Deadly Games

by Clark, Jaycee

  He rubbed his hands over his face. “How much longer will she be out?”

  Snake straightened, twisted, his back crackling. “A few more minutes, why?”

  Ian stood, walked into the living room and asked for a printing kit. Tanner, shoving pastry into his mouth, reached over, grabbed a kit out of his bag and handed it to Ian.

  Back in the room, he eased her fingers onto the pad, then onto the paper, printing each digit. Her palm was warm against his own fingers. In the bathroom, he wet a washcloth, then quickly cleaned her fingers off. He didn’t want her sucking on the ink.

  Probably wouldn’t hurt her, but still.

  When he was finished, he tossed the washcloth into the wastebasket, where they were tossing all their towels. He knew when they left here, they’d also clean the room, strip it of linens, crammed in a bag, and someone would toss it below themselves—preferably in the incinerator.

  Leave nothing behind.

  That was the motto.

  He leaned his arms onto the counter and looked at himself in the mirror. His shadow was practically a beard. His hair long.

  He only saw the man he’d been for the last five years. One Dimitri Petrolov, who had saved girls, helped men and killed some he wished he could forget.

  “You look tired,” Rori’s quiet voice said behind him.

  He shifted his gaze to her in the mirror and didn’t say anything for a moment. Was she here only because he’d ordered her to be? Was it more? Did she still plan on taking him out? He didn’t trust her. Not really, yet something about her pulled at him.

  Her head tilted to the side, her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  For a moment they just stared at each other. Ian’s muscles tightened, his gut squeezed and all he saw was her, and those wicked green eyes.

  The woman tries to kill him and he finds her attractive.

  A slow grin lifted her lips, dimpling into a smile. “I’d love to know what’s going on in that mind of yours.”

  He blinked, then looked at himself again in the mirror. Turning his head one way then another. “I was thinking it was time for a trim.”

  “And a shave?” Her eyes twinkled. “Do I get the honors?”

  Should he go blond? “I wouldn’t let you near me with a razor.”

  Her chuckle danced between them and sunk straight to his groin. He shifted.

  “Darling, if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t use a razor.”

  He needed his bag. He turned, but she blocked the doorway.

  They both stood there, staring at each other. Ian inhaled deeply and caught a whiff of something floral, jasmine and spice? His eyes ran down her. Still dressed in her turtleneck, the sweater clung to her curves. Trim belly, a rather flat chest and muscled arms. Her legs were long. Her neck graceful, seemingly longer than he remembered from her provocative sweater earlier last night. Her lips were lush, full, and that straight-lined nose tilted up just so at the end, making her almost vulnerable somehow. He stepped closer.

  She didn’t move, only continued to stare at him.

  “Why didn’t you mark me?” he asked, his voice low. He put one arm up on the other side of the door facing so she’d have to duck and go under to leave. Her eyes were wickedly pale, and this close he saw they weren’t just green, but also dusted with golden flecks.

  Her lashes swept down. “It didn’t feel right.”

  “You always do what you feel is right?” He leaned a bit closer, and noticed her shoulder muscles tighten. Definitely jasmine.

  She licked her lips, looked at him from under her lashes. “Mostly.”

  Ian leaned closer. “Good. So do I.”

  To hell with it. He leaned in and she met him halfway.

  Her lips were as soft as he thought they would be. Neither of them touched except with their lips. He shifted, standing a bit closer, just a bit more and their chests would be touching.

  She tilted her head, angling, and bit his lip. Ian sucked in his breath, his eyes darting open. Her eyes watched his and she slowly licked the spot where her teeth had nipped, her tongue warm and wet.

  He felt her smile before she ended the kiss and pulled back. One brow cocked, she said, “And I never do anything I don’t want to do.”

  As she watched, he licked his lip at the same spot she had only moments before. “That makes two of us.”

  He didn’t move as she walked away and across the dark room, back into the living room.

  John stood in the living room, looking into the bedroom, a straight line to the bathroom. His eyes met Ian’s and John only shook his head.

  What the hell was he doing? Ian hurried into the living room, grabbed his bag up and turned to head back to the bathroom.

  “The passports should be here within the hour. I need to take your photos,” Tanner said.

  Ian nodded to him and kept walking. Too much to do, too little time.

  So what the hell was he doing kissing the woman who had been hired to kill him?

  Shit.

  He was losing his mind. That was all it was. Had to be it.

  As he walked through the bedroom he glanced at the bed, saw the girl was awake and watching him. He slowed, but didn’t stop near the bed as she tensed. Ian gave her a smile and walked on.

  He set his bag down, and almost shut the bathroom door. Instead, he left it open so he could see into the room. He pulled his shirt off, draped a towel in the sink, and pulled the scissors out of the bag. Wetting his hair, he combed it. It was longer than he realized, almost to his shoulders.

  The scissors clicked, echoing in the tiled bathroom as dark locks of his hair fell into his hand. He dropped the pieces into the towel. Snip. Snip. Snip. It took several minutes, but he had most of it off.

  He heard her voice before he saw her appear in the mirror again. He paused. “What?”

  “You want to look like you cut that yourself?” She stepped up behind him. “Here, give me those.”

  His eyes met hers in the mirror and she grinned.

  “Stabbing’s really not my thing. Incredibly messy. I’d rather a gun any day.” She held her hand out. “And besides, your blokes in there would have my neck broke before you even bled out. So give over.”

  Ian slapped the scissors in her hands.

  “You’ll have to get down a bit, I’m tall but not that bloody tall.”

  Ian knelt down. “Why do I get the feeling you enjoy this?”

  “Yes, having a man on his knees before me is rather nice.” She continued to snip his hair. She paused and both their eyes shifted in the mirror to the doorway, where the girl stood, wearing a too large T-shirt of his. Her thumb firmly in her mouth.

  Her eyes only stared, she barely moved.

  Ian didn’t know how the hell to put her at ease or even how to communicate with her.

  Rori jerked his hair, yanking his attention back.

  “You keep moving and I won’t be responsible if you get a bad trim.” Snip. Snip. Snip.

  He kept his head straight, but his eyes on the little girl. She came a bit closer. Then a bit closer, but never completely into the bathroom.

  Ian grinned at her again, hoping to put her at ease.

  “There,” Rori said, rolling her fingers into the towel. “You’ve a head of hair on you, but I think that’ll do, no?”

  He turned his head one way, then the other. It was short, almost a crew cut, but he didn’t care. He would probably shave it off when they switched identities again anyway. He nodded. “It’ll definitely do.” His eyes met hers. “Thanks.”

  Smiling ruefully, she handed him back the scissors. “Now, if you could just find a razor, we might be ready by the time your friends arrive.”

  With that, she walked out of the bathroom, and the little girl hurried out of her way, hiding around the doorway.

  Rori stopped, asked the little girl if she was hungry, and made motions to her mouth as if eating. Then motioned for her to follow.

  The little girl looked from him to Rori. Deciding to help out. H
e smiled again, pointed to Rori and then gently closed the door. He wrapped the towel up, tossed it into the wastebasket and wiped the counter clean.

  Stripping, he quickly climbed into the shower and washed the last of the hair off. He shaved, redressed. Making certain the bathroom was as clean as he could get it, the tub and drain free of hair, he nodded. He opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out into the cool room.

  He almost stepped on her.

  The little girl sat on the floor, in his T-shirt, her spindly legs and bare feet straight out in front of her, pastry crumbs all over the shirt, and what looked like a bit of poppyseed filling on the top of her lip.

  “Looks as if you’ve eaten,” he said, squatting down.

  She placed the kolache on the white plate beside her and wiped her hands on her shirt.

  He didn’t move.

  She stared at him, in that straight silent way she did, the dark blue eyes wide and curious.

  Then ever so slowly, she stood, her head tilting to the side. Her little hand reached out and touched his cheek, rubbing the now smooth skin.

  He smiled at her.

  “Looks like you’re charming all the ladies,” John said from the doorway.

  The little girl quickly jerked her hand behind her back.

  Ian reached out and rubbed her arm, smiling. “Yeah,” he answered John. “If I could only charm this one into speaking.”

  Chapter 10

  She clutched the teddy bear to her as the man tightened the belt across her lap. The seat was big.

  They were on a plane. He said he was taking her someplace safe. The lady was still with them.

  Where was Zoy? Didn’t Zoy get to come? She clutched the black bear tighter to her as he settled back into his seat and patted her hand. Telling her it would be all right.

  Earlier that day, they left the hotel and she had new clothes. A blue pantsuit with fat white buttons and a white collar. He even gave her a black coat that went to her knees. She wasn’t cold anymore.

  Where were they taking her? She’d tried to ask him, but her voice wouldn’t work.

  The man knew she spoke because he’d asked if she was hungry earlier and she nodded. He’d smiled then and called her Darya.

  Why did he call her Darya?

  Zoy had called her Ayrena.

  But the man called her Darya and he gave her the soft black bear.

  She buried her face in the fur and held on tight. They were going on a trip, he’d told her as they walked into the building with all the people. They’d been in a car all day, driving and driving. She wondered where they were going when they’d come here. Planes took off and zoomed away. Big and heavy as smooth painted metal birds.

  The man carried her onto one, telling her she was going to be like a bird and they were going to fly.

  She wondered if she’d see Zoy. Maybe someone else was bringing her sister. The man sat on one side of her, on the aisle, and the lady sat on the other side beside a little window. The man and lady had argued, or she thought so. Apparently they’d both wanted to sit on the outside.

  But the man was sitting there now, watching her, watching the lady, watching everyone. He always seemed to be watching everyone.

  Was he looking for her sister too?

  He looked at her and ran his hand over her hair, which the lady had braided. She waited. He seemed nice, but you never knew. Sometimes nice became mean.

  Like the other . . .

  No. No. She shook her head and put her thumb in her mouth. He frowned for a minute and she noticed his eyes darkened. He looked different with his hair cut and his smooth face. And the glasses. She liked his face smooth, it didn’t scratch her forehead or cheek when he held her.

  And for some reason, when he held her, she felt safe.

  She looked at him again. He’d keep the monsters away.

  Please let him keep the monsters away.

  The plane jerked as it moved. She looked out the window and saw the buildings going by faster, faster, faster. She squeezed the bear to her chest, scared.

  Her tummy tickled and she was pushed back into her seat. She held the bear tighter as she saw the tops of the buildings out of the window, and then the blue sky. She couldn’t hear. A loud hum filled her ears, her head.

  Her heart fluttered and she turned to the man, scared that they’d fall.

  He smiled and patted her hand. She sucked harder on her thumb and held her bear even tighter.

  Would they all turn into birds?

  *****

  Rori watched the scenery whir by below. Frankfurt fell away and the German countryside below was dotted and squared in greens, browns, and grays.

  They’d left the Czech Republic that morning via Cheb and into Dresden, Germany. A few hours on the autobahn put them into Frankfurt in time to catch British Airways flight 905 that afternoon.

  She sighed and leaned back against the seat.

  That morning, a man, nameless, stopped at the hotel, dropped off a packet, taking a wad of money, and was gone. One of the men, Tanner, tall, blond brown hair, dark eyes and squared features, had gone downstairs to a shop inside the hotel and purchased them clothing. So that her passport didn’t look the same as what she was wearing that day, she put on one of Ian’s white T-shirts and her jacket. Quick snap of the digital, a few computer strokes, a bit of finessing and voila, new passports.

  She was listed as Lori Hightower, wife of Evan Hightower, businessman. They’d just adopted their daughter from an orphanage in Russia. They had all the papers to prove little Darya was theirs. The new family was flying home to London.

  Ian . . . no, Evan watched her. She didn’t have to look to see that, she could feel his gaze. She knew the second those dark blue eyes of his landed on her. It was a static shock. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at him. Clean shaven, his hair cut short, the British persona he had taken on as Hightower somehow made him appear a bit softer, more crisp instead of the sharp-edged and shifting Petrolov. He even added small wire-rimmed glasses. It was he who now wore the turtleneck, a dark plum one, black Armani pants, loafers and the gold watch.

  Amazingly it wasn’t even the visual disguise so much as this aura that seemed to surround him. The man didn’t just look different from Dimitri Petrolov, he was different. The way he sat, the way his head tilted, the way he spoke.

  Glancing at him occasionally, she couldn’t help but wonder who he really was. Was Ian his real name or just another alias?

  To be honest, if not for the eyes, she wondered if she’d even recognize him. Actually, she probably wouldn’t, because she’d only see the glasses.

  People saw what they wanted to see.

  The secret to a successful disguise was to tell them what they wanted to see.

  The little girl, dressed in a little navy and white pantsuit with a black peacoat, looked the part of a newly adopted daughter.

  Clearing her throat, Rori said softly, knowing no one could hear her, “You know, with her dark hair and those blue eyes, little Darya could easily be Mr. Evan Hightower’s daughter.”

  “She is my daughter,” he said, his words short and clipped, and undeniably British. “More importantly, darling, she’s our daughter.” His eyes bore into hers.

  Rori—Lori only nodded and gently brushed a wayward curl back off Darya’s forehead. A black teddy bear, Mr. Bear, bought in the gift shop on their way out of the hotel early that morning, was clutched to her chest. From the moment he’d given her the gift, she hadn’t relaxed her hold on it.

  Her thumb was again in her mouth. She had heard the men talking that morning, knew the girl had not been abused, and felt more for the child than she cared to. Thank God.

  Rori didn’t want to feel anything for the child, yet couldn’t help it. The thought of what she went through, of what still lay ahead, greased old memories and nausea through her. As hard a woman as she was, she wouldn’t wish that fate on her worst enemy. Locked away. Men with big hands, drunken laugher and . . .

  Sh
e shook her head.

  Every now and then Darya craned her neck to look out the window, but then she’d sit back and silently stare, rubbing the teddy bear.

  Mr. Hightower spoke softly to her. She wondered what he was saying to the child as she didn’t understand them.

  The child didn’t answer. They knew she spoke Russian because he’d asked Darya if she was hungry earlier and the child looked at him and nodded.

  He’d grinned. “Ah, so it is Russian, little one.”

  Since then, he’d been telling Darya one thing or another, and the child was glued to him.

  Rori remembered that too. Finally finding someone you wanted to trust, but were afraid to. Someone who seemed to care and you were too bloody afraid not to hold on to them, terrified they’d leave you behind and just as scared to get too close lest they turned on you.

  God she was tired. Wishing she had her laptop out of the overhead luggage compartment, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. If nothing else, she could get a few minutes’ rest. Just a few . . .

  As the hum of the engines filled her head, the rumble relaxing her, she dropped off into sleep.

  And into memories better left forgotten.

  She’d hidden in the closet. If she was very, very quiet, he wouldn’t find her. He couldn’t find her if she was quiet.

  She hurt. He’d made her do things she didn’t want to think about. Things that hurt, things that she knew were wrong.

  She was gangly, taller than most girls her age, and wished, wished with everything in her that she had the courage to run away.

  But he’d told her, warned her that the coppers would get her and bring her back, and when they did, she’d wish she were dead.

  She already wished that.

  She listened very carefully, fear trickling through her as surely as the blood from her nose where he’d slapped her.

  The sound of doors opening and slamming, mixed with his yells.

  “Come out you, lit’l slut! I’ll find you, I will.” Slam.

  She covered her ears. And waited. He would find her and she trembled knowing it. She shook her head. Please . . .

  Her hands scrambled along the bottom of the closet and she felt the weight on the floor, circular and cold against her hand.