Roman gave him a sad grin. “Oh, Vicktor. Do you not know yourself at all?”
He wasn’t a stalker, was he? Vicktor shot a look in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes and an overnight beard growth. “You have to admit, she gets into more trouble than most women. And I hate living so far away. I want to marry her, and now. But I’m starting to wonder if that’s what she really wants.”
“Who can tell with women? I took Sarai’s car to the repair shop two weeks ago, and it’s still waiting in the lot for parts. She’s mad at me because she doesn’t have a car. But she seems to think that the ‘add oil’ light means to drive a little slower. I’d be surprised if it didn’t need a new engine. I’m in trouble regardless of what I do. Grab your cell and the charger.”
Vicktor swiped it from the table, gave a longing look at his quiet computer. “I’ve asked her what the problem is. I get a ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ which I know really means, ‘You’ve really bumbled it now, pal, and it’s up to you to figure out not only exactly what you did, but how to fix it.’” He pocketed the cell.
One side of Roman’s mouth lifted up, but he shook his head. “Maybe you should give her what she wants.”
Vicktor took his coat from Roman. “What’s that?”
“Stop rescuing her.” Roman opened the door. “Give her some space. Don’t hover. Stop fixing things.”
“Like we’re doing to Yanna?” Vicktor followed Roman through the door and closed it behind him.
“We’re not dating Yanna. Besides, this is different. She’s in trouble, and the last thing she needs is to be out there by herself.”
“I just don’t want Gracie to think the same thing.”
Chapter Six
D avid ached from his shoulders to his toes. The early-morning dawn illuminated the shoreline in a jagged outline and he figured he had about an hour before either he landed on shore or Kwan’s men discovered their so-called American arms dealer floating on the high seas.
He should have driven Kwan’s speedboat straight into shore and made a run for the nearest airport. But no, he had to get tricky.
And it might cost him and Yanna their lives.
They’d finally cleared the shipping lanes, no thanks to his stellar paddling and all due to the generous wake churned up by the freighters that pushed them toward shore. Frankly, he could probably sit back and let the current bring them in. But paddling gave him something to do.
Something to focus on.
Something to get his mind off what he really wanted to do—and knew he shouldn’t.
How he’d like to somehow hit Pause and regroup, return to the moment when Yanna was in his arms, looking as if she wanted to kiss him, looking as if she needed him…
And he’d nearly kissed her. When she looked at him like that, searching his face, everything inside him had simply shut off—all the voices from the past, voices of reason that had kept him from doing something foolish over the years, like quitting his job, packing up his life, and moving over to Russia just to be in her airspace.
No—more specifically—he wanted to be in her arms.
And it didn’t help that he’d almost lost her, that he’d spent nearly an hour with her tucked close to his chest, that he’d traced her face with his gaze, noticing the changes, the tiny lines of stress around her eyes, the way her hair still looked like silky chocolate. She was so beautiful—more than even when she had been in college—and it had all swept over him in a wave, washing away his reservations, his fears, leaving only desire.
Good thing Someone was watching his back, because he’d felt the claws of temptation dig in, start to work on his brain, take over his heart. One more minute holding her and they would have ended up as shark bait and he wouldn’t have complained.
Thanks, God.
Because, despite his attraction to her, despite the fact that not only did he respect everything about her, from her courage to her brains and everything in that package, they didn’t share the same life goals.
Yanna, even though she was a selfless, incredibly giving person, would always see this life as the final destination.
And he had to live for something beyond that. His faith told him that today mattered because tomorrow mattered. Most importantly, his life wasn’t his own.
He believed that God cared, really cared, about what happened to him. Even if he might be stuck out in the middle of an ocean with just a paddle.
Which was why, in the end, David counted the paddling and ache in his shoulder a blessing. He’d tried twice more to start the motor, to no avail. Now, Yanna dozed in a quiet ball of slumber in the front of the dinghy, her cuffed hands drawn up as if in the fetal position. He’d get her out of those as soon as he hit land and could rustle up a straight pin.
“David?”
Maybe she wasn’t sleeping. In the early morning dawn it was hard to tell. Probably she’d seen him watching her, seen the look of sadness or more, on his face, too. Swell.
“We’ll be to shore in a while.”
She sat up, pushed her hair back from her face. “Wow. We’re really close.”
“Yeah. And we’re south of the city, so hopefully Kwan’s men won’t know to look for us here. We’ll find someplace to hole up, change our clothes, maybe figure out some disguises, and then I’m on the horn to Roman to tell him to pick you up. You’ll be home by supper.”
He refused to acknowledge the twist in his gut when he said those words. Despite the danger, he’d enjoyed the brief time they spent together.
How warped and desperate did that make him?
Yanna turned, looked at him and, in the dawn, he made out a pained look. “I’m not…I’m not leaving Taiwan.”
Maybe she was dehydrated. “Uh, yes, you are.” He kept paddling. “Kwan’s men will be on the lookout for you—”
“For us.”
“For us, yes, but they’ll be looking for a dark-haired man traveling with a gorgeous brunette and in twelve hours I plan to match none of that description.”
“Good for you, but I’m not leaving. Not until I get what I came for.”
David glanced at her, the face she wore when she planned on spiking a volleyball down the throat of the opposing team. Perfect. Now she gets ornery. “Listen, Yanna, you can get a great tan in Bali. Or seafood in Singapore. But you’re not staying in Taiwan.”
“I’m not here on vacation, David.” Her eyes sparked.
He wasn’t sure why, but that made him feel worse. Because that meant the FSB had sent her into the serpent’s mouth, and hadn’t had any plans to rescue her. He’d have a few not-so-nice words with Roman about—
“I’m here to find my sister. Kwan kidnapped her. Or at least, I think so.”
David stopped paddling. The wind still held a chilly edge, despite the warming sun creeping over the western horizon. Now it touched his skin, raising gooseflesh. “I don’t understand.”
Yanna folded her hands, looking toward shore. “A week ago, Elena left Khabarovsk for America, to marry some guy named Bob.”
Bob?
“She never made it. Her traveling companion, Katya, turned up dead in Korea.”
David set his paddle over his knees. “Go on.”
Yanna turned back to him, and in her demeanor, the set of her face, he saw the anger, the frustration. And knew exactly how she felt. He’d been up close and personal with exactly those feelings, seeing her handcuffed and bruised at the hands of Kwan’s man.
“I did some research on the so-called dating service she used, and I think it’s a front to lure Russian girls out of the country and into human slavery.” She took a breath, met his gaze. “So I impersonated one of their clients—a girl named Olga. I was intercepted in Korea by men who drugged me and took me to Taiwan. I woke up on Kwan’s yacht. And that’s when you appeared.”
David closed his eyes, his heart thumping, his thoughts torn between wishing he’d put a bullet between Kwan’s eyes and the relief that Yanna hadn’t been raped.
Because, until this m
oment, he wasn’t sure he believed her. He knew her, knew she prided herself on being tough. Above emotion.
Apparently they both stood guilty of perpetuating that myth.
“My sister might still be in Taiwan, and I’ll bet Kwan knows where.” Yanna stared at her handcuffs. “I’m not leaving until I find her.”
David stared at the cuffs, at the welt across her pretty face, at her crazy leather boots. “You were nearly killed.”
“No, you nearly had to watch Kwan kill me. But you didn’t, and I’m here, safe.”
“But what if it wasn’t me standing there? What if some other creep, a real creep—the kind that does take Kwan’s bribes and sells weapons to terrorists and hurts women—had walked in? Do you think he would have thought twice about letting Kwan slit your very pretty neck?”
She blinked at his harsh words. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re assuming I would have let him.”
He stared at her, disbelief choking his voice to nearly nothing. “Yanna, you would still be on that ship if it weren’t for me.”
Her mouth opened and a laugh that contained humor escaped. “Listen, sea dog, like I said, you’d just shown up. If you’d given me a little time, I would have figured something out. I’m not a total wreck as an agent.”
“Did you just call me a sea dog?”
“You look like a pirate.”
He glared at her. She smiled, not nicely.
“For your information, Little Mermaid, you would not be okay. Kwan had every intention of killing you, and still does. In fact, I’d say he’s even more committed. So, you’ll hop a plane like a good little AWOL agent and let me look around for your sister.”
“Not on your life. And what makes you think I’m AWOL?”
“Roman would never let you—”
“Roman drove me to the airport.”
David stilled. “I’m going to kill him.”
Yanna watched him, her eyes dark. “Last I checked, I went through survival school, too. I know a few tricks. Like the fact that Roman is right now tracking me through the GPS I’m wearing.”
“You lost your phone, sweetie.”
“You must think I’m an idiot.”
He clamped his mouth shut before he really destroyed their friendship. As it was, he wondered just how long it might take before she ever answered his e-mails again.
“I’m wearing GPS earrings.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And they work in water?”
She seemed to want to speak, but when no words came out, she glared at him.
“I’m calling Roman first thing we get to shore. And I’ll keep you in those cuffs as long as I have to in order to get you on a plane and to safety.”
Yanna’s gaze never wavered, and if he wasn’t already chilled to the bone, he’d be an iceberg at her look. “We’ll see about that.”
Contrary to current popular belief, Gracie Benson didn’t go looking for trouble. But as she pulled up to the Hotel Ryss, an incarnation of ancient Russia here in the seedy side of Seattle, she knew Vicktor’s accusations were probably, reluctantly, true.
She knew how to find it.
Or maybe, she just couldn’t ever leave well enough alone. Like, for example, her offer to meet Yanna’s sister—her absent sister, Elena—at the airport. When the woman didn’t show up, Gracie had spent half the day camping out at the airport, hoping she might have caught a different flight. What if she’d just missed her? Just to make sure, she’d spent the rest of the day waiting…hoping. Gracie cringed, remembering her phone conversation with Vicktor. What if she’d made him panic for nothing?
And now, she’d gone and poked her nose into the disappearance of Ina Gromenko, a teenage girl from her weekly Bible study. Not that Gracie usually tracked down AWOL teens, but she’d seen Ina at a local mall just the day before.
Shopping for rings.
With a man who looked about ten years older, wearing the creepy and identifiable garb of a Russian Mafia thug—black pants, black silk shirt, squared-off shoes. Ina had introduced him as her boyfriend, Jorge. However, when Gracie had pulled the girl aside with a few words of caution, the look the man gave her made her feel as if she’d been transported back to Khabarovsk, Russia, and was again trying to dodge the crosshairs of a serial killer.
Apparently, she still had more work to do with her therapist to drive suspicion from the corners of her mind. Still, she didn’t have to have her paranoid-o-meter set on high to know that something was terribly wrong when she visited Ina’s parents’ home this morning.
The entire complex had seen better days—a row of fourteen townhomes built in the eighties. Wrought-iron railings bracketed concrete steps, and wooden siding with lime-green paint flaking off below the windows. A blanket hung over the front window, and on the steps a clay pot imprisoned a sopping wet tomato plant, wilted from the abundant rains. The front yard had been dug up and furrowed, and the potato plants growing in the patch of earth sprouted green and healthy on their mounds.
Venturing into this section of town prodded memories of her stint in Far East Russia, with storefront signs written in Cyrillic, and the yards all furrowed into kitchen gardens.
The house looked vacant, but then again, with the blanket over the window…
At Gracie’s knock, the door cracked open.
The woman, maybe in her early forties, with age around her eyes, barely opened the door. “Privyetstvooyou,” she said in typical Christian greeting.
Thankfully, part of Gracie’s training here in Seattle had been language based. While trying to figure out her future, she’d joined up with a program helping Russian immigrants transition to their new land, find jobs, learn English and eventually blend into society. But with the little Russian village set up inside Seattle proper, with radio and television stations broadcasting in their native language, with the newspapers and schools catering to only Russian-speakers, she had to ask why anyone would make the effort to change languages if their world adapted to them?
Not that she didn’t like Russia. In fact, Gracie was one of the few program managers who still longed for Russian food, Russian songs, Russian people. She even attended a Russian church, hence the Bible study with a group of Russian young ladies.
Sadly, the influx of Russian culture included the occasional Russian gangster, which had driven Gracie and her curiosity to Luba’s front door.
“Privyet,” Gracie responded, reverting to Russian. “Luba? Remember me, I’m Gracie Benson, from the church? I lead your daughter’s Bible study group.”
Luba looked away, behind the door, lowered her voice. “Ina isn’t here.” But something on Luba’s face said more.
Gracie heard shuffling. Footsteps.
“Where is she?” Gracie asked, feeling Luba’s panic. Something wasn’t right—
“She’s gone. Left with…that man.”
“Jorge?”
Luba nodded. “I have to go—”
“Where might they go, Luba, do you know?”
The door closed with a slam.
Gracie stood there, swallowing back the fear that had perched, right in the back of her throat. Yelling came from inside. She stood there, listening, but the words came too fast, too muffled.
Then, everything went silent.
Gracie heard only the beating of her heart, banging like a fist against her chest.
She backed away from the house, nearly tripping down the cracked steps, wishing Vicktor were here, hating the fact that her brain always ran to him for comfort.
When would she learn that a guy on the other side of the ocean couldn’t always come to her rescue? Besides, the way their relationship was going, they might never get married.
Not that he didn’t want to. But with the political scene in Russia turning back toward the days of the KGB and Cold War status, sometimes she wondered about the wisdom of getting married.
Besides, could two people truly know each other well enough to commit their lives to each other when they had only sporadic communicati
on? Did they even know each other at all?
Probably she was overreacting. Vicktor loved her, and Ina had simply run away with her new boyfriend. She’d be back—
Behind her, the door to the town house opened. Luba ran out. “Devochka!”
Gracie turned at her call of “Girl!” Luba grabbed her arms, her face streaked with fresh tears. “He worked with her at the hotel. Hotel Ryss.” Luba’s voice broke and she covered her mouth, eyes wide. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Please, can you find her?”
Please, can you find her? Oh, brother. Vicktor would be ever so thrilled that, staring at Luba and her desperation, Gracie had promised with a reckless Yes!
Gracie now stood outside the Hotel Ryss, thinking that next time, maybe, she should think before she opened her mouth.
She’d been in a few dives before, especially overseas, but this seedy so-called hotel located in the forgotten part of the downtown business district, with its ancient carpet that smelled as if it had been installed in the seventies, the outdated velour chairs, and the giant chandelier in the center of the lobby, reminded her of a badly decorated movie set. The place lived up to its name, because it looked exactly like something she might have found in old Russia, a relic from the so-called glorious communist years.
She approached the counter to be greeted by a young woman with golden-brown hair piled atop her head. She looked about eighteen, but wore enough makeup to hope the world thought otherwise. The name tag on her polyester green jacket read Anya.
“Zdrasvootya,” Anya said. “Welcome to the Hotel Ryss.”
“Hi,” Gracie said. “I’m looking for someone—Ina Gromenko.”
Anya glanced behind her. “I haven’t seen her. She works in housekeeping.”
“Do you have a manager here? Someone I can talk to?” Gracie shoved her hands into her jeans pockets and forced a smile. Vicktor would probably flash his badge, demand a lineup of everyone who worked with Ina, but Gracie lived by the “catch more flies with honey than vinegar” philosophy.
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