely approve.”

  Oh brother.

  She followed James Bond and M out into the hallway and down the exit stairs.

  They weren’t dead.

  Coco hadn’t run away.

  And, just maybe, they were going to live happily ever after.

  If, that was, they lived through the next ten hours in the back of an Aeroflot cargo plane.

  So maybe she shouldn’t start planning her wedding yet.

  Not that Wyatt had proposed. And even if he had, she wouldn’t be able to hear him.

  Not with the earphones muffling the engine noise.

  Still, she tried, leaning over to shout at him, facing him so he could read her lips. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  It was only the fiftieth or so time she’d asked, but she was getting worried. Starting with this morning when Wyatt had practically turned a shade of chalk as he picked up his duffel bag and limped off the train.

  The guy was hurting, and why not? He’d shoved his six-foot, three-inch body into a five-foot space and pretended to be comfortable.

  All so he could hold her in his arms.

  All so she could feel safe. I think somehow I got it in my head that you were in trouble. And…then you were.

  She simply couldn’t get past the idea that he thought she’d abandoned him…and he still showed up to rescue her.

  What kind of man did that? I swear to you that I’ve never loved anyone else. Physically or emotionally.

  Her stomach was roiling, and not just because the plane had just survived a jostling of air pockets somewhere over Japan.

  How could she have been so very wrong?

  Because she’d only seen what her fears—and hurt—had allowed her to see. That he didn’t really want her. That nobody really wanted her.

  She needed to stop translating everything through the lens of her greatest fears.

  “I’m fine! Sit down!”

  She didn’t actually hear him, but he had enunciated so clearly, it was comical.

  She sat, her back against some ridiculous foam padding strapped to the hull of the plane, her body on a hard, wooden bench. She was shivering under his jersey, and according to her watch, they still had ten hours to go.

  Wyatt’s arm went around her and pulled her close. He was shivering too.

  Perfect. They weren’t going to die from an assassin’s bullet. Just good, old-fashioned hypothermia.

  It was her fault, really.

  She’d never been to Vladivostok and hadn’t realized the train station was about fifty thousand miles from the airport.

  She’d also been lulled into a false sense of security when York had texted Wyatt with the news that they’d gotten an international medical pass for Mikka. They were booked on a flight to Seattle later that morning.

  Which meant York, Sarai, and Mikka were probably already in Seattle. So, she could release the tightly knotted breath she’d been holding since leaving Khabarovsk.

  They’d disembarked the train near the harbor. Ocean-going vessels were moored at long piers. Seagulls strutted down the boardwalk, and a great bell clanged from a nearby tugboat. The air stirred with brine and seaweed and the piquant odor of fish.

  Wyatt had been trying to text his teammates while she flagged down a cab under the sunlight of a beautiful day.

  That was the first time she asked if he’d be okay.

  He looked up at her question. “I’ll be fine. We just need to get to the airport. I can’t get a hold of Deke. Or Kalen.”

  The wind raked through his brown hair, the sun lifting the copper from his beard, and when his brown eyes settled on her, the otherwise cool day heated to molten through her entire body.

  He’d behaved himself last night.

  And while yes, she knew it was so she’d feel safe, a deeper part of her easily remembered…

  Well, remembered.

  Admittedly, his words I walked away from you with so much shame I could hardly breathe felt a little like she’d been slapped, but maybe he was right. She couldn’t exactly look Gerri Marshall, her foster mom, in the eye after that.

  She’d trampled on their trust as much as Wyatt felt like he’d trampled over his family’s values.

  So probably, he was right. Starting over could keep them from opening old wounds, maybe.

  A taxi had driven up and she’d waved her hand, nabbing it. “Aeroport?” she asked, and the woman, in her mid-thirties, tattooed, and with her blonde hair pulled back, nodded.

  Coco had a momentary flashback of the woman on the train. Then Wyatt settled in beside her in the back seat, his presence large and in charge, and her heartbeat settled back down.

  He put his arm around her as they drove north of the city. “I got ahold of Deke and he said they were already aboard the flight.”

  She leaned forward and asked the woman to drive faster.

  The shiny, mirrored blue airport terminal rose in the distance. The driver pulled up, and Wyatt was nearly out of the car before it stopped. He handed the woman a wad of dollars and got out.

  He couldn’t stifle his moan, however.

  Coco kept up with his long legs by nearly running. He hit the terminal building and strode down the corridor, past purple sofas and a long information desk, and toward the Korean Air gate.

  He already had his passport out when he approached the desk. She dug out hers from her backpack. The last time she’d arrived in Russia, she’d used her American passport, with a visa her father had obtained for her.

  Once inside, she switched to her Russian credentials.

  It felt odd to be reverting back to her American self. But she smiled like an American and stood next to Wyatt, a little small in his shadow.

  “We need to get on the flight with the Blue Ox hockey team,” he said. “I’m booked on it and I need one more ticket.”

  The woman across from him was Russian but wore the red uniform of the Korean airline. She typed in his name, then took Coco’s passport and did the same.

  “I’m sorry, but the flight has already pulled away from the gate.”

  “No!”

  The outburst came with a slam onto the desk and even Coco had jumped. Wyatt let out a breath. “No. I need to get on that flight.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

  “Are there any other flights out today?” Coco asked sweetly, her good cop to his Cujo.

  “I’m sorry, this is the last flight until Thursday.”

  Both Coco and Wyatt blinked at her. “That’s five days.”

  “You could ask Aeroflot, but their next scheduled departure is three days from now.”

  Wyatt’s jaw had tightened. Ho-kay. She slipped her hand into his, squeezed.

  He looked down at her. “Nope. We’re getting out of here. Today.”

  He took her hand and headed toward the Aeroflot desk. “I need you to translate for me.”

  She nodded.

  Her words to him last night about being just like his father—driven, stubborn, and downright tough—came back to her as he talked first with an Aeroflot official, then someone in the back room, and finally, an Aeroflot flight manager.

  Somewhere in there he started handing out dollars. Lots of them.

  “Where did you—”

  “I came prepared to bail you out of gulag if I had to,” he said.

  “I would’ve had to have committed murder to need that much bail money,” she said as they finally exited the terminal, walking out to a cargo plane. An Antonov An-12.

  He glanced down
at her and lifted an eyebrow.

  “I would never do that.”

  “Your buddy York did.”

  “Actually, both were sort of accidents—”

  “Whatever. I don’t like him.”

  “Your sister does.”

  He drew in a breath. “One problem at a time, please.”

  The side door was open, a ladder leading up to the hatch. He climbed up and inside, and she followed.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Yeah. Well, “This is what ten thousand dollars buys you?”

  He made a face as she slid onto a hard bench. Between the benches was cargo—giant boxes strapped into the center.

  “I hope they show a movie.”

  He sat down, grimacing, onto the bench.

  “Oh, Wyatt. You’re going to be in so much pain.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out his Blue Ox jersey and handed it to her. “You’re going to get cold.”

  “No—what about you?”

  He reached over and pulled her close. “I’m a hockey player, remember? We’re made of ice.”

  Hardly. The man had molten fire living inside him. Especially when he looked at her like that.

  A man—maybe the captain—came back and handed them earphones.

  Right. Oh, this would be ultra fun.

  Wyatt made another face.

  And she just couldn’t stop herself. “This is the best ride home I’ve ever had.”

  The airplane had rumbled to life around them. “Put on your headphones, smarty pants.”

  That’s when the shivering had started.

  And it was getting worse.

  Around her, even the plane was shivering.

  Next to her, Wyatt got up. She looked at him, and he held out his hand.

  “What’s going on?” she shouted, but he said nothing, just pulled her toward the hatch at the front of the plane. He muscled it open.

  Beyond lay the crew quarters and the door to the cockpit. The warmth of the crew quarters flooded around her. Wyatt shoved her inside and closed the door behind him, pulling off his earphones.

  She did the same. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting my money’s worth.” The compartment was empty and he gestured to a couple side-by-side seats with faded green velour covers that had seen better days, but at least they wouldn’t rattle her teeth from her head. She sat.

  Wyatt eased down next to her.

  “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “I could use some ice,” he said quietly and gave her a half smile.

  “What if it gets worse? What will you do?”

  A flicker of what looked like panic flashed through his eyes, then he blinked it away. “I don’t know, actually. Being a goalie is all I am.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve seen you in front of the camera. You’re funny. And super photogenic.”

  “Ha.”

  “What about the ranch?”

  “No. I’m not a cowboy. I’ll leave that to Knox.”

  “Apparently, your brother Reuben is taking over.”

  “That’s what I heard. He and Dad were inseparable until he got hurt his senior year of high school. Was in a plane crash and broke both his legs.”

  “I think I remember that.”

  “It was right after you moved to Montana.”

  He put his arm around her again, and she leaned against him, staring out the window at all that blue.

  “You know, the first time I met your family, it was at a family campfire. You weren’t there—I think you might have been at hockey camp. They were roasting marshmallows at your backyard fire pit.”

  “Ma loves to do that.”

  “She taught me how to make a s’more. Your sister brought me a kitten from the barn and I sat there, petting that kitty, the sparks from the fire dancing into the night, the mountains in the background, chocolate on my tongue, and I thought…this must be what it feels like to know you’re going to be okay.”

  His arm tightened around her.

  “My father sent me to a private hospital in St. Petersburg to have Mikka. It had all the latest technology, plus a private birthing center. Mikka wasn’t an easy birth, and it wasn’t like my father was there—”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “When they brought him to me, he was all swaddled up, his chubby face sticking out, and I took him and just held him in my lap like I had that kitten. I rubbed my thumbs on his fat cheeks, over his perfect lips, and I sat in front of the window of my suite, staring out at the skyline and I thought…how will I keep him safe?”

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  “And then I thought…I’ll name him Marshall, after his father.”

  Wyatt’s breath caught.

  “That’s his real name. Marshall Stanley, or, in Russian, Marshall Marshalovich Stanislov.”

  Beside her, Wyatt had stopped moving.

  She looked up at him.

  His eyes had filled, his expression wrecked. “Marshall? I assumed it was Michael.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve been assuming a lot of things wrong lately.”

  “That would make him Marshall…Marshall?”

  She nearly didn’t say it. “I had to keep a part of you, and this was the only way I could think of.”

  He shook his head. “Coco. I love you. We belong together. You to me. And me to you. And we always have.”

  This time when he kissed her it wasn’t the soft, chaste kiss from last night. This held an outpouring of emotion and hope and passion that had her holding on to his shoulders, trying to keep up.

  Oh, Wyatt. I love you too.

  She was worried for nothing. Mikka was on his way to Seattle, and he’d be okay. She’d marry Wyatt, and maybe someday they’d move to Montana and…

  The plane shook. But she held on to Wyatt and for the first time stopped listening to her fears.

  10

  He wasn’t too late.

  This time.

  York had gone cold when he’d arrived at the hotel room, the door slightly ajar, and in a second, his brain went right there, to RJ dead in some macabre pose.

  A chilling gift from Damien Gustov.

  But RJ wasn’t dead. That thought drilled through York as he led RJ and her mother out of the hotel, down the street, and toward the relative safety of the sea of fish stalls, ethnic eateries, crafters, flower vendors, and buskers of Pike Place Market. The perfect place to hide inside while he figured out his next move.

  But oh, RJ had gotten a raw and brutal reminder of the danger of being around him.

  Gustov was making this cat and mouse game very, very personal.

  York had a grip on RJ’s hand, glancing over his shoulder occasionally at her mother—her mother—who’d taken a shot at him with her Sig Sauer.

  He’d simply glimpsed the gun, his reflexes kicking in to save him.

  He hoped he hadn’t hurt the woman when he disarmed her. That too had been pure reflex, but he’d pulled back before he did anything serious, like bring her to the ground.

  Poor woman had been shaking when he turned to RJ and yanked her into his arms.

  Ruby Jane.

  Despite himself, he nearly moaned with the sight of her. Just seeing her beautiful eyes widen as he appeared in the doorway of the hotel had heated him all the way through to his bones. Made him realize how cold he’d been.

  She looked amazing—her dark hair pulled back from her face, wearing a pair of faded jeans and a red T-shirt. He’d wanted to kiss her, to stop time and just escape into the realization of the moment.

  RJ. Her eyes shining. Glad to see him.

  He didn’t deserve the way she looked at him, like he might be her hero.

  This could not end well for either of them. Because it wasn’t only Gustov that he was running from.

  If the CIA knew he was back in the United States, he could find himself in a whole new layer of trouble.

  “Where are we going?” RJ asked.

  “
Pike Place Market.” He again shot a look at her mother.

  She was keeping up, her expression set on determined. Reminded him of RJ when she fixed her mind on something. The woman noticed him looking at her and gave him a small smile. “Sorry about shooting at you.”

  “You had the right instincts,” he said. “If it wasn’t me coming through that door, it could have been someone worse.”

  “Like Damien Gustov?” RJ said now, her fingers laced through his. “Do you think he was the one who texted me?”

  They stopped at a light. Across the street, a ferry had pulled up at one of the long piers. Down the boardwalk, the massive Seattle Great Wheel loomed, the briny smell of the harbor mixing with the scent of oil and debris from the busy port. To the east, the neon red Public Market sign rose above the farmers market.

  “This way.” They crossed the street.

  “York—what’s going on?” RJ said. “I don’t understand. How did you find me?”

  “He sent me a text too, although I thought it was from you. Told me to meet you at the hotel.”

  They crossed the street, passing the first kiosks of the market—tulip vendors, fresh donuts, a pottery shop, a busker playing a guitar.

  “He— York. What. Is. Going. On?”

  He pulled her down a side street and into a building.

  Chaos. Exactly what he was hoping for. Fish vendors, their wares stacked three bins deep, shouted at customers, tossing fish across tables. Snow crabs, lobster tails, and shrimp were embedded in piles of ice. Freshly caught fat salmon, cod, and halibut lay in piles, their skin shiny. Overhead fans stirred their fishy odor into the air.

  Across from the fish market, a specialty meats vendor was giving out samples of salami, other processed meats hanging in links from the ceiling.

  Down the tiled aisle, fresh flowers—gerbera daisies, English roses, and birds-of-paradise—emitted a robust mix of fragrances.

  More importantly, everywhere he looked, tourists, shoppers, and vendors provided the perfect cover.

  “In here.” York pulled them into an alcove next to a vegetable vendor, hiding them behind a crate of purple cabbages.

  Then he turned to RJ and just let himself take her in.