by Jaycee Clark
• • •
Darya skipped alongside Rori as they walked down the hallway. The carpet tickled her feet. A door opened and the other little girl came out, dressed to go somewhere. She said something to them and then raced down the hallway and stairs.
Darya looked up at Rori and wondered where the other girl was going.
She knew they were going swimming. She’d gone yesterday and seen the pool, and the other nice lady had given her this pretty suit. It was purple and had sparkles on it.
Down the stairs, to the back of the house, past the hallway that lead to the kitchen. She sniffed. Waffles. She loved waffles, and she even got them with strawberries here and lots of whipped cream.
They were going swimming. She knew how to swim. A fogged memory of her jumping to Papa in the water floated unattached through her.
She shook it off and hurried Rori along, pulling on her hand.
Rori shook her head, smiling, and said something, “. . . down.”
Down? She thought of that word, tried to whisper it . . . d. duh. Duh-own. The door to the pool room was ahead.
She ran and tried to reach it.
Rori laughed and reached for her hand, but she darted free and ran across the tiles and jumped into the pool.
As the water closed over her head, she heard a yell.
• • •
Ian jerked his head up at the holler and saw a flash go into the pool.
Darya!
He took off across the pool. God.
His heart slammed in his chest. Rori dove into the pool.
Where the hell was she?
A dark head, slick as a seal, popped up right in front of him just as he reached her, and her grinning face met his. Water dripped off her nose.
A delighted laughter chimed out of her and bounced around the confined area.
His heart still slamming against his ribs, he grabbed her to him. “You can swim.”
Rori broke the surface. “Ian!”
“I’ve got her.”
Darya leaned back and wiggled out of his arms. He let her go, cautiously, and watched her swim to the side, dip under and flip. She popped up giggling.
The sight eased everything inside him.
Rori swam up to him. “She can bloody swim. That would have been nice to know before I died of a heart attack.”
Smiling, he pulled her to him and kissed her, keeping one eye on Darya pulling herself out, only to turn back around and jump back into the water.
“Damn, I panicked,” Rori muttered, shoving against him. “I never panic.”
Laughing, he pulled her with him, wiping water out of his face. “Kids apparently are a different ball game.”
“Wouldn’t know.”
He thought of what she’d told him last night. The fact she’d stayed with him. “I thought you’d be tired and still asleep.”
She stood waist-deep in water, the one-piece swimsuit molding her like a leopard-print glove. His gut tightened and he stepped toward her.
She backed up. “No.”
He grinned. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I left mine upstairs,” she said, shoving water at him. “Which is precisely where you should have left yours.”
He laughed, grabbed her wrists and jerked her to him. “I never leave my sense of adventure anywhere.”
She wrapped her arms around him as they stood in the center of the pool. “Well, it better currently be left at one location.”
“Jealous? That just warms my heart to hear you say.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why does your family have two pools?”
Trying to change the subject . . .
“Probably because one can’t swim outside in the winter and they wanted an indoor pool bigger than the one outside. I have no idea. Don’t care.”
She shook her head and he reached up, running his hand over the short hair. “Your hair is shorter than mine. And it is just so bloody sexy.”
Her eyes narrowed and then cleared.
Darya yelled to him. “Ian!”
He jerked around at the sound of his name from the child at the side. Slightly disjointed, not a smooth sound, but precious all the same.
“G’blimey, she speaks.” Rori let go of him and he swam out deeper, standing in front of Darya, who stood on the side.
She grinned and he realized he hadn’t ever seen her this happy. This total child exuberance over something as simple as jumping in the water. He wanted to see this excitement, this pleasure in her all the time.
She leaned down, bent her knees, and touched the pool edge on either side of her toes. Then she pushed off and dove cleanly into the water, swam to him, and popped up giggling again.
“Maybe I should put her in swimming and diving lessons,” he thought aloud.
“Next you know,” Rori said, from her perch on the side of the pool, her thighs wet from the water, “she’ll be in ballet lessons or some such.”
He shook his head and met Rori’s gaze. “I was thinking more karate.”
“Thank God. Ballet is beyond me.” Then she shook her head. “I think tae kwon do would be better.”
He looked at Darya smiling up at him and nodded. “You may be right. We could start teaching her now.”
Rori nodded then frowned.
God, they sounded like . . .
Rori smiled, stood and dove in.
Ian shook his head and focused on Darya. He tossed her high and caught her, her giggles belly deep and heartening, even as they were alien to his ears. But he didn’t care. He wanted to hear them again and again.
Ian held Darya in his arms as they swam in the indoor pool. He held her under her arms and swung her through the water in a circle around him, water spraying Rori, who splashed them back.
Her giggle tickled inside him and he wanted to hear it again. And again.
“You’re going to make her sick you keep going in circles like that,” Rori told him as she began her own lap across the pool.
“Get your workout out of the way and then you can play.”
She glared at him and took off.
This time, Ian tossed Darya in the air, then caught her just as she hit the water, splashing water up above his head.
He was leaving in two days and knew right now he didn’t care. Right now was about now.
A woman he was probably in love with swimming laps, a daughter who barely spoke English, brought to life hope in him he’d long ago forgot existed. This was what was real.
At least for the present.
He didn’t want to think about tomorrow.
Chapter 25
November 17, 7:03 p.m.
The dinner was quiet. Brayden and his family were leaving in the morning for a trip to Louisiana to see Christian’s family. He made certain they were taking Tanner with them. He and his brother had argued, but at the threat of just sticking them in a damn safe house, he’d finally won.
Aiden and Jesslyn were thinking of flying out to Colorado. He was trying to talk them into it. But then John needed to go and he needed John with him or maybe here when he left.
He still hadn’t told anyone he was leaving.
The doorbell rang, and silverware clinked against china as everyone turned to the doorway.
Ian shook his head. Pete stood there, his expression grim. “I apologize for interrupting your dinner.” He nodded to both of Ian’s parents. Then those eyes zeroed in on him. “Something’s come up.”
Ian wiped his mouth, laid his napkin on the table and walked out of the room, meeting Rori’s questioning look.
Again, they walked back to his father’s study. When the door was shut, Pete wasted no time. “We need to move the date up a bit.”
Ian walked around the desk and sat down. “Why? I thought it was all set for this weekend.”
Pete nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “It was, but with the leak, I figured if we moved early, the chances of complications arising would be slim.”
Ian frowned. T
rue.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
Ian sat forward. “Tonight?”
Pete nodded.
Ian’s mind raced. There were still things to do, things to see to. Before he’d just packed up and left anytime he needed to. But now?
Now he had Rori, Darya . . .
The rest of his family.
He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. “What time?”
Pete paced, seemingly lost in thought.
“Pete.”
“Oh, as soon as you’re ready. Can you dress here? And how long will it take?”
“To become,” he dropped his voice and added the accent back, “Dimitri Petrolov.” He glanced at the clock on his father’s desk. Almost seven. “At least an hour. I need to make my hair a bit longer.” At least he hadn’t shaved in two days. There was one bright side to his migraine. He would look more the part of the hired hit man.
“This is going to go smoothly,” Pete said.
“Pete, things can always go wrong, my friend.” How easily he could slide back into lives he wanted to leave behind. “You waiting?”
Pete nodded.
“Then go to the dining room and get something to eat. God knows there’s enough.” With that Ian hurried upstairs to his and Rori’s room. He took the black bag down off the top shelf of the closet and walked to the bathroom.
Inside was a case. He opened it. To one side were pieces of hair. He hated hair extensions. They took too damn long. He could go with the wig. He glanced at his watch. He’d have to use the wig.
He pulled off his shirt, grabbed another from his closet and pulled it on. The tight black T-shirt would do.
He pulled on the dark wigcap, looking one way then the other to make certain it was straight. Next came the adhesive. He hated the stuff but was left with little choice unless he wanted to spend hours with the extensions. He’d rather use the water-soluble adhesive, but then he ran the risk of the wig coming off too soon.
He grabbed the wig and slid it on, straightening it as he needed to, careful not to get the longer strands of dark hair in the adhesive. That was always a bitch. Looking in the mirror, he straightened the wig and studied it.
It wasn’t a perfect match. His natural hair had fallen differently. Taking the conditioning spritz, he sprayed the wig and tried to style it. The longer strands hung down to his chin.
In the harsh lights of the bathroom, he saw his image. Another face. Another person.
Self-loathing on a whole new level. Fuck.
He fisted his hands and leaned into the countertop, arms extended, his head hanging down. The need to punch something rose up in him, but he shoved it away.
The vacation was nice, but this was life.
Ian took a deep breath and shook his head. Didn’t have time for this shit. Just get the damn job done.
He straightened and stood, being critical of the image in the mirror. Dimitri Petrolov.
Dimitri Petrolov.
He relaxed his jaw, pulled his brows a bit more.
Thinking of Elianya and Hellinski, letting his mind float to Nero’s and things he’d been ordered to do, he watched as Ian Kinncaid slid further and further away and Petrolov started to take over.
“Dobry den,” he muttered into the mirror and rolled his shoulders. Shades. He needed his shades. Black. He’d borrow John’s. They were the same brand Petrolov used.
“Dimitri Petrolov,” he said again, the accent as natural to him as it had been a month ago.
He rubbed his jaw. Too bad he didn’t have more of a shadow, but then in several hours his jawline would be even darker. He stared hard at the mirror. In the bedroom, he strapped on his firearm, pulled on a jacket and a long black coat.
Back in the bathroom, he packed up his bag, made certain there were other wigs in the bottom of his makeup case, adhesive removal. Another passport.
Extra gun, clip.
What was he forgetting?
He scanned the room. He crammed a change of clothing in his bag, and the zipper ripped across the quiet room. On the nightstand was a computer-printed photograph his mother had taken that morning. He was holding Darya after their swim and both of them were grinning from ear to ear. He should leave it, but . . . The slick paper was cool against his finger. He picked it up. To hell with it, he thought, and shoved it into his breast pocket.
He was ready.
As he picked the bag up, he glanced in the corner at the full-length mirror. There was a reason he’d always hated mirrors.
The Reaper was back.
The hallway was quiet, and as he passed Darya’s doorway, he stopped. He pushed the door open, studying the lamp-lit room. He knew from something his mother had said today that this was now officially Darya’s room. Mom had already hired someone to come in and paint it a periwinkle blue. She’d asked Rori, who had looked panicked at the talk of decorating. A smile caught him off guard.
God, he didn’t want to leave. But if he left now, if he pulled this off—maybe, just maybe they wouldn’t have to leave later. He wouldn’t be running later, always looking over his shoulder in case one of Viktor Hellinski’s men had found him. He wished he had something to leave for Darya, something that said she was his and he’d be back, but nothing came to mind.
Still holding his bag, he turned from the room and looked up.
Rori stood in the doorway, dressed in beige slacks and a dark brown curve-following sweater.
She stared at him for a long moment.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, stepping into the room and shutting the door.
He opened his mouth.
“How long have you known?” she asked him.
“Since Monday, Tuesday, sometime. The hit was supposed to go down this weekend, but with the leak, Pete moved it.”
She nodded, her jaw moving slightly out, then in. “When were you going to tell me?” Her eyes flashed at him.
“When I needed to,” he answered.
Rori looked at the man standing in front of her and wondered what the hell was going on.
Gone was the laughing man from this morning, gone was the fading vulnerable man she glimpsed last night, gone was the man who smiled at his mother so she didn’t worry.
Here stood Dimitri Petrolov. Here stood the man she was hired to kill, who had killed just as she had, who had seen things and been part of things she could all too well imagine, the man who swore vengeance for the death of a young girl, and carried another from hell.
Bloody hell if she wasn’t in love with the both of them.
They were one and the same, all rolled together.
And then she realized it was a mirror, the opposite sex of herself.
She looked down and took a breath, still angry at him, but not nearly as angry as she had been.
“When are you leaving?” she asked him, leaning back against the door.
He walked to her and dropped the bag. “ASAP.”
“Where are you going? What are you doing? Dimitri Petrolov is not a man to be seen on the streets right now.” The anger was quickly coming back. She flexed her fingers. “People are blowing up your places, men are out looking for you. Are you insane, then?” She shook her head and walked around him, pacing to the French door, the sheers obstructing her view of the dead gardens and leaf-laden outdoor pool.
“I’ll be back in a couple of days,” he said quietly behind her.
“I’m coming with you.” She turned to him and dared him to disagree.
He did, shaking his head. “You can’t.”
“You can’t stop me,” she said, her heart thumping. “What the hell am I supposed to do, sit here and play nice with your family? What do I know about bleeding families?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He took a deep breath and raked his hand through the long strands of hair.
“That’s almost frightening,” she heard herself say.
“What?” he asked, confusion in his face.
“Is that a wig?” Th
en she shook her head. “Like that would bloody matter. I honestly don’t know how you do it. You don’t just look different, you somehow become different.” She studied him, watched the way his eyes darkened, hardened to dark stones.
“I’m just me,” he said, his voice low and edged. Yet she could almost hear a plea in it.
She cupped his face. “Yes, you are, thank Gawd, just you.” And I think I might be falling for you.
He turned his head, held her wrist and kissed her palm.
“You’ll watch her until I get back.”
She huffed out a breath. “I’m coming with you.” The idea of him waltzing down the streets worried her.
He shook his head and let her hand drop. “No, Rori, you’re not.” He picked his bag up.
That order. That right there. Her anger returned in a rush. “Just who the bloody hell do you think you are? I’m not yours to order about.” She stalked up to him just as he opened the door. “And you’re not going alone.”
His hand on the open door, he looked back at her over his shoulder, and again a shiver danced down her spine at his change. “You will stay here. And I’m not going alone.”
She growled. She couldn’t help it. Man made her barking mad. “Of course, how could I forget the esteemed Brasher.” She looked at the end of the hallway, where said man had just topped the stairs. Upon seeing them, he simply turned around and headed back downstairs. Smart man.
“You don’t order me about. They may think I’m your wife, but I’m not a damn lap dog that stays simply because you ordered it.” She looked at him, noted the muscle ticked in his jaw.
He stepped back and slammed the door. He took two steps to her and grabbed both her arms. His face in hers, his teeth clenched, his voice low and cold as an ice storm, he said, “You are most definitely mine, Lenora Maitland Kinncaid. You might not think this marriage is real, but it is legal in every damn way that counts.”
She blinked and tried to pull back, but his hands didn’t let go. She crossed her wrists then shot her arms out, hitting his.
He didn’t even flinch.
“Let me go.”
He jerked her closer. “Not until we get a few things straight. You’re independent, I admire that. I don’t want a fucking lap dog, doormat, little miss, or whatever the hell other label you want to stick on it.” Closer, his eyes blazed. “You might see this as just a cover, but legally it’s not. Your country, my country, whatever fucking country we’re in, you, Lenora Maitland, who signed said name to the marriage document with one Ian Rohnan Kinncaid. Both are legal names, the contract is legal and binding and that very much makes you mine.”