ear and murmured, “Or maybe I’ve known them too well...”
He shook his head. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come back. You would have kept running.”
Anger flashed in her blue eyes. She didn’t deny, though, she had run.
He stepped aside, so that she could get past him. And he advised her, “Run, Candace, run...”
She called him a name no lady should even know. But she was Candace. She’d fought in a foreign country. She’d fought in her own country. She was the toughest woman he knew. But when she walked past him, he noticed the faint sheen in her eyes. He had hurt her, and he hated himself for hurting her. But instead of reaching for her, he curled his fingers into his hands and resisted the urge.
He had to let her go.
And go she did. Her head held high, her chin up, Candace walked past him as if she didn’t know him. As if she didn’t care...
Had she cared? Had whatever Stacy had said to her compelled her to come back? To try to help save him from himself, or from Chekov?
And had he just thrown away whatever chance he might have had with her?
Like he’d resisted reaching for her, he resisted watching her walk away. Instead he lifted his head and met Viktor Chekov’s gaze. The man had avoided prison for so many years because he didn’t miss anything. He knew how to find and exploit the weaknesses of his enemies.
Had he just discovered Garek’s greatest weakness?
* * *
Candace’s eyes stung. But it wasn’t with tears. It was the cold that was getting to her. While she’d retrieved her long jacket and winter boots from coat check, she still wasn’t warm enough. The winter breeze penetrated her jacket and chilled her to the bone.
She should have used the valet parking. But she’d wanted easy access to her vehicle in case she’d needed it. Two blocks and an alley away wasn’t easy access, though. She shivered and blinked. But it wasn’t against tears. She was blinking away snowflakes.
They fell heavily, wetting her hair and dampening her jacket—chilling her even more. But maybe it was Garek’s words and his attitude that had chilled her most.
He hadn’t wanted her to come back.
She’d tried to pretend that night had never happened. She hadn’t realized that he would want to pretend the same thing—until she’d looked into his face and seen no memory of their encounter in his eyes. He had looked at her as if he’d never seen her naked.
As if that night had never really happened...
Had it?
Or had she dreamed it all?
Garek Kozminski had her doubting herself all over again. She’d thought she’d known him so well. But maybe she did. Maybe that was why he’d pushed her away like he had. He didn’t want her too close.
Not because of Tori Chekov. Just like she hadn’t seen any memory of their night on his face, she hadn’t seen any love for that woman on his face. He had lied to Logan about his reason for working for Viktor Chekov again.
Why? What was he really doing for the gangster?
For the past year she’d been claiming he hadn’t changed—that he was still the criminal he’d once been. Of course she’d had no evidence to back up her suspicion. She wasn’t even sure why she’d been so desperate to believe the worst of him. Because he’d irritated and frustrated her? Because she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge or give in to the attraction she’d felt for him?
But maybe she had been right about him after all. Had he gone back to his old life in every way?
She stepped off the sidewalk to pass through the alley to where her car was parked on the other side—on another street. The snow was deeper between the buildings as were the shadows. Her boots slipped on the snow-covered asphalt, but she regained her balance, catching herself before she fell.
She uttered a little gasp of surprise and relief, grateful she hadn’t fallen. Despite her jacket and boots, she wasn’t dressed warmly enough to take a tumble in the snow. So she slowed her steps, moving more carefully as she continued into the alley.
Maybe the person behind her was moving just as carefully or maybe the snow had cushioned his footsteps—because she didn’t hear him until his shadow fell across her. She barely had a moment to reach for her purse, to fumble for her gun, before he attacked.
Her purse fell from her shoulder, dropping—with the gun still inside—into the snow. She couldn’t use it to protect herself. And with her limbs numb from the cold, she wasn’t certain she could move quickly enough to fight off her attacker. He was big, his hands strong—as they wrapped around her neck. She couldn’t see his face, though. He wore a ski mask, but it wasn’t in deference to the cold. It was as a disguise. So she couldn’t identify him.
Why had he bothered? It was apparent he had no intention of letting her live.
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