“So, what’s the plan here? Do you need me to hack in to unlock the doors?” he asked. Granted, it wouldn’t be easy. He would have to use his phone but he was good at what he did and as long as he had the Internet anything was possible.
She grinned at him with affection and his heart thumped. “Nothing so melodramatic,” she said. “I have a key.”
“Oh.” He kind of enjoyed playing white knight and showing off his many skills to impress her.
He followed her to the large blast door barring the entrance to Customs. Carey produced her Hamilton Museum pass from her pocket and flipped it so he could see the American Customs I.D. pass along with her photo and signature. She ran the plastic data strip through the pass mechanism and the door made a large clunk sound, signaling that it had been disarmed. He pulled opened the heavy door and allowed her to precede him into the building.
Inside, the warehouse was dusty. A skylight in the roof and several naked bulbs the only sources of light. He followed Carey past several fenced areas containing different sized crated shipments, the wire gates padlocked. How did anybody ever find anything here?
Carey came to a stop in front of a large sliding mesh covered door. Attached to the door was a sign:
Warning Authorized Personnel Only.
Holdings Area.
She slid her pass once more through the lock mechanism and he heard another click. The gate automatically opened, making a loud squeaking sound announcing the fact that the runner needed some WD-40, stat. Dmitry noted the fixed security camera above the door.
“This place has more security than a prison,” he said.
She nodded. “I only hope we find this box before someone comes to see what we’re doing. I don’t fancy explaining what’s in the box to anyone.”
Whatever was in that box was worth someone’s life, and considering the mafiya was involved, he doubted it was coffee beans or even Cuban cigars. He did quick mathematics and summed it up to be about twenty to life.
The Holdings room was a large warehouse with tall stacks filling up the room. He counted at least fifty. Twenty-five in each row. On the stacks were a mixture of boxes and crates in various sizes and styles, all waiting for someone to come and collect them. Several shelves were completely filled, some precariously stacked. If anyone caught them there and started asking questions he could probably use the threat of a safety inspector as a way to keep their visit quiet.
Carey glanced down at her palm where she had written the numbers Customs had sent her. She’d explained during the car ride that the number was to help them find where the box was buried. He had asked her why she didn’t just take her phone with her, and she’d replied that cell phone coverage was spotty inside the structure and that writing it on her hand was just as easy if not easier than looking it up on her phone. It seemed she wasn’t much for technology, but he was certain he’d be able to covert her and told her so, just as he had when he’d first come to America and discovered Lucas had an archaic operating system on his computer. Since then, Dmitry had kept him up with the times. In reply, Carey playfully accused him of being a technology snob, and he didn’t deny it.
He followed her as she turned down aisle thirty-four, the first two digits of the number she had been given. Each stack was around six meters long and about half that high. She kept her gaze on the numbers attached to the stack itself, explaining it was the section number. She suddenly stopped and raised her chin. He followed her gaze to a shelf halfway to the ceiling.
“I think I’ve found it. Wait here.”
She disappeared around the side of the stack and soon he heard the rattling of metal as she pushed a rolling step ladder with a platform into the aisle where he was standing. She stopped beside him and climbed the stairs, his gaze on her ass as he followed closely.
Could be worse.
She stopped when she reached the platform and searched the numbers printed on the box beneath a barcode. She pushed at one box that was sitting on top of a medium sized crate roughly fifteen to eighteen inches long. He stepped up another step, the tight confines of the ladder bringing him in close contact with her body. Was it his imagination or did her breathing just hitch?
Her body stilled as he reached past her and pulled the crate she’d been attempting to retrieve down off the shelf and placed it gently on the platform. She bent down, giving him a view down her shirt.
The label on the box read:
Hamilton Museum
C/O Curator
Washington D.C., Virginia, U.S.A.
There was no return address. This was definitely the right crate.
“What are you two doing here?” a voice called out.
Both he and Carey peered down from their perch at the young rent-a-cop wearing the Customs uniform. He was about to speak when Carey touched his arm and gently squeezed, silently warning him. She tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it down slightly to show more of her delightful cleavage.
Victoria’s Secret, eat your heart out.
Carey stepped down slowly from the step ladder, glaring at the young guard. “Do you know who I am?” She placed her hands on her hips, steaming with false anger. “I am the acting curator for the Hamilton Museum. Do you think that I want to be here on my day off? My only day off? No, I don’t. But here I am trying to fix someone else’s mistakes so that person doesn’t lose his job.”
The guard, a man of around twenty by the looks of it, regarded Carey with uncertainty, his eyes wide. Had it been Dmitry, he would have simply pulled her into his arms and kissed until she was all soft and mellow. The boy stared at him.
“Well, what about your boyfriend?”
Carey made a dismissing motion with her hands. “You know how it is. I’m not about to cart that frigging crate all the way to my car and ruin my manicure.” She showed the guard her hands, and Dmitry noticed she didn’t bother correcting the guard on his assumption. The guard’s gaze went from her cleavage back to her face in a heartbeat, most likely thinking he’d been caught looking. “You guards are like cockroaches when the light goes on. Can’t be found,” she continued. “This guy’s just my muscle. So listen up,” she read his name badge, “Kevin Saunders, I’m going need to fill out the 3461, the CBP 301, the DNR and the 3299.”
Carey continued to spout off numbers and letters, while the guard tried in vain to keep his gaze from wandering to her chest. Hell, even Dmitry was having trouble concentrating.
Did she just say DNR? Was she making this stuff up? The woman certainly had a talent for lying on the spot. She made them all sound so daunting and important. She finished her tirade and pinned the guy with a glare, waiting for him to snap into action.
“Um, it’s all been made digital now.” He brought up a piece of chunky equipment that in Dmitry’s opinion was identical to the very first cellular phone.
She beamed at him. “Perfect.” She took the scanner from the guard and turned to let the red laser beam flash over the barcode. It was followed by a loud beep. She pressed a few buttons before swiping her Customs pass through the scanner. She signed her name on the small LCD screen before producing both the machine and her Customs identification for verification.
“Thank you Ms. Madigan…?”
Dmitry swore he saw stars in the guy’s eyes and more than a little puppy love. Not that he blamed him; he was more than a bit enamored by her, himself.
Much to his displeasure, Carey smiled sweetly at the kid. “Yes, but you can call me Carey.”
He stepped down off the ladder, holding onto the crate. “Yeah, but there is a Mr. Muscles,” he said, letting the possession of her come into his voice.
Carey sent him a look that told him she knew exactly what he was doing.
The guard smartly backed away. “Well, you have a good day now Ms.—Carey.”
“You too, Kevin,” she replied and led him back through the corridors to the front door and opened it for him. He stepped through into the bright glare of the sun. It hadn’t seemed like a long time
, but they’d been inside for over an hour.
“That was very impressive,” he said as they walked to the car.
She shrugged. “He was green. I was hoping that spouting off a tirade of numbers would overload him. That and the fact he was concentrating on my cleavage added to my advantage.”
She opened the door to the back seat before standing to the side.
“We were all looking at your cleavage,” he admitted somewhat huskily. Once again his gaze drifted; she hadn’t yet returned her shirt to its original position and the creamy mounds were more than a little distracting.
He placed the box on the back seat before closing the door, then took two steps closer, crowding her. She let out a stuttered breath as he pressed her against the car. Her gaze dropped to his lips before locking onto his. She wet her lips and he followed the motion of her tongue.
His hand cupped her face as he leaned down and kissed her hard, his tongue slipping between her parted lips to glide against hers. Her delicious and addictive taste exploded in his mouth as he crushed her against him, his free hand resting on her hip and his fingertips biting into the resilient flesh he found there. She responded to him, adding her fire to his and burning them both.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him to her. His arousal woke as she arched her hips and came into contact with him. She groaned as her tongue explored his mouth, tasting him as he’d done to her. The world once more melted away, leaving only him and Carey and this scorching desire between them.
She felt so good in his arms, better than he could’ve ever imagined. His hand slid into her hair and tangled in the tight curls, holding her captive for his less than gentle but thorough and passionate assault. He breathed in her scent and knew if he didn’t end the kiss now, he wouldn’t be able to. Already his body was hard and aching and demanding her touch. He broke away and put some distance between them. When he’d managed to get some semblance of control, he glanced over at Carey and felt immense satisfaction when he found her breathing heavily and her lips wet and swollen from his assault.
When she caught his gaze, she asked breathlessly, “Are they still watching?”
He grinned at her, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. Invigorated. He’d enjoyed himself immensely. Maybe Elena was right. He did need to get away from the computer more often. He’d have no complaints provided Carey was there to entertain and distract him. He could still taste her in his mouth and desperately wanted to kiss her again. She was like a drug to his system and once was definitely not enough. “There was nobody there, malyshka. I just had to kiss you.”
She scowled at him. “Don’t call me baby.”
Carey moved—unsteadily, he noted with extreme pleasure—around to the passenger side and climbed in. He remained outside the car for a few moments longer, willing his unruly body to settle down, a fire still alight inside him.
Interesting, he thought. She said nothing about not kissing her.
Chapter 24
Carey waited as Dmitry gently placed the crate on his dining table—one of the few items of furniture in his utilitarian apartment. He clearly wasn’t much of a decorator and had only furnished his place with the bare necessities. His life obviously revolved around his computer equipment and not wondering if his drapes matched his sofa.
She immediately had her hands on the box, instantly forgetting the French fries she’d been munching on. She hadn’t been interested in eating but given that she hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before, Dmitry had insisted. He had stopped at a drive-through and bought them both a meal, Dmitry devouring his within minutes while maintaining full concentration on the road. She’d been amazed at his ability all the while picking at her fries, ignoring her burger, which had found its way into Dmitry’s stomach.
It had been oddly intimate. Even more than the burning kiss he’d given her earlier that she could still feel the lingering effects. She’d never once been so completely devastated by a kiss and her knees wobbled at the memory.
Now she stared down at the crate, the wood rough beneath her hands. Her fingertips tingled with anticipation. What was inside? What had the mafiya illegally imported that was worth killing Brian over? The list of possibilities was staggering. The crate was plain, with only the address label and Customs barcode sticker marring the wood. It was as innocuous as it could be.
Dmitry stepped beside her, his eyes on her, burning her skin. His taste was in her mouth and her lips were bruised from his lavish assault. Her blood boiled and her entire body was sensitive as arousal coursed through her. Erotic images appeared in her mind and she fought for control. Her breath rushed out all at once and a shiver overtook her, starting at her head, trailing down her spine and ending in her toes. She carefully pushed all thoughts of a naked and sweaty Dmitry out of her head and turned to him expectantly.
He cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
She had to admit she hadn’t felt this excited since she was a child and Christmas Day arrived and she would go downstairs and discover all the new treasures her parents had gotten her. She wasn’t sure if she could contribute the emotion to the box or to Dmitry. Just the way he was looking at her now she was surprised she didn’t burst into flames. She resisted the urge to fan herself and attempted to concentrate on the crate. There would be plenty of time to explore and deal with her feelings—and raging hormones—later, when she could properly focus and give her entire attention to working out what the hell was going on with her.
“And ruin my manicure?” she teased, her voice higher than usual as she tried to relieve the feeling of butterflies fluttering around her stomach. She would’ve placed her hands on her stomach to calm her rioting belly but for some reason they remained glued to the wooden crate, almost as if it provided her life force and without it she would die.
She knew that was ridiculous, after all, it was just a box, but something inside her screamed that this was important and should it come to it, she would open the box with her teeth. Nothing was about to stand between her and the contents of this crate. It was clear to her that Dmitry knew she would do it as well when he rolled his eyes at her obvious attempt at calming herself. He glanced over at her delicate fingers with their white and pink nails placed protectively over the crate. His gaze moved from her hands to her wrists and up her arms and rested on her breasts. Her chest rose and fell steadily.
He silently moved over to his desk on the other side of the room, past his sofa and television, and retrieved a flathead screwdriver from a set of drawers attached to the large dark stained desk before making his way back to her. She stepped back as he invaded her space and frowned as she watched fretfully, fearful he might do something to damage the contents.
He must’ve sensed her unease and sent her a comforting, yet slightly sexy smile. Her heart beat kicked up a knot and she had trouble breathing. She was thankful when he returned his attention to the box and she could breathe properly again. She nibbled anxiously at her lower lip as he placed the flathead between the lid and the base and with all his strength pushed down until the lid popped up, the nails dangerous points from where they’d been pulled from the wood. He continued the procedure with the other three sides until the lid was just merely sitting lightly on top of the crate. Dmitry put the screwdriver down and stepped back.
Anticipation vibrated within her, her eyes wide and totally focused on the crate. She moved it to the table, and peered inside. She stopped breathing, but this time her lack of oxygen had nothing to do with her close proximity to Dmitry, although in the back of her mind he was always there. She seemed to know exactly how far away or how close he was. It was a little frightening and somewhat exhilarating, since she’d never experienced anything remotely close to how she felt now, not even with her husband. Dmitry set her body alight with desire, as if flames licked over her skin every time he looked at her.
Her mouth dropped open in surprise. She had not been expecting this. She blinked as if to clear her vis
ion while the world around her melted away. It was not the first time she found herself completely absorbed in her work. Elena had been right, she could become a little fixated, and right now such an obsession sat right before her. This item had been lost for almost a century.
All her life, she’d never believed she would be lucky enough to view such a precious antiquity. Her fingers itched to reach out and touch it. She couldn’t believe her luck. She had half been expecting some macabre decapitated head or even some counterfeited bills; that seemed more like their style. Nestled amongst a few sculptured glasses and protective stuffing was one of the most beautiful and coveted pieces of Russia’s history.
She rubbed the palm of hand on her jeans, wiping away non-existent dirt and sweat. She was frozen in amazement, practically crackling with electricity.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, reverently lifting the Fabergé egg from its protective nest. The egg, measuring roughly nine inches tall and four inches in diameter, had a golden base and was decorated with diamonds and pearls.
“Where the hell did they get that?” Dmitry asked.
“That’s my question precisely. If I’m not mistaken—and I don’t believe I am—I’d say that this is the Empire Nephrite of 1902. One of the eight missing Imperial eggs last seen in 1922.”
Fabergé eggs had been a standard gift for the last two Romanov Czars, Alexander the Third and Nicholas the Second. The Imperial eggs were made by Carl Fabergé exclusively for the royal family and were given to the wives of the Czars each Easter starting back in April 1885 with each egg containing a surprise hidden inside.
No Law (Law #3) Page 12