Dangerous Secrets

Twenty

Charity opened the door just as Vassily was lifting his gloved hand to ring again.

“My dear,” he said warmly, looking her up and down. He walked in, taking off his hat and pulling off his gloves. “I’ve been worried about you. On the table by the window, Ivan,” he said without looking around.

The driver deposited the big black box on the table and quietly left. A minute later, the powerful engine of the limo fired up and the big car drove away.

Vassily waited until they heard the car depart, then stepped forward and enveloped her in his arms. Her own arms came up automatically.

He was the first person she’d touched since…since Nick. She hadn’t wanted to be hugged by anyone at the funeral and had avoided even those pointless air kisses. Even Uncle Franklin had seemed to understand that she couldn’t be touched, otherwise she’d fly into a million pieces. And Aunt Vera—the poor darling had been barely aware of what was going on.

So no one had hugged her and no one had held her and she realized now, right now, how much she desperately needed both. These past days had been spent on another planet, far from humankind. A big, dark, airless planet with heavy gravity and no life. Vassily’s tight embrace bumped her back to Earth, among her own kind.

He was a man who’d known great sorrow. He held her as if he wanted to absorb some of her own.

“My dushecka,” he murmured, head bent over hers.

His heavy overcoat was warm from the car, as was the pocket created by his shoulder and neck. He gently pushed her head down more tightly onto his shoulder, her cheek nestling against the soft cashmere of his overcoat, her nose against the warm skin of his neck.

“Cry, dushka,” he commanded softly. “It’s best. Get it out.”

Her heart was drumming, so quickly she thought it might just beat its way outside her chest. A high keening sound rose in the room and it took her a second to realize it came from her. Her lips tightened against the sound, but it wouldn’t be contained. She took one big gulping sob of a breath, another and then it was meltdown. Utter and total meltdown.

How could she have any tears left? Surely she’d cried them all, buckets, lakes, oceans of tears.

Charity cried as if she’d never cried before—a deep upwelling of despair. She was racked with sobbing, shaking, and shivering, tears spurting from her eyes. She was trembling so hard she’d have fallen to the ground if he hadn’t been holding her up.

Vassily held her tightly, letting the crying jag take its course, letting the hot, poisonous ball of grief work its way through her system, the sounds she was making raw and ugly in the quiet house.

She cried until her throat ached, until her lungs hurt, until she felt her bones would shatter from the trembling, holding on to the lapels of Vassily’s coat, drenching his shoulder.

The hot ball of fiery grief had moved on, at least for the moment, leaving Charity clinging to Vassily, weak-kneed and dazed.

“Come, my dear. Let’s sit down.” It was the first time he’d spoken since the crying jag had begun. She was infinitely grateful that he hadn’t spoken platitudes while she’d been crying her heart out.

But then that wasn’t Vassily’s style. He wouldn’t reassure her that things would get better. This was a man who understood tragedy down to the depths of his soul.

Vassily walked her to the sofa, sat her down, unbuttoned with difficulty his overcoat, and sat down next to her. Again, he put his arm around her and kissed her gently on her forehead, and again on her cheek. His lips were warm and dry.

Some time later, when the wildest stages of grief were passed—however impossible it was to think of that time—Charity knew that she would cherish the memory of his gestures of affection.

He rarely touched anyone. He always seemed to her to be so self-contained, not ever needing human warmth. Content with his music and reading and whatever it is he did all day in that enormous, beautiful mansion. Certainly, she’d never seen him with a female companion and, at many of his musical soirées, she had somehow ended up doing the honors of the house.

Suddenly, Charity wondered whether Vassily had a love life.

It had never even occurred to her that he might. Perhaps because she’d been blinded by his fame or had been unable to look beyond the scars to the man underneath. He wasn’t even that old. Though the years in the prison camp had aged him terribly, Vassily was only fifty-four. Young for a man. Especially for a rich and famous one.

Did he have a secret lover he didn’t want to share with the world? Perhaps a Russian émigrée, a woman of letters that he saw discreetly from time to time? Someone he could speak to in his native tongue? That would be best. She hoped he didn’t have a series of paid liaisons—dry, heartless, mercenary affairs, swift and cold. How awful.

A large linen handkerchief had appeared in his hand and he wiped her eyes carefully, then he held the handkerchief politely against her nose while she honked into it. She must look awful—red-eyed, red-nosed, gaunt, dazed.

He was speaking as he wiped her face. “The very best remedy for situations such as these is chai and vodka. An age-old cure for the Russian soul and perhaps even the American soul, who knows?”

He stood and walked over to the box his driver had carried in, bringing out objects. A big silver thermos, a brightly colored ceramic teapot, a silver flask, a jar of something that looked like jam, and two glasses with silver handles.

His movements were awkward and slow, but he was in no hurry. She marveled at how well he had learned to deal with the disability of his hands.

“I wanted to bring you a samovar, my dear.” His voice was calm as he worked. “I have a perfect one for you. Solid sterling, late nineteenth century. They say it was used by Tolstoy himself, though there is no documentation. I didn’t bring it this time, but I will. It will be my gift to you.”

Charity sat passively, tears drying on her face, watching Vassily. She loved listening to him, to his low calm voice with its faint trace of a Russian accent. His English was careful, precise. She’d heard that he spoke perfect French and German, as well.

Vassily opened a big thermos bottle with a special loop that allowed his shattered hands to unscrew the top. He shook dark loose tea leaves from a special paper packet into the teapot and poured boiling water from the thermos over it.

Instantly, the room was filled with the scent of fragrant tea steeping.

“In Russia, we often use several teapots at once, stacked one above the other. Like samovars, they keep the tea warm for a very long time. But the tea becomes very strong.” He slanted her a glance. Charity knew he was seeing a pale, shaky woman, barely able to stand upright. “Perhaps too strong for you, right now.” He took out the two glasses with silver holders. They had an elegant look, with some intricate design etched into the glass. “Believe it or not, these podstakanniki, these tea glasses, once belonged to Czar Nicholas. They are part of a set he had commissioned for himself and his wife. I find it amusing to drink out of the czar’s glasses and reflect upon destiny.”

A faint smile creased his thin lips as he spooned what looked like a red berry jam into the glasses. “Russians rarely sugar their tea. They use either honey or berry jam. This was made by my housekeeper. Vermont jam, to go with Russian tea.” He slanted her a cool glance. “A fusion of our two worlds, my dear.”

Charity sat up straight, trying to stiffen her spine, drying her eyes with the heels of her hands, depleted and wishing she were alone.

How awful, how ungrateful to wish Vassily were gone, when he was being so kind. All winter, Charity had cherished every moment she’d spent with the great man, afterward reliving their conversations over and over again in her head.

She dutifully read every book he ever recommended to her or even mentioned. She bought the CD of every piece of music ever played at his musical soirées. She’d read everything he’d ever written, time and again. She’d steeped herself in Russian literature and the tragic history of the Gulag.

Vassily had appeared in their remote little hamlet like a shooting star, sending sparklers of heat and light into her life, illuminating all the dark corners of their provincial corner of the world. No one knew why he’d chosen Parker’s Ridge. Charity herself had no idea, nor had Vassily ever spoken of it. He’d just appeared one day, having purchased by means of an intermediary the old McMurton mansion.

By the same token, Vassily could suddenly decide to pull up stakes and move to a more accessible and sophisticated part of the world at any moment, once he got bored with Parker’s Ridge’s limited offerings. So Charity knew that her time with Vassily was of necessity limited. He was being very kind to her. She must put her grief aside and be polite back.

But oh, how she longed for her solitude right now. To be alone with her grief, not have to struggle for composure or make polite conversation.

He poured a clear liquid into their tea glasses. A generous portion each. Charity could smell the alcohol from across the room and her empty stomach clenched tightly in protest. “Vodka,” he murmured, the word pure Russian. Vuodkya. “Sometimes a man’s only solace. A true friend that never betrays you.”

“Vassily,” she murmured. “Not quite so much in my tea, please.” Like many Russians, Vassily drank on an industrial scale. However much he imbibed, though, she’d never seen him drunk.

“My dear,” he replied, his voice amused. “Just the merest few drops. Normally, I drink tea that is one-third vodka. We call it ‘sailor’s tea’ and it has gotten me through many a dark night. Here.” He held out one beautiful glass by its silver handle. “And I don’t want to hear any nonsense about not being able to drink it. You need warm liquids, alcohol, and some food. In that order. My cook prepared you some dishes and you’ll find them at the bottom of the box. They’re still warm. I want you to promise me you’ll eat them.”

The idea of food made her whole body seize up, squeezing her insides upward. She was motionless for a moment, willing her stomach to make the journey back down her throat.

“Charity, my dear, come.” Vassily sat down next to her, close enough for his arms and thighs to press against hers. He tapped her glass, which she still hadn’t touched. “Step number one. Drink your tea.” A finger under her glass, lifting. She had to bring the glass to her mouth or risk spilling it all over her lap. “That’s it,” Vassily crooned. “Very good.”

Charity drank half of it, slowly, trying to ignore the strong smells carried up by the steam. The hot liquid and alcohol burned their way down to her stomach.

Vassily had already emptied his glass and poured himself straight vodka now. “I listened to Vivaldi’s Opus 11 last night, all the way through. So touching, so heartfelt. I was thinking that perhaps I would choose that for another one of my soirées. Perhaps I could call in the De Clercq Quartet. I met their manager in Paris, a highly intelligent and cosmopolitan man. He said the quartet would be in the New England area before Christmas, so they might be free for an evening. I imagine you’d enjoy that.”

“I imagine I would,” she murmured. He lifted his hand to tuck a curl behind her ear and she cringed inwardly. She hadn’t combed her hair this morning. Hadn’t even thought of it.

“Excellent. If it pleases you, I’ll speak with their manager tomorrow. I’ll make it worth their while.”

This was amazing. The De Clercq Quartet was world famous. They commanded top prices and could fill concert halls. Vassily had casually said he would hire them for a concert for only thirty people, just to please her.

“Finish your tea now, my dear.” She did, hoping her stomach would behave. He was watching her closely, with almost a feverish look in his eyes.

She sat still, consulting her insides, hoping she could keep everything down.

She could. Actually, it was the first time she felt warm since the terrible news. She’d forgotten about even the concept of warmth.

Vassily laid a hand on her knee and tightened his poor, scarred fingers. He was hurting her, just a little, his grip was so tight. But Charity didn’t have the nerve to say anything. It wasn’t his fault—he couldn’t gauge the strength of his grasp. God only knew how much feeling he had left in his hands.

Charity looked up and met Vassily’s eyes. Such a clear, pale blue, like a chilly spring sky. He was watching her unblinkingly, intently. “Well?” he asked again. “Feeling better?”

She drummed up a smile. She actually had to remind herself how to do it. Lift muscles around edges of mouth, show teeth.

She had another quick consult with her stomach. Yes, everything was going to remain safely inside her and not decorate Vassily’s coat, at least not any time soon. So she wasn’t going to humiliate herself. Not in the next ten minutes, anyway. Upchucking all over one of the world’s greatest writers was not something she wanted to do.

She was terribly flattered that he’d made the effort. He hadn’t shown up for the funeral, but she hadn’t expected him to. She knew how much he detested being out in the cold.

Indeed, his presence here was a sign of his affection for her. She was flattered, she really was.

But she really, really wanted to be alone.

Another forced smile. “Yes, I am, Vassily. I am feeling much, much better. I, um, I hadn’t thought to make tea for myself and it was very kind of you to come all the way over here for me. I promise I’ll drink it all, don’t worry. And I’ll eat what you brought me.”

Maybe. If her stomach behaved.

Charity made to rise, but his hand on her knee stopped her. Vassily’s grip was really strong. He was pressing down on her knee, in an unspoken command to be still.

He was still watching her intently, pale gaze fixed on her face. His eyes were ice blue but they looked almost hot. Vassily had a strong personality. It was a little unsettling to be studied so carefully.

“I have—a business meeting this evening. Some partners are coming to…seal a business deal a long time in the making. It’s something I’ve worked hard on for a long time and I want to celebrate the occasion. I would very much like it if you would have dinner with me tonight.”

Charity simply stared at him.

“I will have my driver pick you up here at about 6:00 p.m. It will give you a few hours to rest and freshen up.”

She could hardly believe her ears. He wanted her to celebrate something with him? How on earth could she go to his house when she didn’t feel up to walking out to her mailbox?

Celebration? Would they have to dine with his business partners?

Oh God, facing people, making conversation, choking down food. There was no way on earth she could do that. Her stomach clenched just at the thought.

He lifted his hand, fingered a lock of her hair, expression dreamy. “You really must dye your hair, my dear. You would look so beautiful with your hair blonder. White blond. And cut it.” He indicated her jawline with a gnarled finger. “To here. So beautiful…”

“What?” The word came out on an expulsion of breath. “My hair? You want me to bleach my hair and cut it?”

“Yes. Immediately.” There was something about his pale gaze, dreamy yet unwavering, as if he were seeing something that was not quite there. Seeing into her but also somehow past her. “Pale, pale blond. And the cut—a ‘bob,’ I think it is called. So lovely. You would be so lovely.” He overarticulated the word bob, lips pursing, making it sound at once ridiculous and impossibly exotic.

“Vassily, I’m—I’m flattered that you want my company tonight. Don’t think that I’m not, but…”

“But?” His eyes were glittering, thin nostrils tightly pinched.

She opened her hands. “I buried my husband yesterday, Vassily. I don’t feel up to dinner out.” Or dinner in, if it came to that. “I simply don’t. How on earth can you expect me to dine out so soon after Nick died?”

Vassily didn’t react, his pale gaze calm and direct.

“You must,” he said simply, as if it were self-evident. As if there was no questioning the fact that she would.

Vassily’s personality was so strong, it was as if he had a force field around him that created its own reality, a reality where she automatically did his bidding.

“You must dine with me tonight, there is no other way. It is time. I need you to be with me.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, his touch cold, the scars thick and ropy. “You will come with me, Ka—Charity. You must. I will not take no for an answer.”

Something had flared up within him, some primal force of nature that he must have kept banked and only unleashed when he needed it. Now he wasn’t just a strong-willed man. Now he was almost superhuman.

She knew his history, but for the first time, she felt it. Felt the inner force of a man the Soviet Gulag, the entire resources of a powerful country founded on immense cruelty, had been unable to break. A man who’d withstood torture, beatings, privations unimaginable to her soft Western imagination. Nothing had ever broken him. Not the worst life could throw at him. Starvation and hard labor in subzero temperatures that would have killed a lesser man. Broken bones and betrayal. They had left their scars but they hadn’t crushed him. He’d come out stronger than before.

In a very real sense, Charity knew, Vassily was almost like another race of man. Stronger, brighter, tougher. A literary genius, a man of great vision. The kind of man who came along once in a generation. Shakespeare. Dante. Tolstoy. Humanity existed in order to produce men like this. They were rare and they were precious.

He picked up her hand and rubbed her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. “Please,” he said softly, his voice shaking. “Please dine with me tonight. I need you. You cannot begin to imagine how much I need you.”

She’d never heard that tone of voice from him, ever. Vassily’s normal speaking voice was precise and cool, strong and deliberate. He had a natural arrogance that precluded pleading.

Her heart shied away at the thought, becoming a cold little fist in her chest. She’d give anything not to do this, but life sometimes simply tossed these challenges at you, like dice at your feet.

Either you picked them up or you didn’t. Either you dealt the hand life threw your way or you didn’t.

Charity liked to think that she’d met every challenge so far, no matter how difficult. She remembered that her father, who had volunteered for Vietnam right out of high school and who had never talked about his two tours of duty, always said do the hard thing.

She prepared herself to do the hard thing.

She tried another smile, had no idea how successful it was. Stomach churning, hoping she could keep the tea down, she gave the only possible answer to his plea.

“Yes, of course, Vassily. I would be honored to dine with you tonight.”

Nick snatched his cell phone out of his pocket the instant it vibrated and crouch-walked to the back of the garage, where no one in the house could possibly hear him. He didn’t check caller ID. He knew who was calling.

He pulled at his earbud, where he’d been following what Worontzoff and Charity were saying.

“You fucking well better not be where I think you are,” Di Stefano’s furious voice lashed out at him.

Nick clenched his jaw and hunkered down, his back to the garage wall. He waited a couple of beats so he could get his voice under control. “Bingo.”

“Listen, fuckhead. I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but you are compromising the mission. That’s nothing new. You’ve been compromising the mission for days, but this is beyond your normal craziness. Fall back. Now.”

“No can do. Listen to me,” he whispered urgently. “Worontzoff’s here.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Here at Charity’s house. Right now. He’s been here for over half an hour. I, um, bugged the house here and before you blow up, you better thank me for it, because something is happening late this afternoon and he wants to celebrate it with Charity over dinner at his place.”

The thought drove him insane. He could conjure up with preternatural clarity Worontzoff’s expression the other night in his mansion, touching Charity and getting a hard-on. He could also conjure up, no prob, Worontzoff’s reaction when Charity refused him.

Worontzoff was a king in his world. Kings were used to being obeyed. Kings punished people who didn’t obey them.

“I’m going to tell her,” Nick said suddenly. It was the only thing he could think of to rescue her. Let it all come out. Once she knew the truth, no way would she hare off to his mansion. “Tell her who he is and that she can’t go to his house. He’ll have her killed.” The blood in his veins ran cold as he conjured up possible Worontzoff reactions. If he could have a proxy hang a prostitute up on a meat hook, what he would do to Charity didn’t bear thinking of. In his crazy mind, she was his long-lost love. Once Charity rebuffed him, his revenge would be swift and insanely cruel.

Of course, Nick would have to break cover twice to warn her off—he’d have to reveal his real identity and reveal the nature of the mission.

Men had died rather than break cover on a mission. Keeping the code was the closest thing to a religion Nick had. What Nick was doing was off the charts. He knew it, but was helpless to stop himself.

Big bad Iceman, so out of control he couldn’t travel more than thirty miles from this spot.

It was like being on a runaway train, headed for the gorge with the bridge out. He was known for his icy self-control, but right now, someone else in his head was handling the controls and levers in the engine room. “As soon as that fucker leaves, I’m going in.”

Di Stefano’s sharp indrawn breath sounded loud over the cell phone. “No way,” he growled. “You most definitely are not. Are you crazy? What the hell has happened to you? You’re going to toss this mission right down the toilet. As soon as Worontzoff figures out she knows something, it’ll all come crashing down.”

His voice sounded tinny, far away. Certainly too far away to change Nick’s mind. Yap, yap, yap. Nothing Di Stefano could say would affect his decision. The second he’d made it, it felt right. He had to go in and convince Charity not to go to out tonight.

He could see it clearly—the divide, the fork in the road. He did one thing and this happened. Another and that happened.

He’d walk into Charity’s house right now, take her into protective custody, tuck her away in a safe house until they got the job done. Once Worontzoff was put away, he’d go back for her.

Oh yeah. She’d be pissed at being lied to, but bottom line—she’d have a pulse.

So that was Option One.

Option Two.

He did nothing—simply crouched out here behind Charity’s garage, listening to her cry and throw up, then listen to her get ready to go out and hook up with a known mobster. Worontzoff would make his play, thinking to get his Katya back in his bed and discover that Charity wasn’t his long-lost love and had no intention of warming his bed.

Nick had no problems whatsoever envisioning identifying Charity’s body on some slab in the local morgue. He’d done it often enough and he knew that Russians could get real creative with women and a knife.

Every cell in his body was screaming for Option One, the clearest hunch he’d ever had in his life.

Unless, of course, Nick Ireland’s famous hunch machine was completely broken, crushed and charred just like the bones in the coffin with his name on it, six feet underground.

Nick hunkered down, watching Charity’s road. As soon as he saw Worontzoff’s limo and driver appear and Worontzoff depart, he’d make his move.

It was the smart thing to do, the only thing to do.

And if it also meant that he’d see Charity again, hold her in his arms again, well, hey…a twofer.

Whatever went down, though, one thing was sure. Charity was not going out tonight to a murderer’s house. To prevent it, he’d die. And he’d certainly kill.