Wouldn’t it?
For her intelligence and acumen, Jasha respected Ann more than any other person he’d ever met, so he knew she would draw comfort from his familiar words of confidence.
If the coming battle proved as grueling as it was shaping up to be, she’d use every bit of that intelligence and acumen. She was the ideal woman to stand at his side. She was timid, yes, but she hid an inner strength. More than that, she was loyal. She would never run.
Last night, he’d suffered doubts about her suitability as his mate.
In the clear light of morning, he realized that fate had given him the right woman to keep by his side.
And when they won the battle—and they would, somehow they would—she’d give him strong children. Maybe even a daughter.
He looked at her with an eye for potential breeding.
She was tall and would easily carry his babies. The combination of their genes would produce handsome offspring, and with her astute intelligence and his competitive business sense, the Wilders would come to rule the wine world.
She saw him watching her, and lifted her brows. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘You’re much prettier than Meghan Nakamura.’’
‘‘For a man with supposedly good taste in women, it took you long enough to notice.’’ Frost dripped from Ann’s voice.
‘‘I do have good taste in women.’’ He smiled charmingly and thought, But I don’t understand them. Because he had no idea what he’d said to make her mad.
She ate her eggs and her toast, drank her orange juice and her coffee, refilled both their cups, then turned to him. ‘‘Tell me about you. Why are you . . . like you are?’’
This morning, she couldn’t yet bring herself to speak of his wolfy state, as Firebird called it. She’d back stepped into disbelief.
‘‘Like I am?’’ He lifted his brows.
‘‘You know. Part . . . half . . . sometimes a . . .’’ She knew him so well. She knew he was chuckling at her. ‘‘You have a dog door and you don’t have a dog!’’
‘‘I’ll tell you about me, but first—take me through the events that brought you here. Besides the fact that you’re infatuated with me, I mean.’’ He chuckled.
Ann didn’t.
Perhaps it was a little early in their relationship to tease her. It didn’t feel early, but perhaps he needed to remember she’d never been intimate with a man before, and endeavor to make her feel always at ease with him—for there might come a time when her trust signified the difference between life and death. ‘‘You know my family is from Russia,’’ he said. ‘‘My father’s family are Cossacks. My mother’s family is Romany. Gypsy.’’
Ann propped her chin on her hand and studied him. ‘‘Really? Your mother is a Gypsy?’’
‘‘My parents had to leave Russia. Her tribe didn’t want her to be with my father, and my father’s family doesn’t approve of marriage.’’
‘‘To a Romany, you mean.’’
‘‘Especially not to a Romany.’’ He’d heard the story on one chill winter night when he was seventeen, a senior in high school. He’d been accepted to MIT and, like all young men, anxious to strike out on his own.
But when his father had said he wanted to tell the tale only once, Jasha had listened, because the old man loved to tell stories over and over and over.
But not about his past. Never about the Old Country.
‘‘Does anyone else in your family . . . you know . . . ?’’ She looked anxious, as if she didn’t know whether to hope he was the only one or be relieved that there were others.
‘‘All the guys.’’
‘‘All the guys? Only the guys?’’
‘‘It’s complicated.’’ And he didn’t know how many more shocks she could bear. Although this morning she looked more like the unflappable Ann Smith and less like the creature created of storm and passion.
Which one was the true Ann Smith?
‘‘I suppose it must be. But maybe that’s why your mother’s family wasn’t happy about the marriage.’’
‘‘Because they’re prejudiced against guys who turn into wolves? We could march on the Kremlin and demand equal rights.’’
Ann still wasn’t smiling.
Man, he was giving her his best stuff, and she was not amused.
Yes, this was definitely the real Ann Smith. While he found humor in the difficulties of life, she waited for him to finish joking, and put him back on track.
But man, how he hated to tell her the truth. ‘‘There’s a good chance my father’s family is carrying a grudge.’’
‘‘Because your parents got married?’’ She sounded incredulous.
‘‘Oh, yeah.’’
‘‘They’ve been carrying a grudge for thirty-some years?’’
If she only knew. ‘‘A thousand years is nothing to them.’’
‘‘Why do you say that?’’
‘‘I’ve got insider information.’’ Sooner or later, he’d have to tell her the whole story . . . but he didn’t want to. He suspected that when she discovered what a pile she’d stepped into, she’d want to run for the hills. He wouldn’t blame her—but he would have to stop her.
‘‘Now tell me what you know about the Ukrainian deal—’’
‘‘I got a fax.’’ Before he could pin her down, she said, ‘‘It was waiting for me when I went in three days ago.’’
‘‘The day after the Fourth of July?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Doesn’t that just figure?’’
‘‘The fax said they’d decided to agree to our terms, but only if you’d meet with them by the end of the week.’’
‘‘Meet with them? Where?’’
‘‘In your office.’’
His eyes narrowed as he weighed the possibilities.
Had the Varinskis tracked him? His dad’s paranoia had always seemed exactly that—the paranoia of a stern old man with a terrible secret to hide. Yet in all his years in business, Jasha had never seen any indication that anyone from the Old Country cared about his little family.
Yet he never took chances. He’d covered his tracks. He’d hacked into public computers, removed records, made himself an enigma with no past . . . just in case.
‘‘They want to close the deal. They want to meet you in person and get your signature,’’ she said.
To threaten him? To kill him?
To find out his family’s location and destroy them?
‘‘What did you tell them?’’ he asked.
‘‘That you were out of the office at a family function—’’
If they’d been fishing for information, they’d pulled in a whale. ‘‘What did they say to that?’’
‘‘They didn’t say anything. It was a flurry of faxes, and they made no comment about your activities.’’ She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for his next question. When he said nothing, she continued: ‘‘I said I’d contact you, but to please be patient.’’
‘‘They refused.’’
‘‘They were very gruff, yes, so I told them I’d bring the contracts and we’d go over them. I convinced them to wait.’’
He ran his gaze over her. Had they followed her? Had they put a tracking device on her? What else had she inadvertently told them? ‘‘Did you bring the whole file?’’
‘‘Of course!’’ He’d insulted his superefficient secretary. She slid off the stool, fetched her briefcase, and spread the contracts and the faxes across the table.
He looked through them. Everything was organized according to time frame. He read them with a new eye, and he heard his mother’s voice as clearly as if she sat beside him.
The sons of Oleg Varinski have found you. You are not safe.
Chapter 13
The hair rose on the back of Jasha’s neck.
He looked directly at Ann, sitting quietly, watching him, and clearly trying to comprehend his thoughts.
If the Varinskis had followed her, she would never have known it. If they
ever realized what she’d done, what she was—the finder of the icon, the woman the Madonna had chosen—she wouldn’t stand a chance in hell of survival.
With more urgency, he asked, ‘‘Did they send you anything to give to me? A token of their goodwill? Anything?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Are you sure?’’
‘‘Jasha.’’ She sounded exasperated. ‘‘You can trust me to know whether I’ve been given something to bring you.’’
‘‘I do.’’
‘‘Then act like it!’’
‘‘It’s not that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust them.’’
‘‘They’re wine distributors.’’ She threw out her hands in a gesture of exasperation. ‘‘What’s not to trust?’’
‘‘You’re naïve.’’ She was an innocent in all this, drawn into the depths of an ancient pledge because of her loyalty to him.
‘‘Naïve? About business?’’ She half rose off the stool. ‘‘Isn’t that another term for stupid?’’
He’d offended her. He put down the sheaf of papers and looked her in the eyes. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ She settled back onto the stool. ‘‘Okay.’’
When she backed off, he suffered a pang of regret. After three years of working together five or six days a week, a chase through the woods, and one long evening of making love, she still didn’t feel secure enough with him to rake him over the coals. When he took her to meet his mother, she’d teach Ann everything she needed to know about coal raking.
But for right now, he needed to get one step ahead of the Varinskis. Ann was his responsibility, and he had to save her. The world seldom saw such wide-eyed ingenuousness, and he would protect it, and her. ‘‘This morning, I thought we’d take a walk down to your car.’’
She blinked at his sudden change of subject. ‘‘Okay.’’
‘‘See if it managed to hang on to the cliff. Then I can get a tow truck up here and you’ll know what to tell your insurance company.’’ His father always said a good lie was the right mixture of truth and seizing an opportunity. And when the old man was right, he was right. ‘‘Do you want to change?’’
She looked down at her feet. ‘‘I didn’t bring any walking shoes or jeans. I only have this stuff.’’
He looked her over. ‘‘You look great in that stuff.’’ She did look great, a tall, slender woman with legs clear up to her neck. Last night, after the bath, he’d been restless, holding her in his arms, wanting to do more, knowing he couldn’t.
She, on the other hand, had slept soundly, exhausted by the day.
A virgin.
Damn it. A virgin.
The need to have her grew with every moment, tugging at his senses. The scent of her was woman: sweet, heady, seductive. He could almost taste her on his tongue. . . . He had tasted her, and the memory gave him a boner hard enough to howl about.
He’d bet if he looked at the icon, he’d see the Madonna smirking at him.
‘‘You look great in that stuff,’’ he repeated, ‘‘but you need something tougher while you’re here. Tell you what—my sister’s got clothes upstairs in the back bedroom. Do you want to go take a look and see if anything fits?’’
‘‘Okay.’’ Ann slid off the stool and headed toward the door, then stopped and turned to face him. ‘‘But . . . will your sister mind?’’
‘‘Naw. Firebird’s really easygoing.’’ Not about her clothes, she wasn’t, but he knew good and well nothing would fit; his sister was almost six inches shorter than Ann, and rounded where Ann was thin.
But he wanted Ann out of the room long enough to conclude his search without any more interference.
‘‘Are you sure?’’
It must be a female thing, being proprietary about clothes, because Ann clearly doubted his word. ‘‘I’ll tell you what,’’ he said. ‘‘When you meet her, you can ask her.’’
‘‘I’m going to meet her?’’
‘‘Of course you’re going to meet her. My dad, uh . . .’’ How did he tell Ann this? ‘‘My dad had some kind of heart seizure. Or . . . something.’’
‘‘What?’’ Ann came back to the table and sat down. ‘‘When?’’
‘‘On the Fourth.’’
‘‘Why didn’t you tell me?’’
‘‘I didn’t have time. It was one hospital transfer after another and my mother was so . . .’’ He gestured.
‘‘I’ll bet!’’ Ann took his hand and held it between both of hers.
She was finishing his thoughts for him, and he was grateful. He hadn’t realized that talking about his father would recall every fear, every anguish, every frustration. Jasha wanted to howl at the moon. He wanted to get up and hit something, preferably a Varinski. He wanted . . . he wanted everything in his tidy life to be as it had been, and would never be again.
‘‘How is he now?’’ She squeezed his hand.
‘‘I talked to Rurik this morning.’’ Although neither of the brothers had mentioned the obvious—that if Konstantine died now, he would go to hell.
Men who lived every day with a deal with the devil didn’t question consequences.
‘‘When we brought him in, the hospital told us to say good-bye.’’ Jasha recalled the helplessness, the fear, the anguish. He recalled his mother’s pinched face, his sister’s broken sobs. He found himself squeezing Ann’s hand as if it were a lifeline. ‘‘Now he’s rallied to the point that they’re sending him home.’’
‘‘What are they going to do to fix him?’’
‘‘The medical staff can’t fix him. They don’t understand what’s wrong.’’
‘‘They’re sending him home and they don’t know what’s wrong?’’ Her voice rose. ‘‘Don’t put up with that! Make them—’’
‘‘They said something about naming the disease after him.’’
She subsided. ‘‘I’m sorry. That’s lousy. I really like your dad. He’s a great guy. I know I’ve only talked to him on the phone, but he’s always so hearty and funny, and he asks me how old I am and why I don’t—’’
She blushed so suddenly and so brightly, Jasha experienced the first complete and genuine amusement he’d felt since the moment his mother had given her prophecy.
‘‘He asks how old you are and why you don’t marry me?’’ Jasha weighed his options. But it was too early to say anything, so he stuck with, ‘‘On the Fourth of July, he tried to auction me off to the women in Blythe.’’
‘‘You’re kidding.’’
Jasha enjoyed knowing he’d stunned her. ‘‘Named off my virtues, then offered me like a stud bull. Rurik, too.’’
‘‘Does he do that often?’’
‘‘No, mostly he reads the paper, gripes about the idiot legislators who regulate the wine industry, and bellows when the rain falls and splits the grapes. But he wants grandchildren and when my father has a goal, nothing had better stand in his way.’’ Better to prepare her for the reality of Konstantine than to let her be surprised. ‘‘After we get stuff settled here, we need to go up and see him.’’
Ann’s eyes got huge and scared.
‘‘You’ll like them,’’ he said reassuringly, then gave her a gentle verbal nudge. ‘‘And you can check with Firebird about borrowing her clothes.’’
‘‘Right.’’ Ann stood up and once again headed for the door.
He waited until he no longer heard her footsteps, no longer smelled her scent.
Then he ran his hands over the papers, feeling for lumps. He sniffed them, trying to detect the stench of Varinski on them—had they been in his office?
But everything was as it should be.
He shook the file folder.
Nothing fell out.
Ann’s briefcase sat on the table, black, full-grained, pebbled leather, padded handle, detachable shoulder strap, brushed-nickel hardware, and a state-of-the-art lock—all perfect places to hide a homing device.
He started with her personal papers, and grinned when he shook an
envelope and out tumbled a desperate note to Celia from Ann. He didn’t read it, but a glance was enough; it mentioned Mr. Wilder and tight buns in the same breath.
Nice.
He pulled out his pocketknife and split every seam in her briefcase and in the straps, spreading the leather and the lining across the table.
The briefcase was clean.
Lifting his gaze, he stared out the window at the sun-drenched morning. All right. Not in her briefcase, then certainly in her car . . .
The scent of her distress and her faintest gasp of dismay brought his head around.
Ann stood in the doorway, her gaze on the eviscerated briefcase and the pile of her personal papers. She looked down at the size four clothes she held in her hand. With a killing glare, she fled the dining room.
He gazed around at the guts of her briefcase spread across the table.
All right. This looked incriminating. But there was an easy explanation.
He’d better think of it fast.
Rising, he headed after her. Headed after her . . . instinct slammed into him like a speeding train.
Chase the female. Bring her down. Possess her—
No! God, no, he’d done that once.
And how sweet it had been. Her skin was clean and pure, her body hot and deep. . . .
He stopped, his hand on the wall, and took a long breath. Control. Where was his control? He’d never had difficulty disciplining his urges before.
Why now? Why Ann? What was it about her that carried his wild desires so close to the surface?
If he could, he’d turn away from the pursuit, but he had to stop her before she did something rash— he needed to explain.
He half thought she’d go upstairs to the bedroom to fling herself on the bed and cry. But no. He should have realized his Ann wouldn’t do anything so simple.
She’d left the house by the back door.
He knew, because she’d left a scent trail of furious indignation—and she’d set off the alarm.
He stopped long enough to punch in the code and stop the shriek of the siren before the cops came out.
Glancing at the hook on the wall, he realized . . . she’d also taken his keys. The keys to his beautiful new BMW M6.
‘‘Son of a bitch!’’ He ran out the back door.
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