Elana shook her head. “It’s not your job…I don’t want you to risk…”
He brushed another butterfly-light kiss over her lips. “Hush, dushka. It’s every honorable man’s job to eliminate true evil in the world.”
Vanko lifted her torso slightly and traced the back of her shoulder where the old scar lay. “Was the wound to your shoulder your only injury from that time?” His voice was low and rumbling. His anger was under control, but barely.
The answer to his question was the can of memory worms she hadn’t wanted to open to the light of day, and especially not now, when Vanko’s wrath was already roused and he was working himself up to risk his life to kill Demidas.
“Elana, don’t even think of lying to me.” He held her shoulders gently and rested his forehead against hers. “I can read your Interpol file, if I need to.”
No! She didn’t want him to do that. Her file had all the filthy details, her medical records, and pictures of her body afterward. It would be better if she filtered the information for him.
“I was raped…” abused, tortured, scarred, and for a time, crippled, “…but I’ve put all that in the past.”
Yeah, right, sure.
She’d had surgeries for the physical damage of Demidas’s torture and extensive counseling for the emotional and mental damage. But her experience had continued to isolate her from normal, healthy sexual relationships with men even years later. And of the men she’d managed to date, only a few made it to bed with her. And those that had…had never come back for more. She tended to freeze…to just lie there. No real man wanted a block of ice in his bed, or, at least, that was what she’d been told by her disappointed sex partners.
Elana stared into the Vanko’s gray-green gaze and found anguish. He suffered for her—with her. When had any man—other than her uncles—ever done that before?
Never.
Would Vanko be the man to free her soul from the web of fears she’d harbored all these years? To teach her to live fully?
“Milyonok―” she blurted before she could stop herself. Sweet guy, and when had she started to think of him in that light? “―let the law take care of Demidas. I’m fine and will be even better when you finish taking care of my injury.”
Vanko shuddered and visibly gathered himself. He smiled, a slight lifting of the corners of his lips. “You think I’m sweet, dushka?”
But his smile was a lie, because his eyes still glittered with the fires of hell…he raged on her behalf. She was humbled.
“Yeah, like a cinnamon honey bun,” she teased.
Vanko snorted with amusement, and his anger of mere seconds ago had disappeared from his expression as if it had never been. But somehow Elana knew it wasn’t gone, just buried as if he didn’t want anything ugly to touch her, not even dark emotions felt on her behalf.
Vanko lowered her to the bed and released her shoulders.
She relaxed into the softness of the pillows and turned her head to follow his actions. “Are you almost done with my wound?”
“Milakha.” He stroked a finger down her arm. “I need to check for foreign material in the wound track on your back. Then I’ll be done and can give you some more pain medication and an antibiotic.”
“Okay.” He’d called her sweet darling girl. She should object to all the endearments, but she liked them. She liked him…a lot. And besides, they were merely words. Men casually used pet names all the time. Vanko probably didn’t even realize he used them.
Just keep fooling yourself, Ellie girl. This man isn’t like most men.
After re-gloving, Vanko turned her gently onto her left side, exposing her lower right back. At the first touch of the tweezers, her world burst into flames of anguish traveling up and down her body. Her abnormally fast metabolism had struck again. The pain meds and local anesthetic were history.
She cried out. Her insides turned to molten jelly, and spots and flashes of light streaked across her eyes as she fell into an infinite darkness where nothing could reach her.
Chapter 8
Elana had finally slipped into unconsciousness.
“Thank God.” Vanko couldn’t stand the thought of causing her any more pain—on any level, especially by dragging up the past. He remembered watching the funerals on Russian television. It had been big news when the Italian ambassador to Russia, his lovely Russian wife, and their sixteen-year-old daughter were all killed. But the news had given no details of how or why the tragedies had occurred.
Demidas!
The man was more akin to a filthy animal than a human being. His debased fingers were involved in criminal activity from the streets of Moscow, Odessa, and Kiev, to the gulags in Siberia, and all the way to the top levels of the current Russian government.
Vanko stroked a finger lightly over Elana’s pale cheek and down to her delicate jawline. He growled under his breath at the thought of her delicate beauty under Demidas’s cruel hands. The bastard had just shot to the top of Vanko’s to-be-killed list, right next to the mercenaries who’d shot at her on the Mall and the treasonous asshole in DIA.
After injecting some more topical anesthetic around the wound opening, Vanko finished tweezing cloth fibers and then irrigated the entry point to the wound track. Then he pulled a small package from the medical bag. This item wasn’t a standard feature in any military field medical kit and had been added at Ren’s request. Vanko had been informed about its existence when he’d made his calls while retrieving the pack.
He opened the sterile package and removed a one millimeter in size, titanium-encased object. It was a miniature, high-powered GPS that Tweeter and Keely would be able to track using government satellites. The head of DIA had authorized its use. The General wanted Elana, the only one who could absolutely identify the slippery-to-this-point traitor, protected that badly.
Of course, Vanko didn’t plan on straying far from Elana’s side until after he delivered her safely to Sanctuary, but shit happened, as Ren had so bluntly reminded him. Cases had gone south enough times in Vanko’s life as a covert operative that he couldn’t disagree.
A pressure injector had been included to shoot the bead under Elana’s skin, but Vanko had decided to place it in the shallow end of her wound track and use the wound sealant to hold it in place. Later it could easily be removed.
After placing the tracker bead in the gash where the bullet had first struck her, he then applied the wound sealant to keep out other foreign material and to hold the tracker in place. After a liberal smear of antibiotic ointment, a sterile gauze bandage, and a shot of antibiotic, he was done.
Vanko propped Elana on her good left side with pillows supporting along her back and front, then covered her up with the bedclothes. She uttered a sigh and curled around the pillows against her stomach, just like a kitten.
After repacking the unused medical supplies and bagging the bloody detritus from treating her wound, Vanko sat on the edge of the bed. He stroked a finger along the elegant length of Elana’s neck and then checked her pulse at her carotid. It was within normal range. She was resting easily, and he let out a relieved breath. He’d let her rest until their ride to the safe house arrived.
After Vanko had reported to Ren during his trip outside, he’d contacted Grigori Turgenev, the Russian ambassador to the United States. He’d called in a favor the man had promised many years ago, during Vanko’s time with Interpol. Vanko had rescued Grigori’s daughter from a sex trafficker—not Demidas, but one very much like him. Grigori was now more than happy to repay the debt by providing shelter to Vanko and Vanko’s woman. The ambassador was sending the embassy limo, along with a military guard, to pick them up.
The traitor’s mercs might follow the Hummer to this motel, but he and Elana wouldn’t be there. They’d be safely on foreign soil in the United States, beyond the reach of any U.S. citizen.
Unfortunately, Vanko hadn’t known all of Elana’s background before he’d made the call. The planned stay at the ambassador’s residence would h
ave to be cut short. He couldn’t risk Grigori’s employees and staff recognizing her from her kidnapping and supposed death twelve years ago.
Demidas had informants everywhere.
They’d stay long enough to have her wound and her general health checked over by the doctor assigned to the Russian Embassy and to obtain her some warmer clothing.
If SSI backup couldn’t get to the east coast within the next twenty-four hours, he’d get another, more untraceable, vehicle. They’d go on the road and head inland, away from D.C.
He didn’t want to take an injured, exhausted Elana on a potentially lengthy road trip. But it couldn’t be helped. Demidas was just as great a risk to Elana as the traitor and his killers were. As much as he’d like to, he couldn’t go tearing off half-cocked to Europe to find Demidas and rip his fucking head off. He also couldn’t beat the shit out of the Defense traitor for ordering a hit on Elana since he didn’t know who the fucker was—yet.
He traced the curve of her jaw. She sighed in her sleep and leaned into his light touch. All he wanted to do was strip down and crawl into bed and replace the pillows supporting her back with his body.
Instead, Vanko rose from the bed and tucked the blankets over her exposed shoulders. She made a soft mewling sound. He smiled. She not only curled up like a kitten, she purred like one too.
He paced the small room, checking out the window frequently. The view gave him a perfect line of sight to the Hummer sitting in the mostly empty lot. As he scanned the parking lot and area around the hotel, his neck began to itch. Every survival instinct told him the mercs were on their way and it would be close as to who would reach the motel first—the bad guys or Grigori’s limo.
As he prowled, he replayed Elana’s voice and expressions as she’d acknowledged being raped by Demidas. God! His gut roiled at the thought of Elana being violated. She would also have been tortured, such acts had been an integral part of Demidas’s play book for his “sex toys”, as the bastard called the girls and women he’d kidnapped. Vanko had seen the results of Demidas’s actions and understood why Elana hadn’t shared the full extent of what had happened during her captivity.
Vanko fisted his hands. He wanted to kill Demidas up close and personal, but taking the crime lord down wouldn’t be easy. The man was well-protected and had positioned himself as the face of capitalism in the new Russia. Underneath the slick public facade, Demidas remained the street thug who’d clawed, maimed, and killed his way to the top of a particularly foul dung heap.
Interpol had listed Demidas as a major target, but no criminal charges had ever stuck to the man. Eyewitnesses to his many crimes never lived long. He had highly placed political protection, some said all the way to the presidency of Russia. It wasn’t any wonder Elana’s uncles had felt forced to fake her death and obtain a new name and life for her in the United States.
Vanko left the window and moved back to the bed. He leaned over and smoothed a stray hair off Elana’s flushed cheek and tested her forehead with the back of his hand. She was warm, but not overly so. Grigori’s doctor would take care of her.
Standing at the side of the bed, he examined her features. A combination of contentment, joy, and desire swirled through his mind and body. The complexity of feelings were unlike anything he’d ever felt for a woman before.
She was a perfect fit for him with her gallant bravery and intelligence. Her sense of humor paralleled his—and she could swear like a Russian sailor. Her lithe body, Slavic bone structure, dark hair and light eyes more than appealed to him. All of which made Tanya’s prescient feeling Elana was the woman for him more believable.
He probably wasn’t good enough for her. Elana’s mother’s people had descended from a minor royal line. But Elana’s mother had also been royalty of another kind—a much-loved prima ballerina who’d married an Italian diplomat. A fairy tale couple, they’d lived in Moscow in the Italian embassy, a palatial, gated estate which had once belonged to one of Peter the Great’s relatives. Elana had been born into a sheltered, monied world of privilege—and then had it all destroyed by a vicious street thug. Never again.
Yeah, he might not be good enough for Elana, but he would love and protect her with all that was in him. He’d told Grigori that Elana was his woman. Elana would have a fit if she knew he’d decided to keep her after all this was over. But by then, he’d hoped to win her trust and promise to give a relationship with him a try, if not her love.
Using the excuse of making her more comfortable, he sat on the edge of the bed and gave in to his constant need to touch her. He carefully pulled out the pins anchoring her now-disheveled hairstyle. He ran his fingers through the thick, tangled tresses and then massaged her scalp, soothing her—soothing him. Her hair was long, silky, and a dozen shades of brown and gold with tinges of red. He lowered his head and sniffed at the luxuriant mass as it fanned out across the white pillow; her hair smelled like flowers and something more, something uniquely Elana.
Her scent aroused him. His stiff cock throbbed painfully as it pushed against the limits of his jeans. He’d have to take his cock in hand. Elana didn’t need a horny man added to her already stressful situation.
Elana whimpered and her lips twisted into a grimace. Vanko pressed a light kiss on her pallid forehead. She sighed in response and her taut facial muscles relaxed.
At least he could give her peace in her sleep. It was a start. “Sleep, devochka. No one will harm you.”
* * * *
5:30 P.M. (EST)
“Elana.” A husky male voice whispered in her ear. “Wake up, zaychik moy.”
She opened her eyes, and all she saw in the gloom of the room was a dark and very large male-shaped shadow bending over her. She let out a sharp gasp and began to struggle against whatever imprisoned her. It was bedding. She was on a bed and mostly naked. She let out a scream and began to fight in earnest.
Not again. Never again.
“Hush, Elana moy. It’s Vanko.” The male voice called to something deep inside her, calming her. “Shh, shh. It’s Vanko. You’re safe with me. Wake up, milaya.”
A sharp pain on her lower right side brought the last day totally into focus. Vanko. Hotel room. Safe. She stopped fighting. “I’m okay.” Past a tightness in her throat, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“We need to leave.” Vanko untangled her from the blankets and sheet and then raised her from the nest of pillows to a sitting position. “Let’s get this T-shirt on you.” She reached for the shirt. “No, no, goluba, let me do all the work. I don’t want you to pull your wound and possibly start to bleed again.”
No use fighting the man when he had that commanding tone in his voice. She sat still and let him dress her like a doll. Later, when she felt better and wasn’t so helpless, and if he were still around, she’d let him know how she felt about his high-and-mighty attitude.
“Is our ride here?” she asked as he zipped her skirt over the thickness of the bandage. Thank God for stretch cottons.
“They will be by the time we make it to the exit on the other side of the building.” Vanko spoke from the area of her feet as he put her shoes on her bare feet. Her pantyhose had become history during the treatment of her wound. “The enemy’s at the Hummer. I figure they’re waiting for backup before they make a search of the motel.”
“Oh, God!” She stiffened and regretted the movement as soon as she made it. “They’d do that? Terrorize innocent people to find us?”
“They’re getting paid to do a job—you’re the job.” He turned on the bedside lamp. “The rest is collateral damage to men such as them.”
Vanko’s grim expression said it all. He’d dealt with these kinds of men before and would use any and all force needed to stop the mercenaries from getting to her. Because Vanko was a good man, he’d try to avoid hurting others, but there were never any guarantees.
Elana couldn’t allow a small war to break out here. She had to be of help and not a hindrance. She needed to get her ass out of bed before the mer
cenaries stormed the motel.
She moved, but more slowly this time, and only felt a slight twinge from her wound. The drugs Vanko had given her were doing an okay job. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and began to stand. Not a good idea. The room swam around her and she dropped gracelessly onto the mattress.
“Vanko, I…”
“I have you.” He swung her up into his arms. “Hold on.” She grabbed his neck as he one-handedly picked up the medical kit, her tote bag, his duffle and hung the three bags over his shoulder as if they and she weighed nothing. “Can you shoot a gun?”
“Uh…no.” She shook her head, and her hair caught in the light-colored beard stubble on his chin. He’d taken her hair down as she’d slept, and she hadn’t even felt it. Any other man and she would’ve woken up and screamed. Any other man and she wouldn’t have fallen asleep with him in the room in the first place, no matter how many pain meds he’d given her. She unconsciously trusted this man; her conscious mind was still playing catch up. She probably owed him an apology for fighting him.
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” Vanko stopped at the door and looked into her eyes. “Not everyone can handle a gun. I’ll manage.”
“Not sorry about that, though I am,” she bit her lip, “I’m sorry I screamed when you woke me up. If the enemy had been close, I’d have…”
“Don’t apologize. I startled you. Between the medications, shock from being shot, and lack of sleep, I’m surprised you didn’t scream louder.” He kissed her brow.
A frisson of awareness shot down her spine and settled in her belly. It was a good feeling, not a bad one, and another steely thread to her past broke. It was amazing how quickly she’d gotten used to his touches and light kisses. Most of the men she’d dated had never gotten even that far.
“Elana, you with me?”
Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) Page 10