neck started to prickle.
They set off through the trees. Suddenly Sveti had become anxious. So much that her quickening pace pulled Rachel right off her crooked little ankles. Rachel squawked and began to cry.
Sveti scooped her up into her arms and began to jog toward the far side of the park, keeping those lit-up windows in sight. Running was a mistake, though. It threw a panic switch inside her and she began to run faster and faster. Her feet flew, but they were wobbly with fear.
And when the black sedan pulled up right in front of her, she skidded to a stop with a shout and dropped to her knees, twisting to save Rachel from being squashed. She landed painfully on one wrist. Library books spilled out on the frosty grass.
Both doors opened, men boiled out. Big men in dark ski caps and black jackets, and oh God, they were coming for her—and this was not happening, not happening, this was not possible—not again.
One snatched the shrieking Rachel. Sveti grabbed his booted foot and hung on. He yelled something, stomped his weight onto the boot she was clutching, and kicked her in the ribs with the other.
The pain was huge, jolting her lungs, loosening her grip. The man wrenched his foot away, kicked her again in the leg for good measure. Rachel flailed under his arm, shrilling her high, thin wail of terror. The car doors thumped closed. Sveti stumbled up to her feet and flung herself at the shiny black car, screaming at it in Ukrainian, the ugliest words she knew, words she’d learned from Yuri and Martina, her jailors. Ugly, filthy, angry words she’d sworn she’d never say. The car took off, tires squealing, knocking her around to spin like a top and fall to her bloodied knees once again.
Only then did it occur to her to look at the license plate as the car sped away, but it was thickly spattered with mud and her eyes swam with tears. She dashed them away, peered desperately, but could make out only the first A and the form of Mt. Rainier. Washington plates.
The taillights became two malevolent red eyes, glancing back at her. Mocking, leering at her. Then the car turned the corner, and was gone.
Chapter
22
Val opened his eyes and made his peace with the fact that the erotic grace of yesterday’s amazing dawn lovemaking was a fluke. Not a thing to plan for, or even hope for.
Tamara had been up for a while. Quiet as a ghost, if she had managed not to wake him. She was washed, dressed, hair braided back at the nape of her neck. She sat crosslegged on a ragged plaid blanket with her Deadly Beauty paraphernalia laid out before her in the opened briefcase, contemplating vials, powders and potions.
Her beautiful face was calm, in a state of total focused concentration. A lethal alchemist. His dangerous sorceress.
She felt the weight of his eyes upon her and looked up. Amazingly, he got a fleeting, almost shy smile, before the mantle of sarcastic distance settled back over her.
He sighed. Fool that he was, strung out on the wild, potent magic hidden deep inside the most complicated emotional defense mechanism he had ever encountered—outside of madness, that is. Or drugs.
His life would never be simple again. But hey. Fuck simplicity. His had never been simple. Not since his birth. Evviva le complicazioni.
There was a heavy knock on the door. “Ehi, ragazzi. Your breakfast is outside the door,” said Signora Concetta. “The caffé is bella calda calda, eh? Don’t let it get cold.”
“Grazie mille,” he called back to her. “I’ll get it right away.”
Tam gave him a mocking grin. “Oh, go on. Get it now. You know you want it. She’s lingering out there hoping to get another peek at that manly apparatus of yours, and who can blame her?”
He threw the covers off and stood, letting his manly apparatus wave like a banner before him. “I do not want to scare anyone.”
Her lips curved into a quick, appreciative smile before she could stop herself. “Mmm,” she murmured coolly. “I’m not scared, big boy. Unfortunately, though, I am busy. Don’t bug me with that thing of yours. And the signora’s made of stern stuff. Go on, get your breakfast. Make her day. She deserves a treat. She works hard.”
He plucked the towel off the bedpost where it hung, making the handcuff rattle, and wrapped it around his waist. It tented comically over his cock like a flagpole. Tam snickered. “Coward.”
He ignored her and threw the bolt on the door. He had to crouch to get through the frame without giving himself a concussion.
A blaze of pale winter sunshine and sweet, rainwashed, herb-scented morning air assaulted his eyes and nose. Birds twittered madly in the trees.
The signora had taken away the wheelbarrow with last night’s dishes. She was industriously sweeping dead leaves off the patio. She stopped to give him a once-over, and crossed herself as her eyes lit on his crotch. “Madonna santissima,” she murmured.
He crouched for the tray, and gave her a brass-faced grin. “Buon giorno, Signora. Dinner was magnificent. Grazie di nuovo.”
“You’ll like my pastiera,” the good lady informed him. “I make the best pastiera in Campania.”
“I love pastiera,” he assured her. “A dopo, Signora.” He ducked back into the privacy of their room with his prize.
The smell of espresso steaming out of the blackened pot on the tray dragged even Tamara to her feet and to the table. A thick, chipped red crockery plate held several big, moist wedges of pastiera, an egg and ricotta pie made with candied fruit, boiled wheat and orange-flower water. The sight filled his heart with joy after the sexual energy put forth the night before. He lost no time devouring a wedge.
Tam sipped unsweetened coffee and watched him with her wide, fascinated golden eyes. “You probably just took in a thousand calories with that one piece alone,” she informed him, her voice wondering.
He grabbed another piece. “Oh, sì,” he sighed.
The tray held a tall glass bottle of milk. Tam popped the cork and sniffed. Her eyes lit up, and to his astonishment, she poured some out into a glass and drank it.
“Fresh, real milk,” she said. “They have a cow here.”
He laughed around a mouthful of pastry. “Unpasteurized milk? You? You’re taking your life in your hands.”
She gulped some more milk and licked her lips. “We had a cow when I was a child,” she confided. “I have never tasted milk like that since then until now. Sweet. With that aroma of flowers.”
“So is this,” he said. “Sweet, with an aroma of flowers.” He broke off a lump of the cake and held it up to her lips.
She regarded it dubiously. “I’m not the flowery type,” she warned.
“Eat some of it,” he pleaded. “Please, Tamar. If you care for me at all. I love to see you eat.”
She was gearing up to refuse, and then she stopped. She processed something in private, deep inside the impenetrable fortress of her mind. She smiled at him, opened her lush lips, and accepted it.
She
