Yes, he had a duty to Dariya. But Katya and Sofiya and all those cancer victims demanded justice. Nik would uncover the truth, then break the story anonymously and play dumb from behind the culture desk. He had to trust his niece would be fine—or at least as okay as she was presently, trapped by grief and anxiety in the apartment.
He plugged his phone in to charge and strode back to the living room. The sight of Katya washing dishes at the kitchen sink caught him up short. She was turned away from him, wearing a flowing tunic and snug leggings.
She looked so at home here—of course it had been her home. She couldn’t stay, and he certainly wasn’t looking for a live-in girlfriend. But his feet stalled out at the end of the hall, his shoulder coming to lean against the wall, his thumbs finding their way into his front pockets. Maybe it was part of her siren-like allure that simply watching her brought him as much pleasure as her touch, her kiss.
She turned, caught him staring, and blushed. “Hi.”
A single syllable spoken in her blowjob voice, and it pulled his cock up straight.
“Hi.” His throat scraped the sound into a rasp.
“Why do you sound like that?” From behind him, Dariya lifted her head up from where she sat on the couch with a book. Huh. A book, and not of the comic variety. Literature definitely qualified as a possible upside to smashing the TV.
The adorable nightmare ghost cleared her throat. “Sorry. Just a frog in there. From allergies, I think.”
He grinned at her.
“Are you two hungry?” Katya toweled off a clean glass. “I’m starved, and I’m happy to throw something together.”
“Chert. I meant to pick up groceries. And your list of hardware…” Instead, he’d rushed home in fear of their safety.
Again, Dariya peeked over the back of the sofa. “Did you eat her blini, Kolya? Why doesn’t she already have a diamond ring on her finger?”
Katya’s laugh sounded strained, and she spun to put away the dry glass in the cabinet. “Anyone can cook blini.”
He hated the pain and grief he’d glimpsed in her eyes before she’d turned. Then suddenly he found himself going to her, taking hold of her hips and murmuring. “Not like yours.”
She leaned back into him, as if his nearness brought the comfort he’d meant it to. Then she pulled away and straightened her spine, her resolve another reminder of the hard truth—she was a ghost. If she achieved her purpose, she would be gone forever. Coincidentally, forever was precisely how long he planned to wait before he invited a woman to make herself at home in his kitchen.
She opened the freezer and moved things around. “Yikes. There’s really nothing in here. Nikolai, this is criminal neglect of a minor. The girl can’t live off toast and jam. She needs milk, protein, vegetables to grow.”
“Actually, she doesn’t want to grow anymore. She told me so just yesterday.”
“Hush!” Dariya had raised herself up to kneel on the couch and face them. “Katya, we have something very important to ask you—down on your knee, Kolya—will you marry my useless uncle. He’s a hopeless housekeeper and cook, but he really likes you.”
A protective anger pulsed through him. What if Dariya’s clueless jest hurt Katya? Maybe she’d wanted to marry someday, though thankfully not the dead, dishonest Fedir.
“Lay off.” Nik pointed at his niece. “In the twenty-first century, women are valued for more than their skills in the kitchen.”
“Obviously, but everything else about her is also perfect. She’s super smart, she likes Femme Fatale. She has cool hair, and she puts up with you. Heck, she slept over and came back, so she must not find you too disappointing. The cooking is just the cherry on top.”
“She’s got a point, Nikolai. What else could a man want?” Katya caught his eye and winked as she pulled out a cutting board and began to chop an onion. He’d never really seen her playful and with a smile that took over her whole face.
The words squeezed at his heart. But not because he actually wanted a woman like that. Alisa had cured him of that particular longing. Surely the pang of emotion was sympathy for Katya and what she’d lost.
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Hell. All this joking had hurt her.
He stepped closer, reaching to offer her the comfort of an embrace. But before he reached her, a wall of onion fumes hit him like a board to the face.
Phew. How long had that thing been in the fridge? “Here, let me help. Even I can chop onions.”
She glanced up at him and leaned closer so their arms touched. “Thanks.”
She didn’t move or pass over the knife, just stared at his face, searching. Her gaze seemed to settle on his mouth, and before he could even decide to give her a quick kiss, she came up onto her toes and brought her lips to his, darting her tongue out to lick at him.
He opened to her right away. No need to worry he might be tempted to want a fantasy life he’d long ago rejected, because this little wet dream kissing him was actually a nightmare in need of vengeance with a side of sex. He could happily oblige—those needs aligned nicely with his own.
* * * *
While he chopped, Katya poured water into a soup pot, added bouillon cubes, and set it to boil with spices that must have belonged to Sofiya. Then she carefully nestled chicken thighs into the pot. She’d been pleased to find them, and Nikolai had admitted he’d bought them on a whim to provide Dariya with a home-cooked meal, then been called in to work and left her to eat yogurt and toast.
Katya called Dariya over. “Why don’t you read your notes about Femme Fatale to Nikolai?”
“Okay.” Dariya’s face brightened like a kid bringing home a good report card.
Katya added paprika and tomato paste to the frying pan of sautéing onions as she listened to Dariya. The girl had learned a lot in the research, not just about the lives of the band members, but what they stood for—the rights of women, reform of corruption, freedom of expression. With every detail Dariya explained to her uncle, Katya resented her mara’s need for vengeance. Yes, Fedir had been her savior, and she owed him everything. But such a personal matter seemed a selfish goal compared to the noble ideals the women risked their safety for with every performance.
A sharp pain drilled into her skull, and a second later, the mara’s fury reared up, heating Katya to boiling like the stockpot. Not Selfish. Find Lisko, kill him. She trembled and shook, the paprika jar slipping from her hand to clatter against the countertop.
She tried to breathe, but her lungs revolted, turning rigid inside her ribs. She seized control of them, tried to force them to soften and let air in.
Suddenly, Nikolai was there behind her, wrapping his big hands around each of her upper arms, pressing his strong body to her back, not with the earlier promise of sex, but with comfort, reassurance, an anchor to ground her ghostly fury. Instantly, her lungs relaxed, and she sucked in a deep breath. After she managed a few deep gulps, filling herself with the calming air, she angled her head to look up at him over her shoulder.
The concern in his eyes washed over her in waves. “All right?”
Trapped between him and the counter, she wriggled around, nodding. Quietly, she whispered, “I want Lisko to pay so fiercely, and it makes me feel petty in the face of what those women stand for.”
His eyes widened. “Think of what you did for Fedir. And if we expose Lisko, we’ve stopped him and his company from hurting countless others. I don’t think there’s a selfish bone in your body.”
Body. The word made her hyper-conscious of his big, delicious thighs pressed against her. Damn, but her new, over-sized sex drive was certainly selfish. It made her forget everything to focus only on him.
Greedy for Nikolai, she stretched up to peck his lips, but he grabbed hold of her head and made contact first, kissing her with unrestrained hunger, sliding his tongue in and filling her mouth as thoroughly as his erection had filled her in the dream, claiming, plundering, wiping the guilt and
shame from her thoughts. He growled in the back of his throat.
She rubbed against him like an animal in heat, and he grew harder and thicker against her belly.
“Chert.” He lowered his hands to her hips and stilled her. “We’re giving Dariya an education.”
She froze. How could she have forgotten the girl was there? They were behaving no better than her parents. She turned toward the table, searching for the words to convey the gravity of her apologies.
But Dariya was grinning, green eyes alight with laughter, or joy. “Really. Too cute.”
Cute? Wasn’t she revolted by their lewd display, their utter lack of privacy or decorum?
“Dariya, I’m so sorry. What an appalling way to behave.”
The girl blinked, while Nikolai watched her, his piercing powers of observation making her prickle under her skin.
“Don't apologize.” Dariya’s eyes had gone wide, the full circle of green iris visible. “It’s nice to see grown-ups who aren’t on a soap opera making out. Like maybe there’s a little happiness to be found in real life.” She tilted her head toward her uncle. “You certainly make Kolya happy, and that soup is the best thing I’ve smelled in months. I don’t mind a little PDA in exchange.” She spoke quickly, nodding in what she must have meant as reassurance, but a queasy unease coiled through Katya’s belly.
In spite of her best efforts, she’d given the girl false hopes about a future presence with them.
“Enough with the teasing.” Nik gave his niece a stern look. “Katya and I have only just met.”
“Oh, right.” She dropped back into the chair, cheeks pinking.
Katya’s eyes burned with unshed tears of shame, a sting far stronger than the one caused by the onions. If only she could spare Dariya grief, rather than cause her more.
Nikolai took Katya’s hand and examined her face as if he were trying to read her mind. She could almost believe him psychic for all the ways he seemed to intuit her secrets.
She shook her head, trying to wipe away his concern. The way she was burdening the pair twisted her empty, cranky stomach.
“Fine.” He nodded, but the corners of his sensual lips turned down. “How can I help with dinner?”
She needed to put some food in her belly and theirs, pronto. Maybe that would help to level out all the emotional upheaval she was causing. She showed Nikolai how to shred the chicken, and they worked side by side, adding the final ingredients—pickles, frozen carrots, and the chopped chicken—to the broth. The heat of his body, arm against her arm, whetted her other greedy appetite for him.
Fortunately, he appeared engrossed in his task and in what Dariya reported about Femme Fatale, beaming like a proud uncle and peppering her with questions. The girl’s answers made Katya proud. She’d proven a quick study and had clearly synthesized everything Katya had told her about the band’s influences and aims, putting her own spin on the information.
Katya sank deep into the moment. Aside from the Zurkovs, the soup simmering, a lively discussion of Femme Fatale, everything faded from her conscience. The room grew warm and golden with the glow of this new sensation—of belonging, of a family.
A glorious moment or radiant happiness.
The mara sliced it in half by hissing at Katya. Find Lisko, kill him.
The blissful moment dissolved, shadows appearing in the corners, the soup pot boiling over and filling the room with acrid smoke. Her life was over, and there was no lasting joy to be found here, only flickers of pleasure to grab on to, and a miserable eternity to escape.
Chapter 14
It required considerable discipline for Nikolai to keep his eyes on his chattering niece every time Katya moved into the edges of his vision. A length of her slim, sweater-clad arm flashed as she reached for a glass on a high shelf. He gritted his teeth and stared unblinking at Dariya until the urge to ogle Katya passed.
It didn’t. He gave in and tossed her a quick glance, barefoot in the leggings and busily cleaning but with an ear inclined to Dariya’s impressive briefing on Femme Fatale. The woman’s presence in the kitchen made him ache for Sofiya and somehow soothed the ache at the same time. And her connection with Dariya—she’d earned the girl’s respect, the teenager who’d refused to talk to grief counselors and had let her anxiety cut her off from her friends. If he didn't know better, he might have thought Katya had spun a siren song around his niece too.
But it wasn’t only that. The food—chert. Turned out the smell of cooking food proved remarkably different from the smell of reheated food. A man could get used to eating like this.
She stood up on her toes and bent to wipe a sponge over the backsplash. He wanted to see her naked like that. He closed his eyes and pictured her ass, her lush folds slightly spread as she bent over, imagined bending to lick her there until she was slippery and ready for him.
“Nikolai!” Dariya said, seconds before something hit him in the face. He looked down to find a balled up napkin rolling away from him on the floor. “You’re not even listening to me.”
“I was. Tell her, Katya.”
She raised one eyebrow, apparently amused by the call to come to his defense. “He seemed rather focused to me, Dariya. Maybe he’s just hungry, which is good timing, because the soup’s on.”
Somewhere, a telephone rang. His niece’s eyes went wide and she dashed into the bedroom. Katya looked at him with sparkly laughter in her eyes, but before he could make a joke about fifteen-year-olds and mobile phones, Dariya appeared with the device, grinning. “It’s Nadya.”
Nadya, Dariya’s best friend, had called less and less as the adolescent social world had moved on without the absent, grieving girl. He’d tried to offer friendship advice, but she’d dismissed it out of hand, taking the lack of phone calls as cruel while she herself was unwilling, or perhaps unable, to reach out. And she’d been right to ignore him. He hardly had a posse of friends to recommend him as an expert. His work had been his life, an all or nothing enterprise, a family of professionals like Leonid, Lyuba, Nagarov, and Tatiana Oburski—nothing like this domestic coziness Katya had spun around them like clouds of golden floss.
“Here.” Katya ladled soup into a bowl. “Head to your room and answer the call. I’ll follow with your dinner.”
A giant smile dawned on Dariya’s face, and gratitude filled Nikolai to the point of bursting.
Katya assembled a tray with utensils and a napkin and made her way down the hall. When she reappeared smiling to herself, he gathered her into his arms. “How can I possibly thank you for taking such good care of her?”
“I’m happy to do it.” She fitted herself against him, wrapping her hands around his neck. “Only I won’t be here forever. And you can’t let her go on like this, hiding here.”
He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of sweet paprika that clung to her. “I know. I was just trying to give her time.”
“And that’s understandable, except time might only make it harder to leave the apartment.”
“What should I do?”
“Maybe offer to take her somewhere irresistible. A shopping spree, or the best restaurant in Kiev, or to see a band she loves.”
“Will you come?”
She tensed in his arms. “You know how I feel about going outside. Plus, we have to focus on Lisko. Take her when I’m gone.”
The words chilled him, like he was holding only cold air. If they succeeded, she would be gone, just like Sofiya. “Do you know where you’re going?”
She shrugged in his arms, as copacetic as his sister had been. “To whatever comes next.”
Right. She was dead, and he was Batman pretending to be Clark Kent.
He let go of her. “Let’s eat. I’m starved.”
“Sure.” She turned her head, sweeping a purple lock behind her ear and hiding her expression from him.
Soon they were seated at the kitchen table, both hunched over their bowls. She ate like a ravenous woman intent on maint
aining her table manners, mouth full of carrot and chicken, not pausing between bites to talk, but never spilling a drop, and daintily dabbing her napkin at the corners of her mouth. It was a ridiculous turn on, watching all that restrained hunger, knowing what happened when she unleashed it.
When her bowl was empty, and his still half full, she sat back, folded her hands over her stomach and said, “By investigating my case, you’re breaking your promise to Sofiya.”
He swallowed, took a sip of water, and tried to ignore the erection growing under the table. “Dariya told you about that, did she?”
“Yes.”
“I’m being careful.”
“Careful enough to satisfy your conscience?”
He shrugged. “Most of the time.”
She cast a glance down the hall and frowned in disapproval. “Do you miss the danger of covering those corruption stories?”
“Chert, yes.” The laughter burst from him. “I don’t miss fearing for my life. In spite of you and Dariya’s valiant effort, it’s hard to believe Femme Fatale matters as much as the Sentyabr Affair.”
“But now that you’re playing it safe, you could settle down. Find a wife, have a family without fearing for them.”
Normally, when a woman brought up settling down, Nikolai’s shirt shrunk a size and he found the first reasonable excuse to flee. Not that he usually dated somebody long enough for her to get ideas. But Katya had just reminded him she wasn’t long for this world, and her suggestion was out of concern for Dariya.
“A family’s not on my agenda.”
“Why not? If your work is no longer dangerous?”
“I’m not the type.”
She studied him for a long, silent moment. If he was reading the flash of her eye and the set of her lips correctly, she was thinking of the kindnesses he’d done for her, the concern he’d shown. As if that alone revealed he wanted to be a family man. Had she forgotten he wanted Lisko too, that he was hardly caring for her unselfishly?
He almost chuckled aloud. That was a lie, and he made a point never to lie to himself. He did care. He’d allowed himself the sentiment, knowing her presence in his apartment was temporary.
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