Fingers sink into my hair, and then his mouth is on mine, claiming, taking, until I pull him down with me. My sweatshirt lands across the room, and Ryker’s rough palm skims over my breast. “Did you mean it?” He meets my gaze, skating his thumb in a circle around my aching nipple. “What you said? Did you mean it?”
Arching my back, I afford him better access, and he scores his teeth over the other taut peak. “Yes.”
“Say it again.”
He holds himself over me, pinning me between his strong arms, promising—without words—to be the man I need. The man I want. The man I can’t live without.
My lips curve. “I love you, Ryker McCabe. All of you.”
41
Ryker
The coffee’s gone. Probably for the best, since I think West is vibrating. Semyon sits on the couch, his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth. If all goes well, we’ll go directly from Kolya’s mansion to the airfield and be on a transport plane back to the States by sunrise.
A part of me will miss this place. Not Russia. Not being this close to the man who almost destroyed my beautiful bird. My salvation. My love. But something changed in this house. In the room we packed up an hour ago. And I don’t know what we’re going to do once we land in Boston.
The day disappeared in a sea of slow, languid kisses, soft hands exploring every inch of me, and whispered “I love yous.”
Now, Wren and I stand side-by-side, packing up what we’ll need for the mission. “I wish you’d—no. Never mind. I don’t.” Shoving an extra clip into my bag with more force than necessary, I take back my words. I don’t want her to stay here. I don’t want her out of my sight.
Wren stops and stares at me, laughter in her pale green eyes. “Wait, we’re not going to fight? Are you sure? Make-up sex is usually pretty hot.”
“We can fight later. I’ll pull your hair and you can steal the last MRE on the plane. The good one with the steak and potatoes.”
“Ryker McCabe. Did you just…make a joke?” Inara asks as she emerges from the bathroom clutching her chest. “Zip me up, Wren?”
The black satin number clings to her curves, a sleeveless pantsuit of sorts, with wide legs that should allow her to move freely. To run. To fight.
“Cracker Jacks,” Wren says, her eyes wide. “You look…like a movie star.”
“Holy shit.” With a whistle from the corner of the room, West fastens his cufflinks. He’s already dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie, and Inara spent the last hour with waterproof eyeliner copying Popov’s neck tattoos onto his skin. “No one in the room’s going to be looking at me.”
“Let’s hope not.” Inara glances over her shoulder at him, concern drawing her brows together. “You say more than a few words, and we’re blown.”
With a snort, West checks his pistol and tucks it into his holster. “Whose plan is this?”
“Yours,” she grumbles. “Now where are those damn earrings?”
As the two give each other shit, I head down to the basement to check on our “guests.”
Popov and his wife, Katerina, sit on the mattress, hands bound behind their backs and secured to the cold water pipes running along the wall. I kneel down to check the zip ties, then offer them each a drink from a bottle fitted with a plastic straw. “As soon as we’re done at the mansion, I’ll send someone for you.”
“Bastard American,” Popov growls. “You expect me to give up? To stay here until we die?”
“I expect you to sit quietly while my team and I do your dirty work for you—and get a little payback of our own. If you do, my tech goddess will make sure Kolya’s holdings find their way intoyourbank account. How much does he owe you?”
“Two hundred million rubles.”
I stare into his steely blue eyes. For all his reputation—and his bravado—he broke in under five minutes when West threatened to cut his fingers off one at a time. He’s never bought a woman in his life. His only purpose at tonight’s auction was to deliver Kolya a message. Pay up or lose everything.
“You’ll have it by morning. Along with an extra seven hundred thousand rubles from me. For the shitty accommodations.”
Shock plays over his features, and his wife turns to him, questioning. He translates, as her English is barely passable, and she cocks her head. “Ty yemu doveryayesh'?”
Popov studies me. He’s not much older than I am, but his skin shows the years in a way that tells me he’s seen his share of death. “Yes. I trust him. Men like us…we understand each other.”
I nod. “In six hours, this will be over. And you and I will never see one another again.”
