"I agree, but it's the middle of the night there right now."
Jasha picked up the phone and smiled with that toothy grin that always presaged trouble for his challengers. "All the better."
Chapter 31
Boris cut the connection and clutched his wiry hair in his hands.
Two Varinskis were dead.
And one his own son.
He had lots of sons; one more or less didn't matter.
But Gavrie had been the Varinskis' best tracker, eager and willing, good with electronics, yet he knew how to use a wolf predator's most important tool, the nose. He hadn't been too bright, but he'd been a powerful warrior. Yet why would the boy need those skills?
The sons of the degenerate Konstantine couldn't defeat a true Varinski.
Yet somehow this spit-wad son of Konstantine's had defeated Gavrie and left his body to be found and desecrated by the American police. Boris was no closer to knowing Konstantine's location so he could kill him and all his spawn—and reverse the decay of the great Varinski family.
True, he had given Jasha news to break a brother's heart and he knew he'd shocked the boy, but he also knew the boy didn't believe him.
For good reason. Rurik still lived.
But not for long. Not for long.
Boris wanted to roar, to go out in the great room and kick Varinski ass, but what good would that do? Most of the boys would sit there, their mouths hanging open, not understanding his fury. The ones who did understand would snigger and mock, and his son Vadim would watch him coolly and try to judge if now was the time to strike Boris down.
Power was slipping between Boris's fingers—and why?
Because of Konstantine and his bitch Gypsy. Because Konstantine betrayed his family. Betrayed everything the Varinskis stood for—murder, terror, and profit. For how could a family remain united when brother killed brother in defense of a mere woman? For the sake of . . . love.
Boris spit on the floor, then shouted for one of the women to come and clean it up. While she worked he paced, paying no attention to her flinching and her moaning.
At first, when Konstantine had killed his father, Boris and his brothers thought only of revenge. Boris had marshaled the forces of the Varinskis to track Konstantine and his wife—Boris spit on the floor again—to kill them both. Kill them hideously, slowly, painfully.
But Konstantine was too clever for them. The couple had disappeared off the face of the earth.
That had led to trouble. Boris's brothers and nephews had rumbled that Boris had failed them. Boris had had to assert his dominance through treachery and struggle. Thirty-five years ago, his mind and his reflexes had been clever and quick, and within a year he'd been firmly in command.
By then Konstantine's trail was cold, as was Boris's mind.
Let the traitor go. He didn't matter. What did matter was moving the Varinski operation into the modern world. Faxes, computers, tracking devices—the old leaders didn't like them, and old men don't change easily, but Boris was young. Boris had the chance to remake the family into a modern corporation with tendrils of terror that encompassed the whole world.
Even now, Boris thought it was a good plan.
Except that slowly it became obvious that the devil was displeased. The deal was unraveling.
First one son was born with a limp. Then another was missing a finger. Then one turned, and he "was not a wolf, or an eagle, or a tiger. He was a ferret, a small, sneaky, disgusting rodent with sharp teeth and beady eyes.
Never in a thousand years had such a change occurred.
Boris killed him, of course, before anyone knew.
But it was only the beginning. Within five years, other sons turned/ and they were snakes, and weasels—predators, yes, but not noble predators.
They made Boris shudder in revulsion.
Not all of the boys born were lesser beasts. But more all the time, and some of them, once they changed, never quite changed back.
Worse, for the first time, the ravages of time struck at the Varinskis. The boys' teeth rotted. The old men's fingers grew stiff. Uncle Ivan sat in the corner, blind, with a white film over his eyes, and that was the scariest thing of all.
For Uncle Ivan saw things, things no one else could see. Last year, in the dead of winter, he had said things to Boris. ...
Ivan's bent old fingers scrabbled to grab the front of Boris's shirt. With surprising strength, he pulled him close, and with breath that smelled of rot and a voice deep and unlike his own, he whispered, "For a thousand years, the pact with me has held firm. But now, Boris Varinski, it is failing. Every day hell's fire comes closer, for Konstan-tine and his whelps continue on this earth. Eliminate them, and you save the pact. Fail, and I will torment your soul through eternity." Ivan's eyes glowed, not red, like a true Varinski's, but blue like a coal.
Boris shuddered and pulled away—and knew he'd been handed an ultimatum from the devil himself.
The final straw occurred when Boris took a pack of the young ones hunting. They tracked their prey, a couple with a young son they'd been paid to remove, and during the fight, Boris was shot in the leg. He howled with pain, then laughed, then came home to mend.
The wound had healed, but not as quickly as wounds had in the past, and it left him with a twinge in his hip.
A twinge. A twinge! Varinskis did not suffer twinges. They healed at once. It was part of the pact—or the pact as it had been.
After a month, Boris went on a solitary hunting trip—for a doctor. He'd found one in Minsk. The weary young doctor obviously had never heard of the Varinskis, or didn't believe, or didn't care, because he took an X-ray and curtly told Boris he had arthritis.
Arthritis! He, Boris Varinski, the leader of the Varinskis, had arthritis! His grandfather had lived to be 127. It was said the great Konstantine himself lived to be 150.
And Boris . . . Boris was only 53.
Boris had killed the doctor, of course, and his only pleasure was seeing the man's futile struggles, seeing his eyes bulge and his cheeks turn purple, then black, and the light of life fade from his lying, stupid face.
Then Boris had gone home, secretly took his medicine, and told no one.
But always Vadim watched him, his eyes alight with malice.
Did the boy know? How? It wasn't possible that he had followed Boris . . . was it?
Lifting his head, Boris stared out into the yard where weeds grew above the fence and broken vehicles littered the ground, and his brain raced along the familiar track.
The Varinski troubles had started when his uncle Konstantine had grown soft and let that Gypsy bitch possess him.
So it followed that when Boris destroyed Konstantine and his whole family, then the devil would be pleased once more. Then the sons would become as they were before—whole, cruel, and noble. Then Boris would be well without twinges of age that foretold his downfall. And Vadim would slink back into the pack, his gaze downcast and his air respectful.
Yes. That was what would happen.
And now Boris knew how to bring Konstantine out of hiding.
Picking up the phone, he made a call to the Varinski stationed in Napa Valley.
In his office, Jasha sat on his weight bench and worked his biceps over and over until his mind cleared of anger and he could think once more.
Ann was right. Jasha had caught Boris off guard.
But Boris had caught Jasha off guard, too. In his heavy accent, he had said, "So I hear your brother has disappeared from Scotland. Perhaps he has met with an accident, heh? So dangerous, this archaeological excavation, and so unfortunate when bad things happen. Of course, should we come across his body, we'll ship him home to you. After all, you're relatives."
Jasha didn't believe him; they hadn't heard from Rurik since the explosion, but his brother was not so easily killed.
Yet the fact that the Varinskis were tracking Ru-rik's activities meant they'd wormed their way much further into the Wilder secrets than
Jasha had realized.
He needed to increase security at his home and his winery.
Ann stuck her head in the door. "How did it go?"
Most important, Jasha needed to keep Ann safe at all costs. "I've got to make another call, but I'll tell you about it later."
He watched as she nodded and backed out to give him privacy.
Tell her about it later?
Hell, he'd be lucky if she was speaking to him later.
Chapter 32
At five o'clock, Ann slipped the laptop into the case, turned to Jasha, and said, "I'm going to spend some time with Kresley. I'll come to your house later." She always called it your house—it was a small defense in the battle between them. She didn't expect Jasha to say anything except, Okay, I'll meet you at home.
Calling it home was his return volley.
Yet tonight, when his gaze met hers, his eyes were narrowed and rimmed in fire.
"What's wrong?" She thought she knew. The phone call to Boris had left Jasha intense and quiet. She recognized that attitude—he had instigated a plan he considered necessary, but of which no one else would approve.
She didn't realize she was the one who wouldn't like his plan.
"Go to your condo and pick up your cat, and bring him home.” he said.
His tone made her bristle, but she kept her voice even and reasonable. "Kresley doesn't like you."
"We'll learn to get along." He looked her straight in the eyes. "And he'll be happier at my house than in your empty condo."
"Empty? Condo?" She took a step closer to him. "You're kidding, right?"
"I told you we'd talk about this morning's phone call."
"With Boris." She stood tense and still.
"Yes. With Boris." Jasha stood as if standing would calm his restlessness. "I woke him out of dead sleep, but he's like any animal. He revived at once. He asked what had happened to his son. I told him I killed him and ate his heart. He shrugged it off, said the boy was the least of his sons, and told me how much he admired my ruthless brutality. He suggested a truce."
She'd done the research. "Varinskis don't make truces."
"I know. I know so much better than you. My father taught me what the Varinskis say and what they really mean, and what tactics they use and when and why." Jasha rounded the desk, striding rapidly toward her. "I won't have you stay alone again."
"So you had my furniture moved to your house?
Today?" Her outrage grew until she felt as if her eyes glowed red. "Why didn't you ask me?"
"Don't give me trouble about this." He caught her arms in his hands.
"Give you trouble about this? This? You didn't ask me, you didn't tell me, you just had my furniture moved, and you're acting as if I'm unreasonable?" She'd always known he was high-handed, but this!
"You spend every night at my house anyway. What difference does it make if you keep your furniture there?" He wasn't ridiculing her. He was serious.
She could feel the furious rush of blood staining her cheeks. She clenched her fists, and she struggled to lift her arms so she could box his ears. "What difference does it make if I have my own home, the first home I've ever had, with my own furniture where my own cat can be comfortable? I don't know—why don't you move in with me and see whether you feel displaced?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't think about your condo being your first home."
He did look sorry, and that really fried her. How dare he feel sorry for her?
"I would stay with you if it was possible," he said, "but there's no way to be secure in your home."
"What do you care? The icon is in your safe." And that pissed her off, too. Maybe it wasn't strictly her icon, but everyone agreed—at least, she and Zorana agreed—that it was her responsibility.
"It's not the icon I'm worried about. It's you."
"Let's talk about what's really important—your place is nicer," she mocked him.
"Not nicer. Larger and easier to guard."
Now, in addition to feeling sorry for her, he was being patient. "Oh, please. As if the great Jasha Wilder would stay in my little condo with—"
He kissed her.
He hadn't kissed her since the day he'd proposed, and this stealth attack caught her off guard. All the days of being with him, yet being alone, caught up with her, and she kissed him back. Kissed him with her heart and soul open and vulnerable. Kissed him passionately and lovingly.
.When'he drew back, he made the mistake of smiling with the smile she'd seen him practice on so many women. "Believe me. I love you, and I want you to marry me. Please."
A month ago, she would have killed to hear those words and have him smile like that at her.
Now she just wanted to kill. "You think you treat me like you treat every other woman in the world, and that'll be enough? I don't think so, buster."
"I do not treat you like I treat other women." He slid his hands over her rear and lifted her into him, letting her feel his erection. "Other women don't keep me hard twenty-four hours a day."
"Am I supposed to be flattered?" She injected disdain into her voice, but the sensation of him against her made her nipples ache and her body reach for him.
She was so easy. And he knew it, because he was a wolf.
Great. Just great.
"No, you're not supposed to be flattered. But you should be flattered that I still say I love you. I may have proposed to another woman, but I never told another woman that." In direct contrast with his irritated tone, his hand moved with slow sensuality up her spine, and his fingers whispered lovingly to the soft hair at the base of her skull.
"I wouldn't be flattered even if you meant it."
She saw the rush of blood to his cheeks, the narrowing of his eyes. She'd finally made him lose his temper.
"What about me? All you want from me is safety."
"What?" Why did he think that? "That's not true!"
"First you thought you wanted some dream man, some noble cavalier to rescue you from your loneliness. Then when I turned into a wolf, when you found the icon, when you realized we were fighting for lives and our souls, you wanted to run away— until I proved I could protect you. Then you were willing enough to be at my side."
"How can you say that?" She tried to elbow her way free.
He kept her close. "Finally, when I told you I loved you, you were afraid to believe me. Fine. Don't believe me. Tell yourself my kind of love isn't the kind you want. Just let me do what I do so well, and protect you from harm."
He was bitter, he was annoyed, and worse—parts of what he said were true.
It was the true parts that made her angrier than ever. "All right. Ill move in with you—until the danger's passed, however long that takes. But I won't marry a man like you."
"What do you mean, a man like me?" Jasha's face grew cool.
"A man who arranges things as he likes. A man who doesn't trust me enough to tell me his secrets."
"Am I the only one with secrets?"
She stiffened under his direct stare.
"That's what I thought." His hand still caressed the nape of her neck, but her impression had changed. Somehow, the gesture was less tender and more blatantly sexual. "And you do know my secrets."
"If I knew your secrets, maybe this move wouldn't have taken me by surprise. Maybe I would have—"
"Volunteered to move in with me?" He found nerve endings that sent sensation to the hollows of her elbows and knees, to the sensitive places at the tops of her thighs. "If I thought there was a chance you would display that kind of sense, I certainly would have had you arrange the move. After all, that's the kind of work a secretary is supposed to do."
His calm insult caught her by surprise, and cut her to the quick. He never called her a secretary, he always thought well of her, and he always insisted that she turn the rote phone calls over to the receptionist.
Her upsurge of loathing surprised her more. "I have never hated anyone like I hate you." Right now she meant it—but per
haps she really hated only herself.
Jasha walked to his office door. He shut it. Locked it. And when he turned around, the blaze in his eyes made her take a step back. "Since you hate me forever anyway, I might as well prove how very much you also love me."
He paced toward her, and just the way he walked, with the slow, long stride of a predator, made her realize his intentions, and her heartbeat accelerate. "Jasha, no."
"Why not? What are you going to do?" As he circled her, he stripped off his tie. "Despise me? Hate me? Refuse to marry me? You already do all those things. So what have I got to lose?"
She thought she felt him brush her earlobe, but when she swung around, he stood off to the side, taking his belt out of the belt loops. "Don't take off your clothes," she said. "Nothing's going to happen."
She might as well have saved her breath, for he asked, "Do you know how very much I love to watch you walk in this skirt? But of course you do. You wore it to tease me."
She caught his scent on her left side, felt a wisp of his breath on her ear, but when she turned, he paced behind her. "No, I didn't."
He laughed in disbelief. "You've worn skirts every day this week, just to get even with me for keeping you at my house. Don't you think I recognize a good strategy when I see one? And it worked, too. You've got such a long stride, and the slit on this skirt—"
She jumped as he ran his hand up her thigh.
"The slit on this skirt shows such a beautiful expanse of pale creamy leg. But I have to wonder— what kind of panties are you wearing?" His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Bikini? Thong? A sensible cotton number, perhaps?"
Her mouth grew dry, and she shifted her legs, suddenly uncomfortable, needy, and far, far too bare in her thong.
"Do you know what has been my fantasy this week?"
"I don't care." She so cared.
"The weight bench. I could see you straddling it, bent over, and facing away from me, while I—" He caught her around the waist, moving so quickly she didn't have time to scream. He propelled her backward—the movement was almost like dancing—
until the bench struck the backs of her knees and she overbalanced.
Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness Page 23