Salter nodded.
“Any word from your sister?” Les asked casually.
“She’s no longer a part of this,” Salter said. “She’s far away and I hope making a new life for herself.”
“She might have been able to help us,” Les said.
Salter’s intent gaze fell upon Les. He felt the charisma of the man and understood why he’d been promoted to security head despite his family tie to a revolutionary. “You could have imprisoned her, but it would merely have wasted her life. I don’t believe she had anything useful to offer.”
“What do you know?” Les asked.
“I’ve seen Konstantin,” Salter said. “I’m one of the few who has.”
Les nodded. “Then it’s a good thing you are on our side and not his.”
“I am British now, despite my accent,” Salter said. “And soon, we will be family. When Mrs. Plash dies, Alecia and I will marry immediately.”
“Wonderful,” Les said. “Happy to hear it. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to retrieve my wife.”
“One question.”
“Yes?”
Salter lost his air of assurance. “One of the watchmen, Tim Swankle, isn’t what he seems. Is he one of yours?”
Les considered. “I haven’t heard the name.”
“I don’t think we should trust him.”
“Very well. I’ll look into it.”
Salter raised his eyebrows at the discarded bouquet. “You’d better put these in water. Shall I have a vase sent up?”
“Certainly.” Les opened the door and escorted Salter from the room. After he locked the door behind him, he slipped the recorded disk into its paper sleeve and put it in his bag, then readied the system so that it was only a moment’s work to start it again when the Russians returned. After all, when he came back, he wouldn’t be alone and he didn’t want Sadie to see what he was doing.
He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Stubble covered his cheeks and chin. In the mirror, his haunted, pale face reminded himself of the Russian soldier he had been, not the prosperous English gentleman he was now. He needed sleep and a shave, but worry about Sadie drinking with Emmeline Plash again drove him out of the room and downstairs.
On the ground floor, he could hear foxtrot music filling every nook and cranny, originating from the jazz band in the Coffee Room. One of the bellboys snapped his fingers as he rushed by, a damp dog nipping at his trouser hem. He must have taken the beast for a walk. A chill breeze swept in from the front doors as Les moved past a chattering crowd on the way to the lift. He stiffened, not allowing himself to shiver.
Outside the Coffee Room’s double doors, he smelled perfume, coffee, and cigarettes. A waiter passed by the door opening with a tray laden with champagne bottles and glasses. Les peered in. Scattered tables were full of the fashionably dressed. Many couples danced on the parquet floor that covered about a third of the room, hiding the band, though not the music.
He scanned the room while moving toward the sideboard that always contained food, realizing part of his problem that night might be hunger. Glass never seemed to have an appetite and therefore one rarely ate at meetings with him. He picked up a deviled egg with a sprinkling of onion on top just as he spotted Sadie.
She wore the dress from that first night, when they’d gone to the Chelsea party. Silver fabric, not very enticing, really, but with black-and-white triangles that gave it style. Sparkle. Just like she sparkled. Her partner, the film star Teddy Fortress, had molded her into his arms and she looked like she belonged there, as full of light and life as him.
Fortress had a cigar in one hand, behind her back, and a champagne flute in the other. If it wasn’t for Sadie’s natural grace, it would have seemed awkward to dance with a man not using his hands, but she made it work by holding his wrist.
As Les chewed the egg and swallowed, he saw the ash from Fortress’s cigar, along her back, was about to drop onto her dress. He dashed forward to rescue her. He grabbed Sadie’s shoulder and spun her around. She stumbled. Fortress barked something. The crowd of dancers moved away from them, leaving a circle of floor empty.
Sadie’s mouth was open, her gaze radiating hurt. And anger.
“The cigar,” Les said. “He was going to burn you.”
Fortress’s ruddy face went cold. “I’d never have done so, sir. And who are you to suggest such a thing?”
“The lady’s husband,” Les snapped. “No cigars on the dance floor.”
Fortress stepped closer and put his face very close to Les’s. Life experience meant that no one could ever bully him. He didn’t move except to wrap his hand around his wife’s arm and pull her slightly behind him.
“It never pays to tell someone like me what to do,” Fortress snarled, his always ruddy face darkening. “I’ll have you tossed from the hotel.”
“It wasn’t me about to burn someone,” Les retorted, holding his ground. He wanted to punch the inebriated comedian in the nose. In the background, a lady screamed dramatically. He heard rushing feet, and Peter Eyre appeared, without his habitual cigarette, Emmeline Plash weaving slightly, a couple of steps behind him.
Eyre looked cosmopolitan and unruffled as usual in flawless evening dress. “Gentlemen? Emmeline, why don’t you take Sadie to my office?”
“She’s returning to our room,” Les stated. “With me.”
“I demand satisfaction, sir,” Fortress said theatrically.
His wife, Miss Page, appeared, lacquered black hair gleaming under her expensive headpiece. She threw her arms around Fortress dramatically, spilling his champagne. The flute fell out of his hand when she knocked it and it fell to the dance floor, splintering.
The band finally stopped playing. Eyre lifted his hand and signaled to a waiter. The little group stepped aside as the man rushed forward with a broom and dustpan.
“Satisfaction,” Les said sarcastically. “I’ll demand satisfaction myself for your attempt to damage my wife’s person.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You were about to burn her with your cigar,” he snapped. “Plenty of witnesses.”
Eyre put his hand on Les’s shoulder. “You look all done in, my friend. Why don’t you and your wife go upstairs? I’ll have a tray sent up.”
“I demand you eject these persons from this hotel,” Fortress’s wife said, still wrapped around her husband. For good measure, she added a quiver.
Eyre smiled politely. “This man was merely attempting to save his wife from a burn. An accident on your husband’s part, I’m sure. Nothing deliberate. Why don’t we all have dinner tomorrow night and make friends?”
“What a lovely idea, Peter,” Emmeline cooed, stumbling a little as she wrapped her hands around his arm.
Eyre reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case.
Sadie nodded. “We should, Les. That sounds delightful. Mr. Fortress would certainly never harm me, and Miss Page, I’m such a fan of your work. What an honor it would be to dine with you.”
Les could hear the nervousness in her voice. The poor girl, with her new, all but unknown husband of uncertain temper. At least he’d been trying to defend her.
Les dragged out his most disaffected, posh accent. “I’ll accept if the gentleman will. I’d hate to find ourselves with pistols at dawn.”
Fortress nodded, though he still sneered.
“Then it’s all settled,” Eyre said, putting a cigarette to his lips. “Tomorrow evening, eight P.M., in the Restaurant.”
Les put his arms around Sadie’s shoulders and drew her away. He didn’t speak as they walked toward the lift, but could hear his stomach growling. While he could control every aspect of his outward appearance, he’d never been able to stop his stomach from doing what it would.
“Have you eaten?” Sadie asked, when they reached the lift and the small space seemed to make the sounds of his stomach echo.
“I had just swallowed my first deviled egg when I saw that bastard’s cigar,�
� Les said.
“We’ll order a tray,” Sadie said, staring at the wall. “You have to keep your strength up.”
“And you, my dear, need to decide if you are going to be a flapper or a wife. I won’t have this type of display.” Les saw the lift operator’s eyebrows fly up before the man turned completely toward the wall.
The lift stopped and he opened the door. Sadie marched out of the tiny space and down the hall, shoulders rigid. When she reached their suite door she pulled her key from a pocket hidden under the sash of her dress and unlocked the door.
“You wore that dress on our first date,” Les said, following her in. “And now you’re dancing with film stars in it?”
“I’m a flapper!” She flapped her hands over her head.
“No. You are married to me. Let’s make this work.”
“I never know where you are,” she shouted. “Whether we’re going to eat together or even see each other. Why not go downstairs with a friend? I learned my lesson about the champagne. I didn’t have any.”
He gritted his teeth. “You danced with an unsuitable partner.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Teddy Fortress is married. I danced with everyone. You overreacted, Les!”
He heard a whisker of sound and whipped around. A newspaper was being slipped under his door. The Russians had returned. He needed to get to his post and turn on the recording device. Experience told him that the most telling conversations often happened right when people entered a room, the thoughts that had been stored up while they were reaching a private place.
“Very well, Sadie,” he said. “Why don’t you have a bath? I need a minute to gather my thoughts and order food. Do you want anything?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I thought we were fighting. Mr. Eyre is sending food.”
“I’m too tired for the dramatics,” he said, injecting weariness into his voice. “Go, now. We’ll speak in a few minutes.”
She blinked hard, as if holding back tears. He needed her out of the room, so he took her arm and pulled her toward the bathroom, then patted her rear. “Go.”
Chapter Fourteen
Les’s pat on Sadie’s bottom kicked her into high gear. Unused to such an intimate touch, she trotted away from him, reaching the bathroom first. Without looking back, she shut the door, creating a barrier between them. Grateful for the respite, Les went to switch on the recording device and see if he could hear anything. He pulled the painting open and turned it on, then lifted his listening device to the wall.
Two men were speaking in Russian. One of them complained about the quality of the wine served in the Soho restaurant they’d eaten in, while the other mentioned the curvaceous woman at the next table and ruminated about what he’d like to do to her breasts. The man was a poet, which made Les’s brain flash to his own wife’s curves, the breasts he’d never seen.
Glasses clinked, probably the sound of vodka being poured. The door opened again and a third man entered the room. Les recognized the voice. Fedor Verenich. More glasses were poured. The conversation turned to the quality of the hotel towels. Code? Or were they really speaking about towels?
Les set down his device and listened to his own suite. Sadie must still be in the bathroom. He returned to his post, just in time to hear the name Mikhail Lashevich. Lashevich, the famed assassin. Irina Kozyrev’s father. Les swore. Was the Bolshevik Hand of Death in London?
He listened intently as Fedor expressed admiration for Lashevich’s way with a knife. Clearly he’d seen the man’s handiwork up close, but that didn’t mean the assassin was here. The conversation changed again, this time to the results of a cricket match. Why would a bunch of Russian thugs care about cricket? It must be code. He needed to have the conversation analyzed further.
Using his own code, he wrote on the newspaper and shoved it outside the door for Salter to retrieve. Someone would appear to retrieve the disks first thing in the morning so he didn’t have to leave.
A door opened in his suite. He quickly moved away from the wall, shutting the painting. Leaning against it, he heard the snick of the mechanism locking it into place. He saw nothing at first, as if Sadie hovered in the hall instead of choosing a room to enter. But then, a ghostly figure appeared in the hallway. When she passed next to a lamp, he saw what she was wearing, a tea length negligee of pink satin and ecru lace. The cut was modest, but he could see her thighs, shadowy underneath the fabric as she moved. A panel of lace was cut into the satin down her breastbone, leaving her breasts entirely covered. But it was early February and she was chilled. He could see her nipples pucker underneath the thin fabric. Would her arms be dotted with gooseflesh when he touched her?
She was on tiptoes as she darted into the room.
“Where did that come from?” he asked in a low voice, feeling as if he might frighten her off.
She stopped, and crossed her arms under her generous curves. “There you are. I didn’t see you.”
He’d turned most of the lights off, worried about light showing through the wall where the microphone had been inserted. The dim light from only a couple of small lamps set the mood now.
“You’re wearing perfume?” he asked as he drifted closer, slowly, unthreateningly. His mouth had gone dry. Her hair was damp, waved from the shower, plastered darkly to her fine skull, making her chin look especially determined, her cheekbones defined.
“No, just soap, but it’s nice soap. Jasmine, I think.”
“You look like a movie siren, like that vamp Nita Naldi.” The fabric was ribbed around her ribs, giving it the look of corsetry. Her hips flared below her small waist, molding the satin.
She giggled and let her heels touch the floor. Her fingers skimmed her sides. “I received a bonus today and decided to spend it on you.”
“Well done, Mrs. Rake,” he murmured, giving her the blatantly appreciative stare she seemed to want. “A bonus, you say?”
“I found some money on the first floor. Mr. Eyre gave me a finder’s fee because I turned it in to him.”
“Honesty pays,” Les said. He snaked his arm around Sadie’s waist and pulled her against him. Just as he was lowering his mouth for a kiss, he heard something bang against the wall separating their suite from the Russians.
“What was that?” Sadie asked.
“Maybe the Russians are fighting,” Les said.
“I’m surprised you haven’t tried to befriend them, with your interest in your heritage.” Sadie put her palms on the lapels of Les’s coat.
“They are rough men, for diplomats.” He glanced down, trying to see what he could of his wife’s cleavage. This negligee had been bought by an amateur in the arts of love. It hid too much flesh. His fingers itched to take it off her.
The crashing against the wall came again. “I should bathe,” he said. “Why don’t you go into the bedroom and I will join you in twenty minutes or so?”
“You could come into the bedroom with me now.” Her tone was shy, her gaze hopeful.
He gave into temptation and let his hands drift from her back up to her shoulders, then very slowly, he moved them down the front of her gown, to cover her breasts. “Wait for me,” he said. “I’ll be in shortly.”
“Very well,” she breathed, not moving.
He squeezed her breasts gently and she jumped back. Chuckling, he bent forward to kiss her cheek. “Too rough.”
Her color was high, her pupils dilated. “It’s time, Les. Make a wife of me.”
Oh, hell. Les’s mind blanked of the things he needed to do. The investigation, the wall, the recordings. His sudden, sharp erection was almost painful. Coherent thought fled. His hands moved to his coat and he tore it off, then loosened his tie. She stepped to him and tugged it over his head while he found the lacy bottom of her skirt with his knee, rucking it up until his hands could gather it and pull the garment off of her. In the lamplight she was a perfect hourglass-shaped goddess, eternal woman personified. Naked, she turned, the lamplight catching the smooth ivory globes of her
bottom. She glanced over her shoulder at his half-naked form, a siren calling her lover, and darted into the bedroom.
He had the rest of his clothes off between one heartbeat and the next, then followed her, no other action possible. She stopped by the bed and turned back. Her chest rose and fell. Steam from her bath still warmed the room and he could smell jasmine even more strongly. Moving toward the bed, he grasped the blankets and pulled them all back, exposing the pillows. She sat on the sheet, her gaze on his. He set his knee on the bed next to her bottom and leaned over her so that she was forced to tumble backward, one vertebra at a time touching the bed until her head rested on the flat surface.
Though he wanted to plunder, he forced himself to remember her innocence and be gentle. His lips found the hollow of her throat. He kissed down her breastbone and dipped into her belly. Then he moved up again, circling one breast, then the other, before teasing her neck, finding the tender spots that made her squirm or gasp or pant. Minutes passed before he took her mouth for the first time, setting his weight against her torso. Her legs bent, her knees locking around his flanks. She’d lost any fear of touching him. It had been a week now since she’d become Mrs. Rake. Her feet came up, rubbing along his bottom and locking around his back at the ankles while she kissed him fervently, her hands pulling at his hair. He found her damp, heated opening and teased it with his erection.
She broke their kiss long enough to say his name.
“Sadie,” he murmured.
“Glory.” Hands still fisted in his hair, she found his mouth again.
This woman was built for love. She needed him. He couldn’t deny himself. His hips canted forward, his erection nudging its way inside her. He tried to move tentatively, to slide in and out, a mere inch deeper each time, but she thrust her tongue into his mouth and slid it along his. His few remaining thoughts splintered and his instincts took over. He dove home, sliding deep inside her tight, perfect cavern, the warmth and sleekness all but overwhelming. Squeezing his eyes shut against the sensation, he balanced himself on his forearms and begged himself not to spill too soon.
I Wanna Be Loved by You Page 19