by Cat Johnson
Tristan hesitated, looking as if he was considering Alex’s suggestion. He finally nodded. “All right. We go in pretending to be a drunk couple who snuck away from the party looking for a place to get amorous.”
She nodded as I frowned, not sure I liked that plan. But it was too late. With barely a backward glance, they were gone, leaving me behind as they moved down the hall toward the storage room.
If I were honest with myself, I’d admit I was pouting not only about being left behind, but also about the fact the smooth Brit was about to get handsy with the woman I’d considered my girl for a couple of glorious, delusional days.
Even if it was a lie on her part, it hadn’t been on mine and I really didn’t like the idea of him touching her. Kissing her. Even pretending to be with her.
I jumped as the sound of the elevator moving broke into my self pity.
I tried to calm myself by reviewing the many reasons why that elevator was in use. There was still a party happening on the fifth floor. Guests arriving late, other guests leaving early. Any number of them could have called for the elevator rather than take the escalator up and down all those flights.
It was a perfectly reasonable explanation . . . until I watched the numbers above the elevator change, creeping closer and closer to the floor I was standing on, and then stop.
Holy shit.
Those doors were going to open and I was standing right there in front of them in full view of whoever was inside.
Maybe the guard had come to check on Viktoria.
It didn’t matter who it was, I didn’t want to be seen here where I didn’t belong. I didn’t trust myself to be able to pull off a ruse like Tristan and Alex were—pretending to be drunk and lost or whatever. It was safer to just stay out of sight.
Luckily for me this floor, like the other one we’d been on, wasn’t lacking in doorways.
I spun and held my breath while I turned the doorknob, hoping it wasn’t locked.
It opened and I slipped into the darkened office, leaving the door open just a crack so I could peer out.
I didn’t have to see the two men to be concerned because I heard them speaking to one another—and they were speaking in Russian. But what I did see from my hiding spot had my breath catching in my throat.
The pair of men had guns and they were already out.
I fumbled with my cell and punched in a text to Zane in all caps.
WARN TRISTAN! 2 ARMED RUSSIANS HEADING HIS WAY.
I cursed Alex one more time for taking my best means of communication with Zane from me when she smashed my comm, but at least I still had the cell . . . and I had her gun.
My eyes widened when I remembered that.
Should I follow the men? It was two against one but I did have the element of surprise on my side. Although they would too if Zane hadn’t gotten the text and warned Tristan.
I glanced at the cell and saw no reply. That could be because he was busy talking to Tristan. Or it could be because he hadn’t checked his phone.
I had to follow up.
DO YOU COPY?!
Thank God for autocorrect—that was a sentence I never thought I’d ever say or even think. But with the adrenaline making my hands shake, I butchered the text and somehow the program fixed it for me and correctly—proof miracles did happen.
Zane’s reply lit up my screen sending a glow throughout the dark room.
Copy
I blew out a breath. At least he’d get word to Tristan and Alex, but would it be in time? How long was this hallway anyway? How far away was the storage room?
I didn’t know the answer.
Leaning into the hall I strained to hear any sound. If I heard gunshots I was going in. It didn’t matter if I didn’t know Viktoria, barely knew Tristan and didn’t trust Alex, I couldn’t leave them alone and not try to help if the shit hit the fan.
The museum guards wouldn’t even know if anything happened because Tristan had looped the monitors for this wing. I supposed I could call for the guards. Or even 9-1-1.
Explaining the situation to the cops would be interesting but we could deal with that issue later—once we were all safe and alive.
A loud noise from down the hall made me jump. What was it?
It was too far away to tell. Had it been a gunshot or something else?
Shaking harder than before I typed in a text to Zane.
I HEARD SOMETHING! GUNSHOT?
It felt like an eternity until his reply came back, although I’m sure it was mere seconds.
Stay put.
Stay put. Easy for him to say.
My mind raced. One noise. Possibly one gunshot. There were two unidentified armed Russian men, three people total in that clandestine meeting of Viktoria’s, and then Tristan and Alex.
So the question remained, if that had been a gunshot, from whose gun did it originate and, more importantly, who had been the target?
TWENTY
I remained frozen with indecision when the sound of male voices had me backing into my hiding place once again.
Russian words caught my ear and I vowed to learn the damn language if I got out of here alive.
The men passed my position and headed to the elevator.
They stood, nonchalantly waiting for it to come, as if they hadn’t just possibly left a body bleeding out behind them.
One began speaking. I couldn’t see, but since it was a one sided conversation I assumed he was talking on a comm or cell phone. I seriously hoped he wasn’t reporting to his superior the successful elimination of whoever their target was.
That I didn’t hear anything else was extremely odd. No screams. No sirens. No voices at all except for the two Russians by the elevator.
I was deciding if that was comforting or disturbing when the elevator opened and the men stepped inside.
The doors slid shut and the sound of the voices faded.
That was it. I’d had enough of hiding and staying put. I needed to find out what had happened.
I popped my head out of the doorway. With a glance at the elevator to make sure the coast was clear I took off down the hall toward where I’d heard the sound.
My hope was to find the rest of my team—upright and breathing.
Dress shoes were not made for running, but I made progress, sprinting past closed doors that looked more office than storage until I reached the end of the hall.
There I skidded to a stop at what I saw. The doorknob was mangled, as if someone had shot the lock.
That explained the sound I’d heard but didn’t answer the more pressing question—where was everyone?
I should call or text Zane. I could also head back to the party and wait for Tristan and Alex to come out of hiding. I did neither.
Instead I pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Silence greeted me. I decided I’d had enough of the silence and enough of being in the dark, both figuratively and literally. I flipped on the lights.
“Tristan!” I had no patience as I waited for a reply. “Alex? Viktoria? Dammit, someone answer me!”
“You need to learn to do as you’re told.” Tristan stepped out of the shadows. The cocky crooked grin on his face was such a relief I couldn’t even be angry at his words.
“Thank God.” A breath whooshed out of me. “I heard a shot. I was worried. Is everyone okay?”
As I looked around the space I heard more voices speaking Russian, but this time they were female.
Viktoria. And Alex? I saw them now through the open shelving of the storeroom.
It shouldn’t be a surprise Alex spoke Russian. Nothing that woman did could surprise me anymore. Though the overwhelming relief that she was all right shocked the hell out of me.
Maybe I did have it in me to forgive her—eventually.
Tristan stepped closer and glanced at the doorway. “Russians shot the lock. They gone?” he asked.
“Yes,” I answered, hoping it was the truth. “I waited until they got on the elevator then came
to investigate. Who were they?”
Tristan shrugged. “Could be anyone. NSB. Putin’s henchmen. Viktoria’s daddy’s men. Who knows?”
“Jesus.” That list of possibilities, here on US soil and at the MoMA no less, did not make me feel better.
Tristan’s gaze met mine. “Thanks for the warning. You saved us from quite a mess. We were able to hide before they got here.”
So that’s what had happened. The Russians found an empty room and thought their target had left. But that didn’t explain what was happening here in the first place.
“Care to explain what’s going on there?” I tipped my head toward Viktoria, the two men who looked as pale and shaken as I felt, and Alex who seemed perfectly calm in spite of it all.
Tristan followed my gaze. “Apparently Alex speaks fluent Russian.”
I cocked up a brow. “Yes, I see that. But what was Viktoria doing creeping around here in the first place, and why were two armed men tailing her? Did we stumble upon some sort of smuggling ring?”
It was quite obvious that this wasn’t just a donor taking a tour of the collection, even to me, a novice at this spy stuff.
“Actually, we did in a way. However, she’s not smuggling art, but rather artists.”
My gaze shot to him. “What?”
“My Russian isn’t quite as good as Alex’s—which is quite flawless by the way—but from what I’ve gathered, Viktoria is helping that man flee his country.” Tristan nodded toward the man standing between Viktoria and Alex.
So many revelations came from that sentence I didn’t know which to focus on first. That Alex’s Russian was perfect—and what did that indicate about her? That Tristan also spoke Russian—of course he did. Why not? The man could do anything apparently. And finally—and this was probably the only thing I should be concerned about—that Viktoria was helping some artist defect.
“Why is he fleeing his country?” I asked, putting aside my petty personal concerns about Alex’s identity and Tristan’s perfection and settling on that last larger point.
“The subject of his art, and I’d wager his political leanings as well, has put him on Putin’s hit list. Viktoria got him into the country on her private plane. The museum curator is helping set him up with a place to live and work here in the States.”
I frowned. “I didn’t know being an artist was such a dangerous profession.”
“Under certain countries, it definitely is.”
It was like the plot of an action movie. I was still trying to wrap my head around it all when I asked Tristan, “What now?”
“Now you can go back to the party or home if you wish. We’re done here.”
“Done?” It didn’t feel done. The bad guys could still be in the building. Viktoria’s artist was still stashed in the storeroom of the museum. It felt like there were too many loose ends for this to be over. “What about him?”
“There’s a car waiting at the loading dock to take the artist away.”
“But what if the two Russians are down there waiting for him?”
“Zane’s computer expert has gained access to a camera across the street. He’s got eyes on the car and the surrounding area. It’s clear, but I’m going down with them to make sure.”
“So you don’t need me?” I asked.
“No. We’re good, mate. Go get yourself a drink. You deserve it.”
“Okay.” Why was I feeling so let down?
Maybe because if this had been an action movie, there’d be some sort of conclusion. A happy ending. At least a kiss before the hero left his lady and drove off into the sunset.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.
I glanced at Alex, still chatting in Russian, and then back to Tristan. “I think I’ll skip that drink and just head out.”
And then have a drink—or three—once I was safely home, alone in my apartment.
I had a feeling I was going to need it.
TWENTY-ONE
The day ended completely differently than it had started.
I’d left for the museum happy with Alex in my passenger seat. I’d driven home alone and depressed.
The malaise followed me all the way back to Jersey where I unlocked the door of my apartment. The place I’d spent twenty-four hours getting to know Alex.
Now I knew I hadn’t known her at all.
The wet towels from our showers were gone. Washed and folded and put away. The bed, the scene of so much of my recent time with her, was made. The sheets were probably freshly washed as well, knowing my overachieving housekeeper who’d come to clean, expecting me to be in Virginia by now.
But none of that erased the memories . . . or the anger. Or the underlying ache that bordered on pain colored with disappointment.
I’d lived alone my whole life and never minded it. Enjoyed it actually, but for the first time my home felt lonely.
At a loss for what to do with myself, I moved to the kitchen and stood in front of the open refrigerator door. I’d never gotten around to eating anything at the event and it was well past dinnertime now. I should be hungry, but I wasn’t really. This felt more like restlessness not hunger.
When the doorbell rang I closed the fridge and moved toward the door. I reached for the knob and then hesitated.
I’d gotten a good look at the more sinister side of life recently. The world of spies and defectors. I’d been up close and personal with good guys and bad and those who operated in that gray space in between.
For the first time ever I considered who might be on the other side of the door and if it was safe to open it.
It didn’t matter if the building was secure. The museum was supposedly secure too and I’d watched the guards be misdirected and deceived easily by both Alex and Tristan and their various skills.
Blowing out a breath I chided myself for even worrying. My days as ad hoc spy were over. My world consisted of board meetings and emptying my inbox once again. No one was coming to my apartment to get me.
I should be so lucky to have that kind of excitement in my life—and I should be institutionalized for that last thought because a man in his right mind wouldn’t wish for that kind of excitement, no matter how mundane his life felt without it.
Without further consideration, I yanked open my door and drew back at who stood there.
“Alex.” My powers of scintillating conversation seemed to have gone out the window and that was the best I could come up with.
“Brent.”
Against my will my pulse raced just at the sight of her at my door. “Why are you here?”
“You’ve got my gun.” Her answer was matter of fact. The look in her eyes was anything but.
If I trusted my instincts I’d say she was as affected emotionally by our meeting as I was.
Unfortunately, I had proof I couldn’t trust my instincts so I dismissed that idea . . . or at least tried to. The shadow of it remained because I wanted her to be hurting too. I liked the idea that she, like me, had gotten attached only to feel the pain of suddenly being unattached again.
“If I give it back to you, are you going to shoot me?” I asked. Sadly, it was a serious question.
I should probably take the bullets out before returning the weapon to her. It would give me a few seconds head start. Me against a trained operator—I figured I could use any advantage I could get.
“No.” Her gaze dropped away. “Can I come in?”
When she brought her eyes back up to mine, I had a memory of the shy version of Alex I’d gotten to know first.
Then I remembered that had also been the fake, lying, manipulative honey pot Alex grooming me.
I moved back and she took the few steps forward that brought her inside my apartment. I closed the door, telling myself I’d only let her in because this wasn’t a conversation I wanted the neighbors to hear.
It was probably better if they didn’t see me handing over a gun in the hallway either.
It took me a second to locate the jacket I tossed on the
back of the sofa when I’d arrived home. The gun in the pocket made it hang low over the side.
I reached inside and extracted the weapon from the fabric and then went the extra step to pop out the clip and check the chamber for a bullet like Zane had drilled into my head during our hour at the range. Hey, I pay attention sometimes.
I pocketed the clip and handed the gun to her, watching her react in response.
When she didn’t turn to leave, but seemed to be waiting for something, I said, “You’re not getting the ammunition so . . .”
She raised her gaze to meet mine. “Can we talk?”
I let out a sigh, feeling the weight of the past few days hit me.
“Why?” A lot had happened in a short amount of time and now that it was over, I wanted it to be just that—over. Talking wouldn’t change or help anything. “What do you want from me, Alex?”
She laid down the gun on the table next to my keys.
Somehow, after all I’d been through today, the juxtaposition of those two items on my table didn’t look as odd as it should.
“It wasn’t—”
“It wasn’t what, Alex? All a lie? I wasn’t a job?” I was getting nice and mad, ramping up for a good fight when Alex took a step forward.
“Shut up.” Her lips crashed against mine as she attacked me, pressing me back with the force of all that lean muscle I’d admired.
I expected her to attack me. I didn’t expect her to kiss me.
And crap, I kissed her back.
There was nothing loving about it. It wasn’t a healing kiss. It was hard and angry and God how I needed it.
Tangling her hair in my fist, I yanked her head back and thrust my tongue against hers. I backed her up until she smashed against the wall. I broke the kiss long enough to utter a curse. At her. At myself.
I hated her for lying to me but I still wanted her. For that I hated myself.
None of it mattered anyway. My desire was like an out of control freight train. There was no stopping it now.
Shoving all of my many emotions aside, I knew I was going to do it. I was going to fuck her.
And that’s exactly what it would be. Fucking. This wasn’t going to be making love. Nope. It was much too late for that. We were well past that.