Dangerous Secrets

Five

I’m going to sleep with this man, Charity thought in bemusement. This New York businessman, this Nicholas Ames, whom she’d met for the first time today—she was going to go to bed with him.

And not just in some vague moment in the future, after thinking about it endlessly, turning various scenarios over in her mind, they way she usually did, but tonight. Maybe. Probably.

Not only had she never done anything like this in her life, she’d never even thought herself capable of it. Her roommate in college said she was incredibly picky, and she was. It sometimes took her weeks to decide whether she wanted to go to bed with someone, and if the man lost interest beforehand, too bad.

Her last affair had been in college, after two months of dating, and it hadn’t been anything memorable. In fact, she couldn’t remember his face or even his name. Mickey. Mickey…something.

It had been just before she was supposed to leave for Paris. A few days later, a distraught Uncle Franklin had called to say that Aunt Vera was ill, Charity’d rushed back to Parker’s Ridge, and that had been that. The new boyfriend—Mickey Whosit—had vanished into the ether, along with her trip to Paris.

Her job, her aunt and uncle…since then, there hadn’t been time or energy for much more than that. Certainly not for love affairs.

Slowly, so slowly she hadn’t noticed it happening, the world had closed in on her. The dull, gray world.

It wasn’t dull and gray now. She felt as if she’d been shocked by a jolt of electricity that had awakened all her senses. Her skin was so sensitized that she could feel the movements in the air when Nick moved his hands, when the waiter walked by. She was aware of every item of clothing she had on. She was aware of her lace panties biting slightly into her hips, the feel of her thigh-highs, her bra rubbing against her sensitized nipples.

When he looked at her, it was as if he touched her with his hands. Those big, rough, well-manicured hands so at odds with his profession.

The world was saturated with color. The flames from the huge fire in the dining room painted the left side of Nick’s face a dusky rose. His black hair gleamed a shiny ebony, his eyes were such a searing blue. He had the most beautiful male mouth she’d ever seen. Firm, mobile, a rich red. Redder, after he started flirting with her. It had been fascinating, watching him watching her.

There was no doubt that she turned him on. The blue fire in his eyes as he looked at her was like a punch to the stomach.

What had been amazing was that she felt the desire right back. It was then that Charity realized that she’d been living in a little glass bell of sadness, in a world leached of color and desire.

They were at the door. Somehow, between getting her coat for her and helping her into it, he must have paid the check, because they just walked right out of Da Emilio’s.

Nick stopped just under the eaves and looked down at her, frowning. “They wouldn’t let me pay for dinner,” he said, in an annoyed tone.

She sighed. “I thought that might happen. They never let me pay, either. And so of course I try not to come too often. Pity, because the food is so very good.”

He reached out a big hand and stroked her cheek with the back of his forefinger. “I think you bewitched them,” he said, that deep rough voice suddenly soft. “I understand completely.”

“No.” Charity fought against the urge to rub her cheek against his hand, much as Aunt Vera’s cat Folly did when someone scratched her head. “I think it’s more a question of adoption than enchantment.”

An errant snowflake fell on her cheek and she looked up. Big fat lazy flakes were drifting out of the inky night sky, seeming to come from nowhere. She lifted her face into the night and breathed deeply, completely content.

Nick seemed to shake himself. He looked up at the sky and back at her and tugged his scarf off. “Here.” Before she could protest, he’d wrapped it around her neck twice. “It’s turning chilly. And as pretty as that coat is, it doesn’t look quite warm enough.”

The scarf was a deep midnight blue, very soft. Cashmere, triple ply. It still carried his body heat and the scent of him—a primal scent, male musk and pine, with a faint overlay of citrus.

“There.” He knotted it tightly, patted it, and stepped back, pleased. “That’s better.”

Actually, it was. She’d felt the chill and hadn’t been dressed warmly enough. “Thank you, but now you’re going to be cold,” she protested.

He just looked at her. But it was a look that spoke volumes. It was the kind of look men didn’t give women anymore. She recognized it as the look her father had given her mother when she tried to lift something heavy and he rushed to take it out of her hands.

It was the look only a certain kind of man could give to a woman and she hadn’t seen it in a long, long time. A totally politically incorrect look, sexy as hell.

Nick had almost ridiculously old-fashioned manners. He walked her to the passenger door, handed her in as if she were indeed the queen of Parker’s Ridge—maybe she should just buy herself a tiara and be done with it—buckled her belt for her, then got in himself.

She gave him quiet directions and they pulled out, that outrageously beautiful and powerful car doing something like thirty miles an hour.

Though Charity’s heart drummed, her hands were steady, folded in her lap. Anticipation zinged through her system, though. She couldn’t remember feeling so alive. Or so incredibly female.

Nick had barely touched her, and yet, it was as if they’d already had foreplay. Her breasts were so sensitized, she could feel the lace cups of her bra every time she breathed. When the car took corners, she could feel the pressure between her legs. It was entirely possible that she was already wet.

If the evening ended up with sex, she’d be thrilled. If not, she was still thrilled. It had been so long since she’d felt anything like this. Soft, female. So utterly alive.

They were gliding slowly through a heavily wooded area on their way back to town, the light snowflakes drifting down gently, two horizontal columns of gentle snowfall lit by the powerful headlights. The landscape looked enchanted, timeless. They could have been a prince and a princess in a horse-drawn carriage a hundred years ago.

Charity smiled at the thoughts in her head, so unlike the background hum of worry and duty that was its usual fare.

She turned her head to look at Nick, at his clean, strong profile outlined in the dim lights of the dashboard. Whatever happened between them, she owed him thanks for the gift of this evening.

At his glance, she smiled at him.

He didn’t say anything. The silence inside the car was unbroken. She liked it that he didn’t feel the need to chat. There was something magic in the air and words, the wrong words, could kill the magic.

Nick reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss in the palm. She was so excited, she’d forgotten to put on her gloves. His breath was hot, like steam, and she felt that little kiss down to her bones. He returned her hand to her lap. She curled her hand around the kiss and waited, heart pounding, for what life would throw her way next.

It was like being encased in a magic bubble. Something big, something wonderful was about to happen and this was the moment just before. The very air was charged with anticipation. Even the weather cooperated, knowing it was a very special night.

Charity hated bad weather but this wasn’t bad—it was enchanted. Big fat flakes drifting out of the sky, gently settling on the ground, forming a thin blanket. Visibility wasn’t good, but it didn’t seem to matter as the big car purred slowly down the street. It was like being in a snow globe, cut off from the rest of the world.

Without Charity having to give any further directions, Nick somehow made his way unerringly to her door. The car glided up her driveway and Nick killed the engine.

The street lamp ten feet away gave just enough light for her to make out his expression as he turned to her, one big arm draped over the steering wheel. He wasn’t smiling, trying to charm his way into her pants. His face was drawn, the skin tight over his cheekbones, eyes intense even in the darkness of the car.

“So,” he said, his voice low. “About that cup of coffee you promised me.”

She waited a beat because her heart was pounding and her throat felt tight. She opened her mouth, but found that no words came out. Nothing at all. Even if she had words, she couldn’t find the breath to say them. Excitement had lit a ball of fire in her chest, making it impossible for her to speak.

So she nodded.

In a second, it seemed, he was at the passenger door, lifting her out with a strong hand. They stood for a moment outside the car. Nick must have pushed the key fob because behind her, all the doors of the Lexus locked with a quiet, expensive-sounding whump. So unlike the tinny sound her own car made.

He was standing so close to her, she had to tilt her head back to watch his eyes watching hers. Big puffy snowflakes touched her skin like cold little kisses, but she was so hot they melted immediately.

There was an unnatural hush, as if the entire world were waiting for them to take a leap into the unknown. She lived on a quiet street, it was true, but there were no noises whatsoever. They could have been the last man and woman on earth.

He bent down, slowly. So slowly she could have protested or turned her head if she wanted. The idea never even crossed her mind. If anything, Charity lifted herself a little on the balls of her feet, to meet him halfway.

Nick kept his hands by his side, so she did, too, though she had to curl her fingers into her palms to keep from reaching out for him. It seemed as if she’d wanted to touch him all evening, touch that un-businessman-like body hidden underneath the staid business suit.

Their lips met, clung. Charity opened her mouth to him, not thinking about it. Her mouth just opened as her eyes drifted shut. She didn’t want anything to distract herself from the feel of his mouth on hers, hot and soft at the same time. When his tongue touched hers—just a quick stroke—she felt it down to her toes.

She especially felt it between her legs.

Oh my God. A gentle kiss, they weren’t touching anywhere except their mouths, and Charity was as turned on as she’d ever been in her life.

Nick turned his head to get a bigger draft of her. She was on tiptoe now and she stumbled. Or would have if he hadn’t immediately put his arms around her, pulling her hard up against him, upsetting her balance. But she didn’t fall. Before she even had time to realize it, her world tilted and he was carrying her.

“Don’t want those pretty boots to get ruined,” he whispered against her mouth, and started walking.

The romance of it touched her heart. She didn’t protest, she didn’t wriggle or squeal. It was too luscious, this airborne feeling. She’d read too many books, and probably way too many romances, she knew that. So it wasn’t surprising that in her head, this nice New York businessman and a staid librarian from a small town in Vermont morphed into a knight carrying his lady to their bower.

He carried her easily, as if she weighed nothing, which told her he was as strong as he seemed. He didn’t look down, though the ground was slippery and icy. He didn’t even look forward, up the path to her front door. His eyes were locked with hers, gaze so intent it was as if he were pulling where he needed to go from inside her head.

It was all so magical, so bright and fresh.

Magic didn’t exist in this world, Charity knew that. She knew perfectly well what she was getting into. This was probably a one-night stand. A two-night stand, maybe, if she got lucky. It was the beginning of the weekend, after all. But when the weekend was over, Nick Ames would get into his brand-new shiny black Lexus and head on out to greener pastures, meaning more or less anywhere other than Parker’s Ridge, which didn’t have much to recommend it to a sophisticated New Yorker.

So Charity was determined to wrest every ounce of magical pleasure from the night. She concentrated on all her senses, on this particular moment, which might never come again.

The feel of him, the heat of him, the smell of him. It was all so incredibly enticing, his arms more comfortable than the softest bed. Without thinking about it, she lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate on her feelings. Her cheek lay against the softness of his cashmere overcoat. When she opened her eyes, she could see where his beard started. The line of his jaw was so severe it was almost at right angles and his cheekbones were sharp. As a matter of fact, the only soft thing about him was his overcoat. She rubbed her cheek against it, feeling rock-hard muscle right underneath the material. Rock hard muscle underneath her hands, too, bunching and releasing as he carried her up her icy walkway, as casually as if strolling under the warm summer sun.

No change in his breathing, though he was carrying an adult woman, as easily as if she were a child. He looked down at her. She’d been studying him and she didn’t hide it. When he glanced down, she smiled.

“Do you have your key handy?” he asked quietly.

She did. In a special pocket in her purse. He took it, then walked up the four steps onto her porch. Bending with her still in his arms, he opened the front door and carried her over the threshold.

It might be the only time in her life a man carried her over the threshold and Charity wanted to commit it to memory. Everything about it. She greedily soaked up every single sensation, all her senses alive and firing, drinking in every detail of the moment.

The feel of him beneath her hands, strong and hard, covered with the soft trappings of a businessman. The wonderful smell of him, stronger now that she was so close. It was a huge temptation not to lick him, to see what he tasted like.

The open door behind her, visible over Nick’s broad shoulder. It was like an old-fashioned painting, the yellow streetlight perfectly centered in the open doorway, the door framing a snowy scene straight out of Currier & Ives. Snowflakes falling like featherlight stars out of the black night sky.

Nick kicked the door closed behind him and slid her down his body. There was no way on earth she could miss his erection, even through his pants and overcoat. As she felt that hard, steely column, her stomach muscles contracted and she shivered.

A second later, his scarf and her coat lay on her hardwood floor and he cupped her head as he kissed her. Deeper kisses these, harder, longer. Luscious, never ending, electrifying.

Charity was standing slightly on tiptoe, holding his thick wrists when he lifted his head, those mesmerizing cobalt blue eyes locked on to hers. His thin nostrils were slightly flared, his cheekbones were flushed red underneath his heavy tan. His beautiful mouth was flushed and wet. Still, though he was definitely aroused—the erection pressed against her belly was vivid proof of that—he looked utterly in control of himself.

Unlike her. Charity felt as if she were melting. Inside she was buzzing, dizzy with desire, hardly able to catch her breath against the tight band around her chest. The only thing holding her upright was her hands around his wrists. Otherwise she’d collapse in a puddle at his feet.

Somewhere far away something was ringing, some kind of bell. Well, that fit. A celebratory bell was a perfect soundtrack for what was going on inside her. It took her bedazzled brain almost a minute to realize that it was the telephone ringing. Her answering machine in the living room picked it up and she could hear her own voice asking whoever called to leave a message. Whoever it was, it couldn’t have been anything important, because there was a click as they hung up.

Thank God it wasn’t Uncle Franklin calling about yet another problem with Aunt Vera. Charity liked to think that she would, could break the spell of this moment if her aunt and uncle needed her, but she was glad she wasn’t being put to this test.

Nick behaved as if the phone hadn’t rung at all. He was watching her intently, gaze focused on her face, searching for something. Whatever it was he wanted, it was his.

“Charity,” he said, his deep voice low, then stopped. There really wasn’t anything else he had to say. What he wanted was clear. Every line of his big body was drawn in desire.

There was only one possible answer.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Vassily Worontzoff’s mansion

Vassily used his stylus to punch in Charity’s number and listened, with growing apprehension, to the empty line and the far-off ringing, then her lovely voice asking him to leave a message. He didn’t want to leave a message, he wanted to talk to her.

She wasn’t home. Why wasn’t she home? Where was she?

Charity seldom went out. She might be with her aunt and uncle, but she’d spent the evening before with them. And they were so elderly they ate at six and were in bed by nine. It was now almost ten.

Vassily put down the phone with a frown, clawed hand hovering over the receiver. He daren’t call again. He had to ration his calls to Katya—Charity!

He limited himself to no more than two calls a week and rationed their occasions out together. Two, three times a month. He didn’t dare go beyond that. Not yet.

But soon.

They’d already met for tea this month and he’d casually dropped by the library to bring her a package of piroshki he’d had specially ordered and airlifted from Moscow, just for her. She wouldn’t know that, of course. He’d said a friend had brought by several boxes and too many sweets weren’t good for his health.

And then of course there was the soirée he was organizing on Thursday. His soirées were for her, only her. He loved music, but he had a very extensive CD collection and he could have himself driven down to New York or to Boston any time he wanted when he desired live music. New York in particular had proved very satisfactory that way. He kept an apartment on Park Avenue, owned by a corporation with ten shells around it. No one would ever know it belonged to him.

The apartment had been decorated in the pastel colors Charity loved, filled with her favorite music CDs, stocked with her favorite teas. He’d bought an entire wardrobe of designer clothes in her size, just waiting for her to step into them. Everything was ready. His new life was there, shimmering just beyond his reach. With each passing day, its outlines grew more and more solid, more substantial.

Soon now. Soon.

Soon, she’d see, and understand. Soon, she would be his.

He’d been waiting for this, working for this, since he’d moved here five months ago. Charity was meant to be his, his Katya come back to life. This is what he’d been working for, without realizing it, since December 12, 1989, when the KGB had come for them. It was a date carved into his heart with acid, never to be forgotten. The day he’d ceased being human.

They’d just finished making love, he and Katya. Once was never enough with her, he’d found, so as he lay next to her, his cock had been still half erect, still slick from her. The room smelled of her perfume and their sex.

He wanted her, endlessly. They’d been lovers for a year, and he knew he could have her as much as he wanted, but the wanting was always there. The first, frantic desire, where he’d bedded her as often as he could, for hours a day, had subsided a bit. Not because he desired her less, but because he knew she was his. All he had to do was reach out a hand, and she was there.

Katya, his beautiful Katya, had been lying on her stomach, sated, rosy, smiling. He lay next to her on his side. One hand propped up his head, the other lay in the small of her back. He was composing a poem in his head, an ode to woman, for it seemed to him in that moment that Katya embodied every beautiful, desirable woman who had ever walked this earth.

The smell of woman was in the air, and he knew generations of men had lived and died for that smell, the smell of slick, hot love.

Idly, he began to compose an “Ode to Woman,” a poem that had simply welled up inside him. The first poem in his life that had come to him perfect and complete and whole in one simple rush.

He had been touched by the gods that afternoon.

The words had come, powerful and golden, in perfect cadences. He didn’t need to write them down; the words were etched in his heart as they came to him. He beat out the rhythm of the poem with his forefinger, against the swell of Katya’s perfect white buttock, like the beat of a song, the music of poetry against the skin of his woman.

She’d known what he was doing. Of course. Katya knew him, knew him down to his soul. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been able to pluck the words from his head.

His finger tapping the cadences of the words on her soft skin, he’d just ended the poem, the best thing he’d ever written, when the harsh knock sounded at the door.

He hadn’t even been given the time to get up, put his clothes back on, armor himself with dignity. The KGB goons kicked his door down and, weapons drawn, dragged him away from a screaming Katya.

This is impossible, he thought frantically. No! Russia has changed! The world has changed! The Berlin Wall has just come down! he screamed, before a rifle butt in the head felled him.

He shook his head, stunned. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be happening. Gorbachev had introduced glasnost, perestroika. Russia was, finally, opening. The long Stalinist nightmare was over.

And anyway, Vassily was no dissident. He was apolitical. A writer. A writer of the New Russia, with no agenda other than creating great literature. He was lionized amongst the intelligentsia, a New Russian, a man freed from the shackles of the past.

But the men who broke down his door were throwbacks—brutal brutish men, coming out of the murky hallway like orcs out of a dark cave, out of a darkness before time.

This was a mistake. He was Vassily Worontzoff. Dry Your Tears in Moscow was a best seller. One of his short stories had been made into a film that had won a Leone d’Oro in Venice. He’d been interviewed on TV, on a number of the brand-new channels that were opening Soviet society up. He hobnobbed with the new businessmen, with the media darlings.

They’d named him a Chevalier de la République in France.

He had to contact someone, get this cleared up, he thought, as the goons tossed him his pants, then dragged him, bare chested, into the hallway.

And then his heart stopped, simply stopped, when the third officer went back into the house and dragged a screaming Katya out into the hallway.

His gaze locked with hers.

The great Soviet scorpion was dying but its poison-tipped tail still had the power to sweep lives away. He would be accused of anti-Soviet propaganda—such a huge joke when the Soviet Union was falling apart. Daily, pieces of it were breaking off, like floes off a huge iceberg, floating away on the tides of history.

He would be accused and sentenced to a prison camp, a certain death sentence. A long, lingering death sentence. There would be no getting out alive.

And now they had Katya. This was beyond his worst nightmare.

He thought being taken away by the KGB would be the worst thing that could happen to him. But he’d been wrong.

Screaming, raging, fighting every step of the way, desperate to shield Katya, he was dragged out of the building on Arbat Street and into a waiting Zil.

The twelfth of December, 1989.

The day Vassily Worontzoff died.