to know them. Both men were married. One had two young boys already and his wife was expecting their third child in a couple of months. The other had just become a father for the first time six months ago. If Cate still believed in a just and merciful God, she would have prayed for the men, prayed they would recover completely and their families would get through this terrible time in their lives without too much grief.
But Cate didn’t believe. Not anymore. Vishenko had killed her faith in God as surely as he’d killed her faith in the goodness of mankind. So she no longer prayed. Not for herself. Not for others.
Angelina still believes. And Alec, she told herself wistfully as she sat on the bed in the bedroom assigned to her—a delightfully feminine room she would have loved when she was sixteen. Now it did nothing for her. Cate had spent more than six of the past seven years running. Hiding. Living off the grid. Taking temporary jobs where they’d pay her in cash. Living hand-to-mouth at times, barely able to scrape up enough money to rent a room in a halfway decent boardinghouse. Skipping meals on occasion, when her money wouldn’t stretch to cover a roof over her head and food. Always looking over her shoulder. Always terrified. Always moving on to somewhere new after a few months, somewhere Vishenko’s men couldn’t find her.
No friends. She couldn’t afford friends, and not just because they might accidentally betray her. She couldn’t take the chance—if Vishenko’s men finally ran her to ground—that one of her friends would get caught in the cross fire. She knew Vishenko’s men wouldn’t care who else was killed so long as she was. She was almost more terrified of causing someone else’s death than she was of dying.
Like the prosecutor today. Dead because of her. One minute he’d been alive and she’d been arguing with him, the next minute he was dead at her feet and her bodyguards were plastered over her, taking those bullets meant for her. Vishenko’s revenge for her daring to oppose him. For daring to escape. For daring to testify. The prosecutor wasn’t a friend, but she’d still caused his death. And if anyone else who was shot this morning died, that was her fault, too.
Don’t think that way, the rational part of her brain told her. It’s not your fault, it’s Vishenko’s. But her conscience didn’t want to listen. If she’d stayed in Zakhar all those years ago, if she’d listened to Angelina...none of this would have happened. You would probably be married by now, she thought, to a strong man of good character. A man who would treat her with respect. A man with high moral standards—like the ones she’d had herself when she was sixteen. A man like...
She shied away from that thought, the same way she’d shied away when he’d tried to touch her hair. Liam. He hadn’t meant anything by it. Hadn’t intended to give her cause for alarm. And he certainly hadn’t been going to strike her. Abuse her. Terrify her. She knew that. Her brain knew that. But her body had reacted without thinking. Would it always?
She would never marry. Not now. What respectable man would want her? And even if—miracle of miracles—she found one who did, could she ever bear to be touched...that way? If she couldn’t even let an obviously decent man like Liam brush her hair out of her eyes—an innocent gesture—how was she ever going to let a man touch her in more intimate ways?
She sighed, suddenly so worn-out she could barely sit up. She laid down on top of the bedspread and pulled a corner of it over her. Fifteen minutes, she promised herself as she closed her eyes. Just fifteen minutes. She shivered a little in the air-conditioned room and clutched the bedspread closer, huddling beneath it. She wasn’t used to air-conditioning. And she was too thin.
Does Liam think you’re too thin? The question came at her out of nowhere, and it surprised her. Even more surprising was the answer. No, he doesn’t. Remember the way he looked at you? The way his eyes said he found you attractive?
Such a good man, despite the fact he’d already judged her. She didn’t fault him for that—his opinion of her was no worse than her opinion of herself. It made no difference in the way he treated her, though, and that touched a secret place inside her. Even thinking the worst, Liam was so protective, like Alec. But Alec was Angelina’s, heart and soul.
Hovering between waking and sleeping, Cate’s thoughts winged back to Angelina. Sometimes it seemed as if her memories of long ago, her memories of her cousin were the only things that still belonged to her. Angelina, who’d treated Cate like a little sister...spoiling her a bit, making much of her. Calling her dernya, which meant little treasure in Zakharan. Never making her feel unwanted the way her parents had made her feel unwanted because she wasn’t a boy.
Cate smiled sadly, remembering happier times with her cousin...when they were both determined to succeed in their own way. When they both believed in the power of prayer the way they believed in hard work. Back when she’d idolized Angelina and wanted to be exactly like her—even though she’d known she couldn’t be. She’d known she’d never excel academically, the way her cousin did. She’d been twelve to Angelina’s seventeen, but she’d known even then that if she excelled it would have to be in a different arena.
When had she decided to become a model? Was it when she’d shot up four inches between seventh and eighth grades, adding another three inches in ninth? When the other girls in her school had gazed enviously at Cate’s luxurious golden hair, her face, her slender figure, her graceful walk? The desire to excel at something—to stand out from the crowd—the way Angelina always had and always would?
Cate hadn’t been jealous of Angelina, but she had wanted to impress her—easy to see that now. But Angelina had stayed safely in Zakhar—accepting the limitations staying there placed on her as a woman, yet working within the system to effect change. Cate had been impatient with those limitations, those restrictions, especially the ones placed on her by her parents. Restless to break free, to escape the tedium of school—where even her popularity with her fellow students hadn’t been enough to satisfy her—and seek fame and fortune as a model.
And when her parents had died unexpectedly in a car accident, sixteen-year-old Cate suddenly saw it was possible. She’d thought the promised modeling contract in the US was her one-way ticket out. Had believed the work visa provided by the US embassy—but paid for by the man who’d dangled that modeling contract in front of her starstruck eyes—was her escape from middle-class mediocrity. Who could have known she would escape...into hell.
* * *
Dinner was still twenty minutes away and he’d already meticulously cleaned his SIG SAUER, so Liam called Alec again. He’d spoken with his brother twice since he and Cate arrived at the safe house, but both times had been strictly business. Now he needed to talk to his brother about Cate—and the things Alec knew that Liam knew nothing about. He told himself it was important to the case, and maybe it was. But in his heart he knew that wasn’t why he was asking. There was just something about Cate he couldn’t shake off. Cate...and her relationship with Alec. His brother. His newly married brother.
Come on, he rallied himself. You know Alec inside and out. There’s no way he’s fooling around. Not Alec.
Cate was a different story. He knew almost nothing about her, and what he did know wasn’t...encouraging. So his attraction to her was unexpected, unwanted and totally out of character. He’d always been drawn to sweet young things, ever since the transition from junior high to high school, when he’d first noticed girls were different. Wonderfully different. But he’d always gone for the wholesome girls back then, the girl-next-door type. And when he’d grown up, things hadn’t changed all that much. He was still attracted to women he wouldn’t be ashamed to introduce to his family.
He didn’t know how or why Cate had become a prostitute, but even when he’d been in the Marine Corps
