Touch of Darkness (11 page)

Tasya Hunnicutt was in such trouble—and she didn't even know it.

***

Tasya was in such trouble, and she knew it. She leaned against the chipped white porcelain sink and stared in the mirror into her own darkly circled eyes.

This morning, Rurik's determination to stay at a B and B made sense. But then, this morning she'd barely made it out of an explosion and a cave-in. This morning had been a miracle of life. This morning, she had felt she could handle anything, even Rurik at his most ruthless.

Now she'd been cold for hours, she was starving, and she had to play the role of a bride ... to Frankenstein.

Okay, Rurik didn't look like Frankenstein, but he was big enough to be the monster. In fact, the first time they'd made love and he'd pushed inside her, she'd had second thoughts.

That night, if she'd been thinking, his reaction to her panicked gasp would have scared her more than his size. They'd been sprawled on the bed, fully naked, and at a time when most guys would have been full steam ahead, he had noted her apprehension. He had stopped, actually stopped himself. He'd taken the moment, adjusted her legs, kissed her lips, swept his fingertips across her nipples, then down her belly. . . . When it came to figuring out what worked for a woman, he was the master. When he touched her clit. . . well, by the time she had finished coming, he was all the way inside and teaching her the meaning of
multiple orgasm.

He was big, he was determined, he was ruthless,
and he wanted her.
Oh, and, Tasya, let's not forget that he's pissed because you walked out on him.

Walked out because she'd given far too much of herself, and Tasya Hunnicutt never did that.

Worse, she wanted him so much that when he got close, whether she knew he was there or not, every nerve went on alert and she got this low-level adrenaline rush going.

She turned on the faucet and splashed a little cold water on her face. Taking the hand towel, she dabbed it on her face, and looked at herself again. She still looked like hell. Because she had to tell him the truth soon. Well, not all the truth. She never told anybody all the truth. But enough truth to make him realize that the responsibility for the explosion rested on her shoulders, and that if he was smart, he'd get the hell away from her. She lifted her chin at herself. She would probably be killed before this was all over, but if she succeeded in getting damning information on the Varinskis, justice would have to be served; in Sereminia, Yerik and Fdoror Varinski would be convicted of racketeering and murder, and executed. Tasya might die, but she would die with the satisfaction of knowing the Varinskis would be shattered, their thousand-year reign of terror over— and she had her revenge.

She looked down at her backpack. Her camera was in there. The photos were in the memory.

A sense of urgency prodded at her. If only she could see exactly what evidence she had collected!

She glanced at the door, wondering if Mrs. Red-denhurst would let her use a computer.

Still, having the pictures wouldn't matter if she didn't live long enough to get out of Scotland.

Somehow, she had to disguise herself.

Opening Mrs. Reddenhurst's medicine chest, Tasya hopelessly dug through the tubes of ChapStick, the ointment for bunions and the one for hemorrhoids, the hand lotions, the tweezers, the Band-Aids. . . . Mrs. Reddenhurst must be the most boring woman in the history of the world.

Then, back in the bottom corner, Tasya found what she wanted. She looked at the battered box, at the expiration date long past, and realized—this was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Not only could she change her appearance, but she could almost guarantee Rurik was going to loathe this makeover. Loathe it, despise it ... and have to live with it for the rest of this trip.

***

Rurik stood in front of the old-fashioned kitchen stove, warming his rear end, watching Mrs. Reddenhurst cook.

On the counter, the small-screen television blared with reruns of BBC sitcoms. One pot on the stove popped its lid every time it bubbled. The earthenware plates in the oven turned dark as they grew warm. All the while, Mrs. Reddenhurst talked about her big, dumb husband in tones of affection and exasperation. It was obvious she missed him; Rurik had gathered from her conversation that the loss of his
income was the reason she'd had to turn her tiny home into a bed-and-breakfast.

Mrs. Reddenhurst reminded him of his mother— tough-talking on the outside, soft and sweet inside. Mrs. Reddenhurst had sworn she wasn't going to put herself out for her unexpected guests, yet in the space of a half hour, she had agreed to let him use her computer to look at his "vacation" photos. She had offered to wash and dry his clothes for him, and have them ready by daybreak. She'd arrange for them to ride to Edinburgh with one of the other couples staying at the B and B. Most important, she'd scrounged up this morning's oat scones for him to snack on while he waited for Tasya.

Which was good, because Tasya had been in that bathroom for over an hour.

"Young ladies like to take their time over their toilette, especially when they've got a young man to impress." Mrs. Reddenhurst moved him over to the counter and got the lamb out of the oven. "You'll see. When yer missus steps into that doorway, ye'll be bowled over."

"That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered.

But really, what mischief could Tasya get into in Mrs. Reddenhurst's bathroom?

Mrs. Reddenhurst looked up from arranging the serving plates and said, "Here's the young lady now!"

Rurik looked toward the door—and did a horrified double take.

Somehow, Tasya had got peroxide and now the tips of her hair were brilliant white. As if that weren't enough, she'd found styling gel and worked all the curl out of her hair. Spikes stuck out in every direction. She looked like a frightened, aging porcupine.

He was going to kill her.

He took one step in her direction—and almost ran into Mrs. Reddenhurst as she bustled around, setting the wooden table.

"Aren't you a pretty thing!" Mrs. Reddenhurst looked disapprovingly at him. "I didn't realize you'd taken a child bride, Mr. Telford."

Oh, God. Mrs. Reddenhurst was right. The hair made Tasya look like jailbait.

Why?
he wanted to say to her.
Why? Why? Why?

But he knew the answer—because he'd said they needed to change her appearance, because she'd somehow found some bleach, and because she loved to irritate the shit out of him.

She'd done a good job this time.

"Those clothes are perfect for a casual evening." Mrs. Reddenhurst approved Tasya's easy-care khaki pants, loose-fitting black T-shirt, and close-fitting khaki jacket. "Come on in and sit down. Don't be shy."

"I'm so glad to meet you, Mrs. Reddenhurst." Tasya marched in and, with a smile, extended her hand. "Thank you so much for taking us in, and I hope we're not too much trouble."

Rurik wasn't the only one who had charm in abundance. He saw the proof now as Mrs. Reddenhurst beamed and responded, "No trouble at all."

"Mr. Telford got us lost, but you've saved our lives." Tasya slipped an arm around Rurik's waist and hugged him with phony affection.

Rurik hugged her back, a little too hard, and held her closely enough for her to intuit his ire. "Now, darling, if you start telling Mrs. Reddenhurst all our exploits up in her beautiful mountains, someone's going to blush."

Right on cue, the color sprang to Tasya's cheeks. "I guess it's you." He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth, and for all he was doing it as retaliation for her smart-ass comments, his lips still lingered . . . and returned. She was warm from the shower, damp, and fresh smelling, an aphrodisiac in his arms. Lifting his head, he looked down at her face: her closed eyes, those ridiculously long eyelashes, the way her lips blushed to match her
cheeks. . . .

The sound of a distant bell pulled them apart. "I guess the others are wanting their main course.
Good thing—'tis getting warm in here." Mrs. Red-denhurst smirked as she took the plates and hustled into the tiny dining room, leaving them alone.

Rurik leaned to kiss Tasya again.

She put her hand on his mouth. "Let me go. I'm starving."

She'd aggravated him today; he held her captive just for fun. "I ought to spank you for that hair."

"You told me to change my looks." She had that cocky air about her that clearly told him she delighted in his reaction.

"Then I ought to spank you for fun."

She almost laughed. Almost.

He wouldn't have thought she would. She seemed like the kind of woman who took a threat, any threat no matter how rooted in sexuality it might be, too seriously. "Do you think I wouldn't do it?"

Now she did chuckle. "I think if you did, you'd enjoy yourself too much."

"I think you'd enjoy it, too." He leaned back against the counter, and adjusted her so all her body parts rested against all his body parts. "You'd especially enjoy the part where I held you facedown in my lap afterward, and spread your legs, and touched you."

Tasya's laughter faded.

"Pretty soon you'd be begging me. You'd use that breathless tone you have when the need is driving you."

Her blue eyes turned a smoky gray.

"I heard it several times that night in Edinburgh." He drawled, "You do remember that night, don't you?"

"Let me go." She squirmed against him.

The best damned torture he'd ever suffered. "That night, I learned a lot about what you like. That's why I know that after I spanked you, I could touch you here." He slid a hand between their bodies and pressed where it would do the most good. "Then I'd slip a finger inside you, and you'd come right on my lap."

She pulled out of his grasp.

He let her, then stalked her as she fled to the kitchen table. "By the time I pushed that second finger inside you, you'd be so ready, I'd have to hold you down with the other hand so you wouldn't bounce right onto the floor."

"Stop it!" She watched him with haunted eyes.

"Make me." He sat down at the table, his hands palm down on the surface.

Tasya stood facing him, her hands in fists before her chest.

"Break and run, Tasya," he taunted, "so I can chase you down."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction."

"Oh, yes, you will. I promise you'll give me exactly the satisfaction I demand."

A slight cough made them both whirl to face their hostess.

In a tone both horrified and delighted, Mrs. Red-denhurst asked, "Do ye two want yer steak and eggs now, or yer salad first? Or would you rather I put yer supper back a bit while ye finish yer fight upstairs?"

Chapter 10

Boris Varinski sprawled in the biggest recliner in the Varinskis' family room in the Ukraine, remote control in hand, watching CNN news on the fifty-eight-inch plasma flat-screen TV. The sound was blaring. All around him, Varinskis were pounding fists on one another's backs and hooting with laughter.

He wasn't laughing.

He had been; when news of the explosion at the Scottish excavation broke, he'd gladly received congratulations from his men. He'd basked in their renewed respect.

Then the reporters came on and announced that the administrator of the dig, Rurik Wilder, and the National Antiquities photographer, Tasya Hunnicutt, had vanished and were believed dead in the explosion. They'd flashed pictures of them, and right away, Boris knew everything had gone to hell—and he was the only Varinski smart enough to know it.

That man in the picture was Konstantine's whelp. Boris had spent one whole long day in Kiev, closeted with Mykhailo Khmelnytsky, the respected historian, while Mykhailo researched the Varinski family icons and where they could be now. Occasionally, Boris had urged him to hurry, and as incentive, he cut little pieces off Mykhailo—the tip of a finger, his little toe. In the end, Mykhailo had come through, identifying the tomb in Scotland as a place one
ot
the icons was hidden. Boris had sent the demolition team, they'd blown up the site, and in the celebration that followed, he had had a few moments of hope that he'd saved his own ass.

But if Konstantine's son directed the excavation at the same site, Boris could bet the boy was looking for the same damned icon Boris had been instructed to find—and not for a good reason.