Yet all the while, she was waiting, anticipating the glide of her hand up and down the length of his penis. And when she touched him, she knew she touched magic.
Each vein rose blue beneath the pale skin, and in contrast to his balls, the texture was smooth, silk beneath her fingers. The head was rosy, and as she lightly rubbed it, the whole organ grew larger, stiffer.
Yes. Magic.
The soap foamed white, then rinsed away, and she bent her head to take him into her mouth.
Finally, he groaned. A long, low, faint groan.
She swirled her tongue, sucked softly, then with growing strength, then softly again. And with each movement, she grew more aware of her nipples tightening in anticipation, of the ache between her legs, the way the water pounded on her back and slid down between her butt cheeks. She was in need, and if he didn’t yield soon, she was going to attack.
He held his arms straight out, his hands on the walls, bracing himself as if he would lunge if he didn’t.
Belated caution made her catch her breath. For all that this madness was what she had desired, right now, she wondered if she would survive intact.
After all, he was a Varinski.
He rose to his feet. He looked down at her. His eyes glowed red, a constant, furious, menacing glow.
His formidable control had broken at last.
She was, she realized, a woman trapped by her own stratagems.
Without warning, she plunged toward him, intent on knocking him down, dominating him, showing him once and for all she would not be intimidated.
Chapter Twenty-five
Douglas caught Firebird around the waist. Pressed her to the cool floor. Spoke in her ear: ‘‘Don’t ever try that again. Do you hear me?’’
She stared at the gold tile beneath her cheek, watched the water running toward the drain, felt the threat of his erection against her butt.
‘‘Do you hear me?’’ he repeated.
‘‘I’ll never stop.’’ Useless defiance, but true nevertheless.
‘‘Then I will have to wear you out.’’ He ran his hand down her spine, between her legs. He opened her to his exploration, and what he found there made him chuckle. ‘‘Almost ready. Almost.’’
Almost? His fingers had barely brushed her. He’d entered her only slightly. Yet ignominiously, she hovered on the edge of climax.
He reached up, reached down.
She raised up to see what he was doing, but he put the flat of his palm in the middle of her back. ‘‘Don’t move. You have done plenty.’’
She was caught in the heat of her mate’s loosed passion, and she was the one who had loosed it. Now she would pay the price.
His fingers found her again, and this time he rubbed with purpose. He opened her, caressed her, entered her . . . and as he did, heat blossomed.
He was using some oil, something that made her buck beneath his hands and claw at the floor.
‘‘What’s wrong?’’ His voice was guttural in her ear.
‘‘It’s too much.’’
He lifted her hips with his arm. ‘‘We’ve barely begun.’’
His penis slid into her, the whole length, without stopping.
Too full. Too big. Too hot.
He pressed himself inside, holding himself still, waiting for . . . something.
Too much . . . God, why wouldn’t he move?
Involuntarily her inner muscles rippled along the hard length inside.
And as if she’d given him a signal, he released his passions on her.
He thrust with vigor, with savagery. There was no resisting him, no chance to take charge. She had to move as he directed, accept his domination . . . with each thrust, she came, an explosion of need fulfilled and need aroused.
The water washed down on them. It trickled down her arms and dripped off her chin, singing with its own sweet, warm beat.
She moaned, straining, clenching all her muscles as he drove into her with the rhythm of the sea, the wind, the earth. She rose onto her hands and arched her back, trying to get away, trying to get more. The pleasure was unbearable, and when he slid his hand around her, between her legs, and pressed her clit— she screamed.
Lights exploded beneath her closed eyelids.
Fiercely, he plunged into her, filling her with his sperm—and neither of them cared about the consequences.
Yesterday, they’d faced death.
Today, they faced each other.
She remained on her hands and knees, panting, exhausted, pleasured beyond strength.
And she smiled.
Gradually he withdrew, each ridge and vein dragging across her inner tissues.
She groaned.
He lifted her, turned her, placed her on the seat. He looked like a shark ready to take a bite out of its victim. ‘‘Now it’s my turn to wash you.’’
And she realized—he’d just come twice, and he was still hard.
By the time he had finished using the shower massager to rinse her, she was nothing more than a limp rag in his arms.
And that was just the way he wanted her.
Damn her for ripping his control away. She deserved the demon she had unleashed.
He had always planned to find her and drag her away to the lair he had built for her, but he had never imagined he would need so desperately to claim her over and over, in every way possible.
Now, as he dried her, taking care with each part, wincing at her bruises, sighing about her hair, he wished they had more time. For if they did, he would take her to bed again and show her how many times a starved cougar could satisfy himself . . . and her.
Lifting her, he carried her into the bedroom.
But he couldn’t take the time to make love to her again. He had another task, a duty to fix what he had set wrong.
He tucked her in bed, pulled up the covers, kissed her forehead. Her solemn eyes watched him. ‘‘Are you okay?’’
She knew him too well, recognized the disquiet he took such care to hide.
‘‘That’s the question I should ask you,’’ he said. ‘‘Are you okay?’’
A sleepy, sexy smile curled her lips. ‘‘I’m wonderful.’’
‘‘That you are.’’
Outside, rain licked at the windows, and the wind moaned around the eaves.
The next storm was coming in. Nighttime crept across the land. Exhaustion took control of her mind and her heart.
He placed his hand over her eyes to shut them. ‘‘Go to sleep. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.’’
Her eyes popped open. She shoved his hand away. ‘‘Cop stuff?’’
‘‘Cop stuff,’’ he agreed. He wasn’t lying, exactly. He did need to check in with his sergeant. He’d ruined his pager in the ocean. Lost a cell phone, too, and his service pistol. Yamashita hadn’t been happy about that, but Doug had told him a version of the truth—that he’d plunged into the ocean after a wayward dog—and Yamashita had been satisfied. He’d given Doug time off, but no more than necessary, for the state police were pretty much always on call. If an accident occurred and everyone else was busy, they’d phone him, and he’d go.
‘‘Don’t be gone too long.’’ Firebird looked heart-breakingly young with that punk haircut and that tremulous smile. ‘‘I want to take you home. I want to give you to my mother. She will be so pleased.’’
If Firebird only knew . . .
‘‘We’ll go, but first, I’ve got work to do.’’
Whether she wished it or not, her eyes closed. ‘‘Be careful.’’
As he watched her sleep, he murmured, ‘‘It’s a little too late for that.’’
He tucked the covers around her and headed for his office next door.
There he monitored his state-of-the-art security system. There he kept his computer and all his records. His chair was leather and adjustable six different ways. His walnut desk was topped with black marble.
He loved his office. He loved his house. And he feared he wouldn’t have them much longer.<
br />
Oh, well.
If he had to pay for what he’d done, it was no more than he deserved.
Yet it was up to him to make sure his family didn’t pay, Aleksandr didn’t pay, Firebird didn’t pay.
He searched through the clutter for his Rolodex, found the card he wanted, picked up the phone, and dialed the number. It rang and rang, and no one picked up for one long damned time.
Where was he? Where was that bastard Vadim?
Doug was ready to hang up when at last someone answered.
Music blared in the background. Voices babbled. Women laughed. And some guy with a pronounced Russian accent yelled, ‘‘What?’’
A party. That little prick was having a party.
‘‘Vadim,’’ Doug said tersely. ‘‘Now.’’
‘‘Who wants him?’’ the guy shouted.
‘‘The guy he just tried to kill.’’
The phone thudded to the floor.
Doug waited, unsure whether the kid who answered the phone would actually pass the message on.
But Vadim answered almost at once, and he sounded terse and tense. ‘‘Which guy I just tried to kill?’’
‘‘Doug Black.’’ Doug Black, who would set things right, or die trying.
‘‘Oh.’’ Vadim relaxed, chuckled. ‘‘You.’’
Doug had talked to this guy, told him his history, convinced him he was a rogue Varinski. He had sold himself to Vadim, and yet never had he despised Vadim more. Despised Vadim—and himself. ‘‘I got the job done for you. I gave you the coordinates of the Wilders’ home.’’
‘‘I paid you a cool ten mil for that,’’ Vadim reminded him pleasantly.
‘‘And to show your appreciation, you sent your goons after me.’’ Doug allowed every bit of his rage and frustration to show in his voice. Rage at Vadim. Frustration with himself for being so stupid as to let himself be bought out of loneliness and bitterness.
Vadim wasn’t impressed. He laughed. ‘‘I didn’t send them after you.’’
‘‘Liar.’’
‘‘I sent them after the Wilder girl. You got in the way.’’
Even worse. ‘‘I was about to get lucky.’’
‘‘Yeah, sorry. My guys were under orders to get the job done and get it done fast.’’ Vadim’s voice grew hushed and thoughtful. ‘‘And they told me they had. They said you both went in the ocean and didn’t come out.’’
Doug needed to be careful, very careful, with what he next said to Vadim. ‘‘We both jumped in the ocean to get away from your assassins. The Wilder girl landed in a kelp bed. One of the stems wrapped around her neck like a noose. On her own, she had no chance to get back to the surface.’’
‘‘You saw the body?’’
‘‘I found her.’’ Deliberately, Doug relaxed the hand that held the phone. The needle on his barometer was falling, the wind gusts were rising, and he’d be lucky if the storm didn’t knock out the lines before he’d finished his business with Vadim. For sure he shouldn’t allow Vadim to piss him off so badly that he broke the phone with his grip.
‘‘Good man.’’ Vadim managed to sound both patronizing and pleased. ‘‘Did you drag the Wilder girl to shore?’’
‘‘Are you crazy? I was lucky to get out myself. That is one fucking cold ocean.’’ Doug spoke with his teeth clenched. ‘‘I had hypothermia.’’
‘‘Bummer.’’
‘‘I’m sure your snake guy is still crying.’’
‘‘Foka.’’ Vadim chuckled. ‘‘Scary guy, isn’t he?’’
‘‘Is he the one who’s going to take care of the Wilder problem?’’ Doug asked with an elaborate lack of concern.
‘‘I’m actually going to take care of the Wilder problem myself. The situation is too delicate to leave to subordinates.’’
‘‘What was it you told me you were going to do? Something about letting US immigration know who Konstantine really is and all the crimes he committed, and getting him shipped out of the country with his lovely wife?’’
‘‘That was my original plan.’’ Doug could hear the laughter in Vadim’s voice. ‘‘There’ve been a few changes.’’
‘‘What’s your plan now?’’ Doug was feeling sick. ‘‘Are you going to wipe them out financially, too?’’
‘‘Maybe something a little more than that. I’m just figuring to wipe them out.’’
Doug wanted to pound on the desk. How could he have been so stupid as to believe Vadim about the Wilders? About anything? How could he have sold himself and his talents to Vadim?
Vadim lowered his voice. ‘‘How about the icon? Did you find it?’’
‘‘Icon? What icon?’’
‘‘You remember. We talked about it.’’
They had. Vadim had been quite insistent about wanting it. ‘‘I wouldn’t know an icon if it bit me on the ass.’’
A woman’s loud shriek punctuated the noise of the party, and pandemonium broke out.
‘‘Hang on,’’ Vadim muttered.
The party sounds grew fainter. Doug heard a door close, and it was quiet.
Still Vadim spoke softly, as if he feared being overheard. ‘‘You’d know this one. It’s a small white tile, maybe three by three, an antique, with a painting of the Virgin Mary on it.’’
Doug laughed. ‘‘The great Varinski leader is collecting religious art now?’’
‘‘Find it, and I’ll pay twenty million.’’
Doug was playing dumb. He had studied the Varinskis, their organization, their history, their legend. He knew which icon Vadim sought. It had to be one of the four family icons the original Konstantine had delivered to the devil to cement the deal.
But those icons had vanished into the mists of time. Why did Vadim seek this one now? Why was this particular icon so important that he would pay such an exorbitant sum for it? How could Doug use this to his advantage? ‘‘There has to be more than one Russian icon out there. How would I know if I found the right icon?’’
‘‘Pick it up. It’ll burn you right to the bone.’’
Doug flexed his hand. ‘‘What’s this icon got against me?’’
‘‘Not just you. It’ll burn any Varinski.’’ Vadim’s accent was almost imperceptible. He sounded like a young American, and not a ruthless assassin, but Doug knew the truth. The guy was relentless in his pursuit of power, and that made his search for the icon all the more interesting.
‘‘So you’ve got everybody in your organization looking for this stupid icon? I mean . . . everybody who’s not at the party with you?’’
He could almost hear Vadim deciding how much to say. ‘‘My sources inform me that Firebird Wilder might very well have it.’’
‘‘Shit if I’m going into the water again to search her body,’’ Doug drawled. ‘‘I’ve already searched the stuff she left here. There was nothing like what you’re describing.’’
‘‘Send me everything.’’
‘‘Are you crazy? I tossed it in the ocean. When it gets out that she’s disappeared and I was the last one seen with her, the shit’s going to hit the fan. I need an alibi, and I’m saying she was brokenhearted because I wouldn’t take her back, and she committed suicide.’’ With disgust in his voice, Doug said, ‘‘You really fucked this up for me, you asshole.’’
‘‘Twenty mil for the icon should soothe your wounded feelings.’’
‘‘All right. I’ll look. But you know, I’ve been thinking. Last time I sold you information, you paid me, then tried to kill me.’’
‘‘I told you: You weren’t the target. Besides, you’re alive now, so stop whining. Twenty million for the icon.’’
Doug paid no attention. ‘‘I know every place Firebird has been. I know where I hid her car. If she had the icon, I’ll find it, and when I do, I’d better charge enough so that when your goons come for me, I’ve got protection. So I’ll sell it’’—he paused for effect— ‘‘for a hundred million.’’
‘‘A hundred . . . You . . . stupid . . . American!?
??’ Vadim’s youth showed in his stammered astonishment. ‘‘I’m not paying that!’’
‘‘Then I’ll put it up for auction. Someone will pay it.’’
‘‘You . . . you . . . Whether you find the icon or not, I am going to kill you!’’ Now Doug could hear his accent, loud and clear.
‘‘Ooh. I’m trembling,’’ Doug mocked.
‘‘You dare!’’
‘‘I dare one hell of a lot.’’ With a great deal of satisfaction, Doug hung up.
There. He had gotten information, distracted and infuriated Vadim, and convinced him that Firebird was dead.
Now all he had to do was wait for the phone call he knew would come.
Opening the drawer in his desk, he looked down at the coil of seaweed inside—the coil that had trapped Firebird beneath the ocean, the coil she had worn like a necklace around her neck.
He grabbed the main stem. With great care, he lifted the kelp. He stared at the small, square white tile tangled in fronds—and the dark-eyed Virgin Mary stared reproachfully back.
Vadim didn’t yet realize it, but Doug held all the trumps.
Chapter Twenty-six
Adrik came through the kitchen door as Zorana pulled two loaves of sour bread from the oven.
Her sons always had a way of arriving as the work was done and the eating would begin.
Taking off his coat, he shook off the raindrops, hung it on the hook, then kissed her on the cheek. ‘‘Mama, that bread smells great.’’ He kissed his wife next, a longer kiss placed on Karen’s mouth, followed by a hum of delight.
‘‘You’re damp.’’ She smoothed his dark hair away from his face.
‘‘That’s quite a storm.’’ Seating himself at the long wooden table with the other men, he looked seriously at Konstantine, at Karen’s father, at Jasha and Rurik. When he spoke, he didn’t bother to include the women. ‘‘But nothing’s been harmed. Everything’s still in place, ready to wipe the Varinskis’ asses.’’
‘‘We need more,’’ Konstantine said.
‘‘We’ll do as much as we can, Papa. We just don’t know how much time we have.’’ Jasha had a list in front of him and a pen in his hand. ‘‘As it is right now, we’re going to make more than a few of them sorry they ever thought to try to kill a Wilder.’’