The sun had not yet broken over the mountain peaks and the sky was a soft gray, like the wings of a young hawk. Roman slipped from the sleeping bag and stood in the middle of the floor, naked except for his boxer shorts. Cold leached in from the wooden planks underfoot. His old foot injury burned with each step. He checked his jeans and T-shirt from last night—still damp.
At least RMJ stored several sets of clothes in the cabin. After all, it was a safe house, used in cases of extreme emergency, and had provisions to last twenty people for a week. After collecting a pair of camouflage pants, Henley shirt and a down vest, Roman snuck into the bathroom. His reflection was as bad as he imagined. A purple bruise surrounded one eye, his lip was split and his shoulder was scraped and raw. Aside from the bullet wound in his stomach, which hurt like hell, Roman had still gotten his butt kicked.
He’d heal, though. He always did.
After washing up and dressing—carefully, to avoid pulling at the bandages—he returned to the living room.
“Morning.” Madelyn’s voice was heavy with sleep and sexy, to boot. She lay on her side, her head cradled in the crook of her arm.
She was a woman who had awakened something more than desire in Roman. Something about her made him want to be...better. A better man. That notion terrified him more than a platoon from the Taliban. Why was that? Had he become so used to playing the role of an uncaring bartender that it was who he had become? Or was the explanation far simpler—was Roman incapable of truly being the good guy anymore?
Kneeling at the fireplace, Roman arranged kindling and crumpled newspaper. Striking a match to the paper, he said, “Thanks for patching me up last night.”
The flame consumed the old news and began to lick at the twigs. Roman balanced a few larger pieces of wood atop the whole pile, all the while knowing that he was doing more than building a fire—he was buying himself time.
“Things got pretty real last night,” he said, immediately wishing he could take the words back and start over with something much more suave. “With Oleg and Serge and Anton.”
“Yeah,” said Madelyn. She continued, her words stretched out to a comic length. “Real crazy, that is.”
Roman snorted a laugh. “Are you always ready to make a joke?”
“We’re alive. Why wouldn’t I be happy?”
He turned to answer her and his mind froze as he took her in. Her hair was tousled. Her lips were a deep shade of a dark and sultry wine, and her eyes were the color of dark chocolate. Good Lord, it was like she reminded him of a dessert or something. Roman didn’t care. Where Madelyn Thompkins was concerned, he was starving.
“You hungry?” he asked as he rose to his feet. “I can’t promise you anything other than food that’s edible.”
“Edible food is my favorite,” she said.
Roman could come to like her corny sense of humor. He moved to the kitchen.
“I guess I should get dressed first.” Madelyn sat up on the sofa with the sleeping bag clutched to her chest. He immediately understood that she wanted privacy.
“The clothes from last night are still damp,” he said and withdrew a set of sweats from the cabinet, setting them on the table. “I need to grab some more wood and I’ll give you a minute to get dressed.”
“Thanks,” she called out as he let the door shut behind him.
He decided not to worry about fixing the radio. The repairs would use up more time than they were worth. After breakfast, they’d walk back to Madelyn’s car and get off the mountain. There was a cell tower near the road. By seven o’clock, he’d be in touch with RMJ and well before the rush hour had ended, they’d be in Denver. After that, Madelyn would be placed in protective custody and before noon, Oleg would be arrested. Not a bad day’s work.
But once they’d made it back to Denver, Roman would have to let Madelyn go.
Like he ever had the ability to lay claim to her in the first place. At one time, he had been what that ladies called a “real catch.” Star football player at West Point. Delta Force officer. Smart. Not bad looking. And then he went to Afghanistan and all that changed.
Madelyn was too kind to want someone as jaded as Roman and that truth pissed him off.
With wood in his arms, Roman kicked open the front door. Madelyn knelt in front of the fire. With her hands in flame-retardant gloves, she arranged a campfire cauldron over the blaze.
While he was outside, Madelyn had donned the sweatshirt he’d left her. She swam in the fabric and yet the swath of gray terry only made her look more feminine. Her legs were bare—strong and supple. She smiled when he walked through the door and Roman’s mouth went dry.
“I poked around a little,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind. You had some oatmeal and dried fruit in a plastic container. I figured that should make us a decent breakfast.”
Smart, tough, brave, beautiful, loyal—and she could cook over an open fire. Roman shut the door with his shoulder and dropped the wood on the floor. With an audible exhale, he wished that for one minute Madelyn would quit being perfect and start acting like a fallible human. “Sounds great,” he said.
She drew her brows together. “You sound gruff. Have I done something to offend you?”
Had he? He hadn’t meant to. “This is all great, really. I guess I’m sorer than I thought.”
Madelyn rose to her feet. “I can examine your stitches, make sure there isn’t an infection.”
“I’m good,” he mumbled, the image of Madelyn’s palms splayed against his abdomen branded on his brain. He needed to stop these ridiculous fantasies before he forgot the mission completely.
He brushed past her and peered into the pot. The water had yet to boil and oats floated on the surface. He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a long-handled spoon and stirred. “You should’ve waited for the water to boil before adding anything. Now the oatmeal will be lumpy.”
“Okay.” Her voice was small but steely, like a needle-pointed sword. “Are you sure I haven’t offended you in some way, all of a sudden?”
“No,” he said, setting the spoon aside.
He knew what he was doing. In being unpleasant, Roman wanted to create a gulf between him and Madelyn. It’s not that he didn’t like her. He did. Then again, that was the problem. “I’m just upset about how things went down at The Prow.”
She looked away. “I’m sorry that I messed up your surveillance.”
The fact that she apologized left Roman feeling like a heel. Now it was his turn to look away. What had she done to him to bring up all these emotions? Maybe it was the fact that she was perfect and Roman was far from it.
* * *
Oleg Zavalov sat at the bar and sipped a cup of bitter coffee. The sun had just risen and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. An all-nighter, and no Ava Thompkins. Yet.
Anton stood near the front door. With a phone to his ear, he nodded eagerly as if the other person could see him. He ended the call. “We have her,” he said, slipping the phone into an interior jacket pocket. “The Thompkins girl.”
Oleg’s morning had just improved. “Which one?”
“Ava.”
Madelyn would have been better, but with one he hoped to get the other. “Where is she?”
“She’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“You did well, Anton. I think you have real potential.”
“Thank you,” he said. Anton’s accent thickened with the words.
A soft knock sounded at the front door fifteen minutes later. Oleg walked across the room to answer. While waiting, Oleg had taken time to clean up—wash his face, brush his teeth. His hair was slicked back with gel; a look he knew the ladies liked. Since Ava would be easier to deal with flattered and bribed than if she were forced to acquiesce, his jacket pocket was heavy with a gift he was prepared to offer her.
Oleg pulled the door open, a smile on his face
. “Come in,” he said as he stepped aside.
Ava cast a wide-eyed and wary glance around the room. Her shoulder-length hair was stringy and dull with dirt and sweat. Sores covered her face and a stained T-shirt hung on her frame. The shadow of her sharp collarbone was unmistakable beneath the threadbare fabric. As different as she was from Madelyn, the familial resemblance was also there. The same nose, eyes, coloring of skin and hair.
She stepped into the room and Oleg caught Ava’s scent: stale body odor, vodka and the metallic undercurrent of fear. Oleg could see that she was smart enough to fear him.
“Come,” he said, gesturing to a table set for two, and chivalrously pulled out a chair. “I’m happy you could join me for breakfast. I hope my invitation wasn’t too inconvenient.”
She pulled the loosened collar of her shirt together. “No, it wasn’t inconvenient, not at all.”
“Sit,” he said again.
She looked over her shoulder once and then sat, perched on the edge of the chair.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, taking his own seat. “The kitchen is preparing us something special.”
Anton exited the kitchen with serving trays balanced on both arms. They were laden with plates of bacon, eggs and toast, along with a carafe of coffee, mugs and glasses of orange juice. The nutty aroma of the coffee and the salty-sweet scent of the bacon filled the room. Oleg’s stomach contracted painfully, reminding him that he had missed not only sleep over the past several hours, but food, as well. Anton wordlessly served and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Ava picked up the fork and regarded it as if it were something completely new to her. She scooped up one bite of eggs, then hunkered in front of her plate like a mongrel at a dish. It was almost enough to make him lose his appetite.
“You must be curious why I asked you here this morning,” he said.
Ava scooped eggs into her mouth with a piece of toast and shrugged. “A little,” she said.
“Your sister came here looking for you.”
Ava stopped midchew. “Madelyn was here?”
“She wants to help you.”
“That sounds about right.” Ava pushed the now-empty plate away. “Is that what all this is about? You turning me over to my do-good, perfect sister?”
Oleg took a bite of his bacon and let this newest bit of information settle. Ava held more than a little hostility toward her sister. But was the animosity so deep that she would knowingly betray her own family?
“I hate to tell you this, but your sister isn’t all that perfect. She left with one of my bartenders last night.”
Ava stared at his full plate, her eyes wide. She twisted the collar of her shirt around two fingers. “That doesn’t sound like Madelyn. She’s too clean-cut. Besides, why do you care who your bartender hooks up with?”
“People change, yes? Or worse yet, they only allow us to see a mask—who they want us to believe them to be, not who they are.”
He took another bite of bacon. Ava trained her gaze on the food in his hand. The bacon turned rubbery in his mouth as he recalled his grandmother’s stories of the hungry Russian winters. And then there were the days when his mother was busy working two jobs and Babushka wouldn’t feed Oleg, just so he understood how badly starvation hurt.
As those memories came to Oleg, he knew that his grandmother had been right. His suffering had made him stronger. But for now, he was benevolent. He pushed the plate toward Ava. “Help yourself,” he said.
Ava reached for Oleg’s breakfast. She ate all the food, until nothing remained except crumbs. She collected those with her dirty fingers and licked them away, as well. She pushed the plate back to the center of the table as he sat and silently watched her. “Thanks for the food. But what do you want? I don’t think it’s just to tell me that Miss Perfect likes to get busy now and again, because that’s got little to do with me and nothing to do with you.”
Oleg leaned forward. “I need to find your sister, that’s what it has to do with me. I need your help, that’s what it has to do with you.”
“People always think that because someone uses, that their brain is fried. Or that they were stupid to begin with.” She twirled her fork as she spoke and Oleg wondered if this was a speech she gave often. “I graduated top of my class in high school and I know how to do math. Something here isn’t adding up and I’m not helping you until I understand.”
“You know Roman, the bartender?”
“The big guy?”
“Yeah, him. He’s been stealing from the till. I didn’t have proof until last night. But before I could confront him, he left with your sister. I can’t find him, but maybe your sister knows where he’s gone.” Oleg hadn’t prepared the lie beforehand, but even he found it to be wholly believable.
“And you want me to do what?”
“Text her and ask her to meet you somewhere.”
“Here?”
“No.” Oleg spoke too quickly and with more force than he intended. “I don’t want to spook Roman if they’re together.”
“Maybe the house where I’ve been staying.”
“That would work, sure.”
“You know.” Ava leaned forward, propping her elbows on the table. “I came to Boulder months ago with a guy. He split, but I haven’t contacted my sister. There’s a reason. I don’t want to see her and have her tell me about rehab or any of that crap.”
“What’s it going to cost me for you to get in touch with your sister?”
“I need some medicine to help me feel better.”
Oleg produced ten plastic bags, no bigger than a child’s finger, filled with white powdered heroin. He threw the bundle on the table and the baggies fanned out. Ava reached for them. Oleg dropped his hand down on the table, like a wall of flesh. “Text your sister and get her to meet you. Once she’s on her way, you can have everything.”
Ava reached into the back pocket of her jeans and produced a phone. She fumbled with the keys, speaking as she typed. “I need help. Come and get me.” Then she rattled off a nearby address, one that Oleg knew belonged to a low-level dealer.
A text like that was certain to get an immediate reply. “Go ahead,” he said. “Send it.”
Ava’s eyes twitched from the screen of her phone to the baggies on the table and back again. “She’s not answering.” Ava typed into the phone again and hit Send. Then again. And again. “I’m not sure where she is...”
Why would she know? Ava told him they hadn’t seen each other in months or been close in years. “Do you have the right number?”
“This has been her number since high school.” Ava held up her phone, showing Oleg the screen along with the 307 Wyoming area code. The contact was listed as belonging to a Maddie, along with a picture of Madelyn Thompkins in a marching band uniform. Oleg mentally repeated the number, memorizing it quickly. He scooted a baggie toward Ava. She tried to lift it, but he still held it with his finger. “You call me the minute you hear from your sister and then the rest is yours.”
“I’ll call you,” she said, her eyes shining with a hungry glint again. This time, Oleg knew the pangs had nothing to do with food. “I promise.”
“You better keep your promise, Ava. I’m a good friend to have but a bastard of an enemy. You understand?”
She tugged at the drug-filled baggie. “I understand,” she said.
Oleg lifted his finger and swept the rest of the bundles into his hand Anton reappeared and lifted Ava from her seat, leading her to the door. Soon she’d be back at the house and incapacitated. That was fine with Oleg.
He took a sip of the coffee, now lukewarm, and congratulated himself. By this time tomorrow, Madelyn would be dead. With any luck, Roman would be, as well. For now, Oleg could put this behind him and focus on what was truly important—a visit from Nikolai Mateev.
* * *
Madelyn sli
pped the long strap of her purse across her chest and tucked her shirt and blazer under her arm. The sweatpants Roman had offered were too big, so she donned her own jeans and shoes, along with the borrowed sweatshirt.
She stepped out of the little cabin. A large yellow sun hung low in a cloudless sky of bright blue. The sun and sky were deceptive and the air still bit with frosty teeth.
A shot came from behind.
In the split second she had to think, Madelyn pictured Oleg Zavalov hidden behind a tree with a gun. Instinctively she ducked and turned to the sound.
Roman stood on the porch, the noise nothing more than the crack of wood on wood as the door had slammed closed.
“You scared me,” Madelyn said as she stood.
Roman grunted. “Sorry,” he said, in a way that made Madelyn feel as if he were anything but.
What were she and this mysterious man, anyhow? Right now, it was easier for her to categorize what they weren’t. They weren’t friends, though she sensed that he was a likable guy. They weren’t lovers, though Roman had a sexy, rough appeal that was more than apparent to Madelyn, and they had kissed. Nor were they doctor and patient, if only because Madelyn wasn’t a doctor yet, and Roman hadn’t really sought her out for treatment.
Without speaking, they fell into stride next to each other and headed down the same bumpy road they had climbed the night before. The ground underfoot was frozen, and Madelyn’s ballet flats offered little support. Still, she trudged on, her quadriceps engaged and burning.
The pitch increased and she held out an arm to keep her balance. It wasn’t enough. Her footing gave. She pitched backward, her stomach lurching. Roman’s arm slipped around her waist, keeping her upright. He held her tightly, her back pressed to his chest. His strong arm rested under her breasts. Madelyn’s nipples grew hard as her mind placed his exploring hands all over her flesh.
She breathed deeply to calm her racing pulse. It didn’t work. Roman’s exotically spicy scent mingled with the tang of the surrounding woods and Madelyn’s heart raced even more. He leaned into her, his breath rushing over her shoulder, his hand spread across her middle. His fingertip grazed the waist of her pants. Lower, she wanted to beg. Move your hand lower and conjure all those wicked spells that make me a woman and you a man.
Her Rocky Mountain Defender Page 7