"I confirmed an enemy nuclear site, and we took it out."
He was being so stupid she couldn't stand it. "So you saved how many lives? Did you not think the devil manipulated the circumstances to stop you from using your gift for good?" she snapped. "Come on, Rurik, don't be an idiot. If you're going to battle the demons of hell, you'll need every weapon in your arsenal. Just be careful and don't change when you're around an idiot, that's all."
"Matt Clark was not an idiot."
"Any man who'll eject out of a perfectly good airplane into enemy territory for any reason is an idiot."
He laughed, a brief, violent burst. "That's what my sister said when it happened."
"Why didn't you listen to her?"
"She was seventeen, and I was ... I was pretty screwed up." He rubbed his forehead. "Maybe she had a point."
"Maybe she did." Tasya stopped beside the stone altar and looked out across the country. Her country. Right now, she needed to see the mountains, the valleys. To see as far as she could.
There was still a thread missing from his story. "You've got the ability to change into a hawk. To fly whenever and wherever you please. Your brothers can change into animals, too. So why do you want to break the pact?"
"If I don't—if we don't—my father is condemned to burn in hell for all eternity."
He, too, stared out at the distance.
"Can you. see farther right now?" she asked.
"No. When I change, my eyes are different. Visibly different." He turned to her, and his eyes looked like Rurik's. Like those of the man she loved.
How could she? How could she love a Varinski? How could she stand on the soil of her forefathers, betray her father and her mother, forget their deaths, and abandon her revenge?
No. No. She would not. She had come too far to change her course.
The knowledge of the icon burned in her mind. If she could somehow live through this meeting with the Varinskis, she could thwart Rurik. But ... if his story was true . . .
Her mind veered away before she allowed the thought to form. "Who told you that reuniting the icons would break the pact with the devil?" "My mother had a vision."
"Your mother had a vision," she repeated, deadpan. "And we believe this because . . . ?"
"Because I was there. Because something was speaking through her, and I saw it. Heard it."
"Does she do this often?" She used that really logical voice, the kind the guy on The History Channel used when he was explaining something simple for the hundredth time.
Rurik responded with a flash of red in his eyes. She'd dissed his mother, and she'd pissed him off.
Good.
"I've never seen her have a vision before, and more to the point, the first two parts of her prophecy immediately came to fruition. My father dropped like a felled oak. And my brother's woman found the first icon."
That shook her, but she hid it beneath mockery. "That must have frustrated you, to have a mere woman find one of the icons."
He considered her coolly. "My mother said, 'Only their loves can bring the holy pieces home.'" "What the hell does that mean?" "I think it means that perhaps I can find the icon, but it's up to you to take it to my family."
Panic hit first, starting her heart beating too fast. "I am not your love!" He smiled, a slow curve of the lips. Disappointment hit next, low and in the gut. "But if you think I am, it certainly explains a lot about why you've been hanging around with me instead of going after the icon by yourself." Thank God she'd found it. Thank God she had it. And if his story had made her waver, that little tidbit fired her resolution to diamond hardness.
"You are determined to make a difficulty where none exists. If the prophecy is true, if some greater power is working through my mother for good, do you believe that power would be fooled if I faked love for you?" He stared at her, demanding logic where all she wanted was to slip back into the old, familiar anger.
The anger was easier. So much easier. "I don't know. I don't know why I should believe you. All I know is what I've seen and heard and felt." She pointed. "My father used to pick me up and carry me to the tree down the hill, the symbol of the Dimitru family. He would climb with me to the top branches. He'd point out to the countryside—almost the same view as we see from here—and he'd say, 'This tree has grown on our mountain since the dawn of time. It symbolizes the Dimitru royal blood, and as long the tree grows and flourishes, so shall the Dimitrus.' "
Rurik tried to put his arm around her. She pushed him away. "Do you know what happened? The dictator Czajkowski hired the Varinskis to kill my family, kill us all, and he gave special instructions that the tree be burned so everyone in Ruyshvania knew their royal family would never return."
Rurik physically took her in his embrace, restrained her when she struggled. "Tasya, honey, why don't you cry?"
"Don't you think I wish I could?" She hated this. She didn't want to feel this ripping, tearing anguish in her guts, and if she had to, she really didn't want him to see it. "I still hear the screams. I still see the flames. 1 dream of my parents burning in agony, of the tortures they put my father through, of the people who died for us, and I bleed for the Ruyshvani-ans who lost a child or a parent. They curse our name, I know it, and I want to do something to bring them peace. I want to destroy the Varinskis for them."
She wanted to be as strong as she pretended to be, not this weak child who didn't dare look on the remnants of her life for fear she'd break apart.
Worse, his touch steadied her, although why it should, she didn't know.
And that was another betrayal of her parents, a betrayal so much more painful. In a rage of pain and fury, she said, "So your family can call yourself Wilders if you want, but scratch a little deeper, and you're Varinskis. You always knew what I was seeking, and you kept the truth from me. I will never forgive you for lying to me. For using me. I will never forgive you."
Chapter 27
Rurik looked at Tasya for a long time. The bones of his face seemed carved of granite. His eyes were brown, yet heated by red flames. The curve of his mouth was cruel. And his body was as still and as strong as a predator's as it waited to deal death. Tasya realized something—she had never really feared him.
She feared him now.
In a voice as cold as the Arctic, he asked, "What is your petty damned revenge when compared to breaking a pact with the devil?"
She could scarcely catch her breath for outrage . . . and terror. "Petty?"
"If you manage to find the icon, and if you manage to bring it to National Antiquities, and if they manage to document it thoroughly enough to prove your theory about the Varinskis is the truth, then you'll go on the morning shows and get your publicity. You'll get your book published and maybe, if you can keep the world's attention for more than fifteen minutes and if the Varinskis don't threaten or bribe the jury, Yerik and Fdoror Varinski will go to prison." Rurik slowly closed his hands on her arms, leaned down to eye level, and stared at her so directly, she dared not blink. "Where they'll live like kings and get out in six months for good conduct."
"But the bad publicity—"
"Will do what? Give them a little black eye in the assassination business, and bring them to the attention of the world? Who will undoubtedly be fascinated by their evil." He gestured toward the east, toward the Ukraine and the Varinski home. "Sixty Minutes will send some old-guy reporter to interview Boris. The publishing company you've pinned your hopes on will rush to give them a contract and a ghostwriter to sensationalize their tale. Before you know it, there'll be a movie and a television mini-series about them. But it won't matter to you."
She stiffened. "Why not?"
"You won't live long enough to see any of it."
"I'm not afraid to die."
"Then you're a fool, because the Varinskis are like adolescent boys in the most successful gang in history. They have no conscience. They love to torment the helpless. And they'll beat you, kill you slowly, and rape you while they do it."
&
nbsp; "Like they did my mother?" She fought back, but she knew she was losing ground.
"Like they did your mother," he agreed. "But let's talk about the flaws in your plan. National Antiquities hasn't got the security to keep the icon safe."
"They have good security!"
"The proof will be gone before the first expert looks at it. So the rest of the plan is already a bust. Oh, except the part about you dying. They will kill you."
She lifted her chin. "They're going to anyway. I'm the Dimitru that got away, and the Varinskis don't leave survivors."
"That's true." Rurik straightened. "But if you can get to my family in Washington, they can protect you."
"How would I get there without leading the Varinskis to them?"
"I'll tell you how to get there, and I'll provide the distraction."
"The hell you will!"
"We've run out of options. One of us has to come out alive to find the icon."
"You're the only one who has a chance of surviving."
"I'm also the only one who can fight the Varinskis. Listen to me. If you could find that icon and take it to my family, we have a chance of defeating the devil." He took her shoulders and shook her lightly. "Think about it. If we can put an end to the pact, the Varinskis would be nothing more than a bunch of pathetic humans who don't know how to function in the real world. No one would be afraid of them. They'd be vulnerable to prosecution. They would have lost everything. Look at the big picture, Tasya! There's your revenge!"
He'd backed her into a corner, and worse—he done it by making her face the facts.
Her plan never had a chance of succeeding.
At least one of them was going to die.
And that was the ultimate failure.
Frustration held her in its heated grip. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to be in a corner. I want—"
"What do you want?"
You.
Rurik and a return of her naive belief that if she just got her hands on the proof, she could defeat the Varinskis and find peace with her parents' deaths.
Rurik and some semblance of the comfort he'd given her on the train.
Rurik and that vague sense that this was a man she could love.
But now she'd seen him change into a predator,.. . She'd seen proof of the devil and his work. Every dream crushed . . . and Rurik had crushed
them.
With a growl, she dropped the backpack and the burden of the icon, and heaved them under the altar.
She shoved him in the chest. She shoved him with all her might.
He barely swayed.
He was immovable: strong, tall . . . right.
It felt good to shove him, so she did it again,
And again.
And he, who had been standing there a pillar of reason and calm, picked her up, crushed her against him, and kissed her.
Not a kiss like the ones on the train. Not the gentle, slow, reassuring seduction of mouth against mouth, but a kiss of heat, fury, and frustration.
He crushed her lips, opened them with his tongue, and took without asking.
She wanted that. For a few precious moments, she wanted the fire between them to burn away the painful truths and give her forgetfulness.
So she answered him with the same fierce passion, holding his head in her hands, sucking at his tongue, making him groan.
He adjusted his hands, cupping her bottom and
lifting her legs, matching them so that his erection rubbed against the seam of her pants.
She broke the kiss, arched her back, as orgasm, swift and unanticipated, burned through her.
He held her, thrust at her, prolonging the pleasure, but as soon as the passion crested, he turned, pressed her against the altar, and pulled her shirt over her head. He flicked her bra open with one hand and her belt with the other.
"You son of a bitch." Did he think he could strip her, just like that, and do her?
Not without getting naked himself.
She pulled his belt loose and unzipped his jeans with enough violence to make him mutter, "Careful!"
He shoved her pants down to her ankles.
She toed off her shoes, abandoned everything— Levi's and panties—then pushed his pants down. In one graceful move, she followed the pants to kneel before him.
"Careful!" It was more a grunt than a word.
She didn't need to be careful. She knew exactly what she was doing.
She took his erection in her mouth in a long, deliberate motion that moistened the silky skin. The tip felt like heated velvet, and she savored the first drop of semen, welling up and filling her with his taste.
Their nights together had been about him taking her, pleasuring her, indulging her. Now, here, at last and at least, she was in control.
She sucked on him, taking as much into her mouth as she could, then slowly releasing him.
His hips jerked as if he couldn't stand still. His dick twitched in her mouth. He swore, a long string of cursing that utilized desperate words and unknown languages. God, revenge was sweet.
He must have seen her smile, or who knows? Maybe he felt it, because he stripped off his T-shirt, toed off his jeans, leaned down, and picked her up by her armpits.
He lifted her, put her on the altar, spread her legs, and followed her up.
The stone was rough and warm beneath her back. He was scorching and ready above her, his dick squeezed so tightly against her, it was slick with come.
So she said, "No."
He stopped. His arms trembled as he held himself in position. His eyes were hot coals, and whips of red flame flickered in their depths. "No?" Would he stop if she told him? Fat chance. She grasped his arms. "You get on the bottom."
His chest heaved, and his teeth clenched. He looked down the hill toward the Varinskis, then back at her. "Woman, you push me too far."
But he did as she commanded. He rolled with her.
"Perfect." She sat up straight on him, groin to groin. Here, on top of the altar, she could see for miles— down into the valley, up the far mountain range, and through the horizon into eternity. Up here, they were on top of the world, and she was on top of him.
The breeze was just cool enough to make her nipples tighten ... or maybe his gaze aroused her. . . .
The contours of his mighty chest and arms shone in the sun, and the light dusting of dark hair emphasized the definition of each muscle. That tattoo, that wild, primitive tattoo, strutted across his skin in a bright, archaic design. His lids drooped as he watched her, half-concealing his eyes, but she saw the truth. Deep within his pupils, the red flames flickered more strongly.
He was a predator. He was wild. He was savage.
And for this moment, she had wrested power from him.
She stretched her arms over her head, laughing in a wicked burst of triumph.
He reached for her.
She caught his wrists in her hands.
For a moment he resisted. Then he allowed her to bend his arms over his head.
She stretched out on him, the hair on his chest lightly brushing her breasts. She smiled into his face. "I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
She laughed again, and slid her tongue into his mouth.
He dueled with her, his tongue against hers, wet and warm.
He let her hold him captive, yes.
But he moved between her thighs, heightening her sensations, tempting her . . . but she was strong. She didn't take him inside. Instead, she rode his hard-on in gentle waves, pleasuring herself without giving him a damned thing—except, perhaps, the satisfaction of knowing that with nothing but the memory and the promise of his dick inside her, touching that place deep within, he could make her want him.
She wanted to provoke him to madness.
And maybe she did. But two could play that game, and while she provoked, he drugged her with sensation. He plumped her breasts in his hands, moving her nipples in the rough hair on his chest. His mouth slid away from hers,
along the ridge of her jaw to her ear, then down her throat in a long, slow, damp caress.
Her heartbeat strengthened. She was alive as she had never been in her life—perhaps because death hovered so close -
Shuddering with need, she pulled away from the addictive intensity of his mouth.
She sat up again, but she wasn't laughing this time. Blind with lust, she groped between their bodies, took his dick in her fist, and held it, squeezed it, knowing that she could finish him with the stroke of her hand, trying to convince herself she could live without him inside her.
But she couldn't. This might be, probably would be, the last time they had sex. Even if they both lived, could she sleep with the enemy?
No. No. This was it. The last time.
"Do it." He watched her, his face hard-edged with need, and she would have sworn he knew every thought in her mind. "You've tormented me enough. Do it now."
She placed him at the entrance to her body and pressed down, taking him inside. She was wet with desire, but her tissues yielded slowly, wrapping around him, and he groaned as if he were in agony.
Yes. If this sex, this dilemma, this pleasure, broke her will and stole her breath away, then it was only right that it should be a two-edged sword.
That night on the train, it had seemed as if he'd been inside her every way possible, that they'd explored every sense, every feeling.
But no, this time was new, different. She was on top, in command. She set the pace, developed the
rhythm. As she rose and fell, the stone scraped at her knees. The sun shone on her head, on her shoulders. The scent of pine, fresh air, and Rurik filled her lungs. She saw Rurik, glorious, muscled, damp with sweat, beneath her.
He strained, his rugged face transformed by sunlight and dark obsession. Fierce passion colored his eyes. He held her thighs in his hands, flexing his fingers, lifting her, caressing her, over and over, as if he couldn't get enough of touching her. She could almost see the restraints he placed on himself—he was one second, one motion, one breath, away from seizing command of the day and of her.
He possessed the power, and as he held himself back, his power grew.
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