Chapter 3

Relaxed to the point of thinking her bones had melted, Latasha fell asleep on the long flight to the western coast of Costa Rica. Iosif kept hold of his wife’s slender hand as he looked through the porthole at lusciously green mountains and tan strips of beach. When they neared their destination, he stroked the back of one finger down her cheek and whispered in Russian, “Sweetheart, it’s time to wake up. We’re going to land in twenty minutes.”

She sighed and rubbed her cheek against his arm. He could not help but smile at her unconscious affection and sensuality, but he knew he couldn’t let her continue to sleep, if only because he couldn’t carry her and their luggage.

“Latasha, we’re there.”

She blinked, her long lashes sweeping the air like small, feathery wings. She gave him a sleepy smile and turned to look out the porthole. Her mouth formed a silent “O” in awe at the magnificent scenery passing below them.

“It looks so beautiful,” she breathed.

“Da,” he replied, gazing at her.

She glanced back at him, saw that he focused his eyes on her, not on the disappearing scenery below, and blushed. With a whine from the jet engines, the aircraft began its descent, which made her ears pop. She winced. Latasha clutched at Iosif’s hand, anxiety tightening her grip until the wheels made contact with the runway and the aircraft slowed to a roll.

“Take-offs and landings make me nervous,” she confessed.

“That’s when most crashes happen,” Iosif said, validating her anxiety. “But they happen infrequently. Commercial jets have redundant systems.”

Latasha nodded. That made sense.

They remained seated until the plane pulled into its assigned bay and the jet bridge extended to meet it. The sound of clicks as passengers unfastened their seat belts reverberated throughout the cabin was followed by controlled mayhem as they rose to retrieve their carry-on bags from the overhead bins. Iosif rose at the same time as the passenger across the aisle from him. He directed an icy glare at the other man, who raised his hands in a gesture of submission and lowered himself back into his seat.

“Spasibo,” Iosif thanked him with a curt nod. He stood, hunched a little because he preferred not to crack the top of his head against the ceiling, and rolled his shoulders. Extending a hand to his bride, he bade her come to him.

Not particularly noticing that he’d spoken in Russian again to her, Latasha rose to her feet and took her place in front of her husband. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close against him. He leaned forward, nuzzled her hair, and asked, “Do you want to go to our room first or have dinner?”

He rolled his hips against her, and she felt the bulge of him against her lower back. Latasha bit her lower lip to keep from whimpering at the nonverbal promise of bone-melting pleasure. But her stomach rumbled and Iosif’s chuckle ruffled her caramel curls.

“Supper it is,” he murmured and pulled down their carry-on case which contained sufficient clothing and toiletries for an overnight stay in case their luggage failed to arrive at the same time and destination as they did.

The line began to move in fits and spurts as people generally exercised polite and courteous behavior allowing the passengers in the rows ahead of them to gather their belongings and deplane first. Iosif was grateful to stretch to his full height on the jetway and strongly considered upgrading their tickets to first class for the trip back to Cleveland. He might not have been as big as Pyotr, but he was still bigger and taller than most men.

They made their way through customs and baggage claim and finally to the taxi stand.

“I don’t suppose you read Spanish?” Latasha asked.

“Nyet.”

She sighed as they approached the taxi stand. “I can speak a little; it comes in handy in the emergency room. But reading? Not so much.”

“English?” she asked an attendant. She repeated in Spanish, “Ingles?”

“Sí! Sí! I speak good English,” the attendant replied, his white smile brilliant in his swarthy face. He blinked

Latasha smiled with relief. “Oh, good.” She looked back at Iosif. “Where are we going again?”

Enunciating with care, Iosif said, “We need taxi to Blue Parrot Resort.”

The attendant’s chocolate eyes gleamed with recognition. “Ah! Is very exclusive. The place is magnifico! Sí, I will direct driver for you.”

The man strutted to a short line of luxury vehicles and gestured emphatically as he spoke in rapid-fire Spanish to the driver. The driver hopped from the car and popped open the trunk. Without waiting for further instruction, he grabbed their luggage and tossed it in. With a sweep of his arm, he gestured to his passengers. Neither noticed the attendant quickly snap a photograph.

In halting Spanish, Latasha inquired, “Tarjeta de crédito?”

“Sí,” the driver replied, eyes widening upon seeing her bright green gaze. “Tus ojos verdes son hermosos, como esmeraldas.”

“Er… gracias,” Latasha replied.

“Chto on skazal?” Iosif asked softly.

“I’m not sure what he said, something about my eyes,” she murmured back.

Iosif directed a glower toward the driver, who smiled back at him. The hairs on the back of Iosif’s neck prickled. His instincts, finely honed, alerted him to danger; however, he wasn’t sure whether the danger was to him or Latasha. He took Latasha’s hand in his and wished he’d somehow smuggled a firearm or at least a knife. He could use either with impressive skill.

The drive to the resort passed without incident. The driver maintained a respectful silence, occasionally glancing back at his passengers. After encountering the icy glare of the big man, he dared not let his gaze linger upon the uncommonly lovely woman who sat in the back seat and gazed open-mouthed with wonder at the lush tropical scenery just beyond the window.

Upon arrival, the driver opened the passenger door and then popped the trunk to lift out the suitcases. He accepted the American bills the big, formidable looking man pressed into his hand, even though the woman dug into her purse and held out a credit card to pay their fare.

“Priyekhat,” Iosif commanded, settling a hand low on Latasha’s back as she grabbed the handle to her suitcase.

“I’m coming,” she said as he gently propelled her up the golden brick walkway to the hotel’s bright and airy front entrance. She inhaled warm, moist air scented with the salty ocean glimmering in the distance and the verdant forest just beyond the resort’s manicured grounds. She could hear the squawk and trill of birds concealed among the heavy foliage. “Iosif, this is beautiful!”

“Is nice,” he agreed. “You are beautiful.”

She giggled, feeling more lighthearted and carefree than she had in a long, long time. “I think I’m going to want to stay here forever.”

Iosif privately agreed that the idea of returning to cold, dreary Cleveland held little appeal compared to their honeymoon getaway. “Someday, I will take you to Russia.” Latasha gave him a puzzled glance, as though doubting any place in notoriously cold and grim Russia could compare favorably to Costa Rica. “Krasnodar, Kirov, or even Saint Petersburg,” he elaborated. “We’ll see great art, listen to beautiful music. It is magnificent.”

“Not tropical, though.”

“No, not tropical. But beautiful all the same.”

Latasha sensed his disappointment and felt guilty. She reached out to rub his arm and said, “I’d love to visit Russia with you some day. Anywhere with you will be wonderful.”

Iosif favored her with one of his rare smiles and her breath caught in her throat. She already thought him handsome in a severe sort of way, but his smile made her think of sunshine breaking through thunderclouds, both startling and illuminating.

They entered the cool, air conditioned lobby and checked in at the front desk where staff spoke fluent English, much to their relief. Key card in hand, they made their way to the hotel room, spacious though not a suite. It opened up onto a small balcony that faced the shore.

“I can see the ocean from here!” Latasha announced, then retreated back indoors to unpack.

With shared efficiency, they soon emptied their suitcases and stowed their clothes and toiletries in the appropriate places. With admirable restraint, Iosif caught his bride to him for only a handful of intense kisses, each leaving her dazed and aroused.

“Supper,” he said.

Latasha could not have prevented the moue of disappointment that pursed her lips. Falling into bed with her husband sounded like a much better idea. Iosif recognized the gleam in her eyes and chuckled.

“Let me take care of you, lyubimaya. First, we eat, then we relax.”

She pouted.

“I will work very hard to make sure you are very relaxed,” he purred, sliding a hand down her arm and resting it on the gentle flare of her hip.

A sigh eased from her lips and she followed him from the room. They quickly found the resort’s on-site restaurant where they indulged in a meal of local seafood, fresh vegetables, and sweet tropical drinks.

“I’m stuffed. Let’s walk along the beach,” Latasha suggested.

Iosif could not deny her the simple request. Hand-in-hand, they followed the gravel walkway to the sandy beach. He slipped off his shoes and socks; she toed off her sandals and knelt down to roll up the cuffs of his pants. Hand-in-hand, they strolled, laughing when saltwater foamed over their feet and ankles.

“It’s not like Lake Erie,” Latasha exclaimed in delight.

“Is warm,” he acknowledged and thought he’d never seen her so carefree and beautiful. Without thinking, he turned her toward him and pulled her close. She automatically raised her face and reveled in the long, passionate kiss that made her womb clench with anticipation and her spine tingle.

“Make love to me,” Latasha whispered against his lips when he drew back so they could breathe. “I need to feel you inside me.”

Iosif groaned and looked around. Other resort patrons were enjoying the private beach, and he saw no place nearby where they could be private. He pressed a hard kiss to Latasha’s mouth and grasped her hand, leading her quickly back to the hotel.

The door had hardly shut when he practically tore his bride’s clothes off her body. Buttons popped as he tore his shirt open and flung it across the room. Latasha fumbled with the button at his waistband, so there went another plastic projectile. The zipper on his pants rasped open and Iosif shoved his trousers down. Latasha took a step back as she took in the sight of him. Her jaw dropped a little, her mouth slackened, her eyelids drooped. She pressed her thighs together and felt the slick moisture of her own arousal coating the smooth skin.

“God, you’re magnificent,” she breathed, stretching out a hand to run her fingertips lightly over the hills and valleys of hard muscle beneath the crisp pelt of dark hair. Iosif was no hairless metrosexual; he embodied virile masculinity with his hairy body and the dark, sandpaper shadow of his beard. The very visible evidence of his heavy musculature beneath the hair made her want to drool. The hot, heavy, pulsing length of his erection rising from its nest of dark curls made her mouth water and additional moisture pool between her thighs.

Iosif felt a dark, heady satisfaction at his bride’s admiration as he took himself in hand and smeared the pearly drop of precum over the tip of his swollen and eager penis.

“Lozhis, solnyshko,” he ordered.

Latasha turned around and walked to the bed. Iosif stood where he was and watched the seductive sway of her hips, the delicious play of smooth muscle beneath silky skin, the firm, pert roll of her buttocks. He inhaled deeply as though he could smell the fragrance of her arousal which left a gleam on the skin of her inner thighs. He watched as she climbed onto the bed and lay down.

Latasha could not figure out where this inner seductress came from as she felt the cool cotton beneath her back. She never walked that way, deliberately swinging her hips in blatant invitation. Speaking of blatant… she could not help herself as she bent her knees and spread her thighs. Her eyes fluttered shut as one hand trailed from the base of her throat to the curls protecting her sex while her other hand lightly circled the tight peak of her nipple.

“Nyet,” Iosif breathed, suddenly positioned between her legs.

Her eyelids snapped open. She gasped when his dark head bent down between her legs. Another gasp ended in a faint shriek when he placed his mouth fully against her labia in an open-mouthed kiss. His hands gripped her thighs as he did things with his lips, tongue, and teeth that she could not quite see, but which drove her out of her mind. Once, twice, three times she shattered into brilliant showers of light until she gasped for air and wondered if it were possible to die from such intense pleasure, or whether Iosif had melted every single one of her brain cells.

When her body had relaxed, but still sparked with every stroke of his fingertips, every butterfly touch of his lips, Iosif crawled upward. With nearly unbearable tenderness, he met her mouth and let her savor the taste of her own passion on his tongue. She sighed as he eased into her body, which yielded with heated, silky compliance to his possession. Her eyes fluttered closed again as he began a slow, seductive rhythm.

“Posmotri na menya,” he commanded. “Posmotrite na menya, kogda ya zanimayus' lyubov'yu k vam.”

She obeyed. Latasha opened her eyes and locked her gaze with his as he made love to her and brought her to a final, inexorable climax that Iosif shared with a triumphant shout and the bone-deep satisfaction of true intimacy. Easing from her body, he gathered her close, pulled the covers over their cooling bodies, and drifted off to sleep.

Latasha wondered if it were proper to revel in the delicious soreness between her legs and the general achiness of the rest of her body. With a furnace-like husband at her back, she lay awake and considered sliding from Iosif’s arms, but his heat soaking into her skin felt too damned good. She stretched and felt the brawny arm around her tighten, a possessive gesture that made her want to melt with happiness. She sighed. The big, long-fingered hand moved down her body and cupped her mound. She sighed again, then realized that the pressure she felt wasn’t external.

Biology demanded attention. Latasha wriggled and her husband’s hand pressed more firmly against her, restraining her body.

“Iosif,” she whispered. His fingers delved into her dewy cleft. She gasped and hissed, “Iosif!”

“Kakiye?” he grumbled, voice slurred with sleep.

“I have to pee,” she mumbled. She wriggled again. He nuzzled her. “Iosif!”

In the dim reaches of a sleepy mind, Iosif Drakoniv realized the love of his life was upset. He drew his hand away from the warm, moist place where it preferred to stay and watched Latasha scramble out of bed and race toward the bathroom. He crossed his arms behind his head and waited a few minutes. When he heard the shower run, he determined that he’d waited long enough.

With her head under the hot stream of water as she rinsed coconut-scented shampoo from her hair, Latasha did not hear her husband enter the bathroom or use the toilet. She shrieked with surprise when big hands took the tiny bar of soap from hers and lathered up. Then she felt Iosif’s presence behind her, felt the tap of his erection against her back, watched his soapy hands run over her body in the most sensual bathing experience she’d ever thought to enjoy. By the time Iosif knelt in front of her to wash her calves and feet, she panted with arousal. When his soapy fingers glided between her thighs, she whimpered and could not help but buck her hips. Iosif soaked a washcloth and rinsed her well where the shower did not reach and then lifted her leg, settling it on his broad shoulder. He angled himself and put his mouth on her, smiling against the squeal of pleasure that spewed from her lips. Hands gripping her hips to hold her both upright and steady, he licked and sucked her to an explosive orgasm that left her legs rubbery and trembling.

After giving her a moment to recuperate, he gently set her leg back down. Latasha heaved great gulps of steamy air as she leaned against the white ceramic tile and watched her big Russian stand up. Trying to gather her scattered wits, she watched him as he lathered his hands and began to wash himself, admiring the swipe of his magical hands across the bulging muscles.

With a wrench of determination, she took the soap and lathered up her hands. “My turn,” she said, though she still breathed heavily and her body felt deliciously boneless. Again.

God, if anyone had told her a week ago that she’d enjoy sex this much, she would have laughed at the poor, deluded fool. Huh. Shows what she thought she knew.

Iosif gladly submitted to his wife’s ministrations as she tenderly washed his body. He obliged by leaning down so she could wash his face and shampoo his hair. He hissed when she fondled his testicles and groaned when she stroked his erection. He damn near yelped when, after allowing the shower a moment to rinse him, she knelt and put her mouth over the freshly cleaned head of his penis. The heat of her velvety mouth eclipsed the heat of the water. Her tongue swiped over the glans, tickled just beneath the frenulum. He entwined his fingers in her sopping hair as her head bobbed, taking as much of him as she could until he bumped the back of her throat. Her hands teased the rest of him, tenderly stroking, gently squeezing, fingertips rubbing the sensitive perineum which made his balls tighten and the base of his spine tingle with warning.

“Latasha, I’m going to—”

And his hips bucked as semen spurted into her mouth. Surprised, Latasha drew back, eyes wide as Iosif ejaculated over her face, neck, and chest.

“Oh, my,” she said, blinking at the volume he produced and thinking it was no wonder her thighs felt sticky that morning. She raised her face to the showerhead and let the water rinse her skin.

Iosif reached around her to shut off the water. Sliding the glass door open, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around Latasha’s slender body. Skinny, others might label her, but he knew the steely strength of her. His whipcord-lean bride was tough.

Latasha stepped from the shower. Iosif followed her, taking a second towel which he wrapped around his narrow hips.

“What do you want to do today?” he asked, voice rumbling from his chest as he watched her pat her cafe au lait skin dry. He loved the ecru hue of her skin, not as warm a hue as caramel, not as cool as taupe. Coffee liberally softened with cream, a delicious combination of her Black mother and white father from whom she’d also inherited those magnificent emerald eyes.

If Iosif ever found her father, he’d be hard pressed not to beat the faithless bastard into a pulp. How the man could have abandoned his precious daughter, Iosif could not fathom. He wondered if, even now, his seed had taken root in Latasha’s womb and whether their children would inherit her brilliant green eyes and lovely skin.

His dick twitched with renewed interest.

“I thought we’d start with breakfast,” Latasha answered his question while his mind wandered. “I am absolutely famished.”

Her voice recaptured his attention. “Do you want to eat here or head to the hotel’s restaurant?”

Latasha raised one delicate eyebrow, accurately judging just what would happen if they ordered room service. There’d be eating, but not of food. Her core sent forth a fresh gush of moisture in anticipation. She shifted, squeezed her thighs, felt the achiness of the tender flesh that responded so eagerly to the mere hint of sex with Iosif. The nurse in her knew that her body—stupid, nymphomaniac body—needed a break.

“Let’s go down to the restaurant and sit on the patio,” she suggested.

Disappointed, yet smart enough to conceal it, Iosif expressed mild agreement and picked up a comb to begin working through her shoulder length hair.

“I didn’t remember to condition it,” she said. “Hang on a minute. I brought some leave-in conditioner.”

Iosif bided his time while, after wrapping the damp towel around her body, Latasha fetched a small jar of conditioner from the dresser. She scooped out a small amount and rubbed it between her palms, then massaged it through her wet hair.

“Except for the color, my hair’s a lot like Mom’s,” she explained. “It dries out and frizzes fast.”

At her signal, Iosif began drawing the comb through her caramel colored curls. By the time he finished, his skin had dried and his hair had gone from sopping wet to merely damp. He drew the comb quickly through his own short hair and then followed her out of the bathroom to get dressed.

They held hands and chatted easily, discussing plans for the day as they rode the elevator to the ground floor and walked to the restaurant where the smiling hostess seated them after a short wait. Iosif noticed two men, both dressed in linen suits and wearing Panama hats, rise from their seats in the hotel lobby and follow them into the restaurant. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, but he could see no obvious threat. Still, he finagled a seat that put his back against the hotel’s concrete wall.

“Sit next to me, Latasha,” he said with a small smile as he tapped the chair beside his at the small bistro style table.

Unaware of any reason to feel uncomfortable, she gave him a brilliant smile and took the chair. Taking the menu in her hands, she glanced up and noticed that Iosif’s gaze had sharpened, grown cold and piercing. Although she wanted to discount his sudden wariness, she knew better. After a long stint in the Russian special forces followed by long years working for the Bratva, Iosif’s finely honed sense of danger never lied.

“What’s up, Iosif?” Her voice was barely audible.

“I’m not sure,” he murmured. “Speak to me in Russian and stay alert.”

“Da,” she replied.

Satisfied as to her obedience, he nodded and said in a quiet voice, “Order for me.”

Worried that something bothered him sufficiently so that he would not look at the menu, Latasha murmured her acknowledgement and scanned the menu for something that would satisfy the big man’s equally big appetite, something with plenty of protein.

A waiter approached, all smiles and cheer, and offered coffee. In slow Spanish mixed with carefully enunciated English, Latasha conversed with the young man and placed their order. The waiter, obviously accustomed to American tourists, nodded, smiled, and patiently worked out what the hotel’s patrons wanted.

Other than a few seemingly casual glances, the two men from the lobby did not seem to pay any particular attention to the newlyweds. Iosif wasn’t sure whether their apparent unconcern masked intense interest or whether they simply didn’t appreciate his wife’s beauty. He could give no reason for his uneasiness, which irked him.

“Perhaps it’s just because we’re in an unfamiliar place,” Latasha reasoned in fluent Russian.

Iosif raised an eyebrow. “You’re better than I thought.”

“I’ve been studying,” she replied with a grin. “Besides, I wanted to know what you, Vitaly, and the others were talking about when you didn’t want me to know.”

“Sneaky,” he complimented her and chuckled, thinking that Maksim would probably be appalled to know how much Latasha understood of their conversations. “Why doesn’t my job bother you?”

“It does,” she replied with her usual candor. “But you don’t go around killing people because they looked at you funny or because you want their sneakers. And I know that Maksim’s been working on cleaning up the organization, trying to move into legitimate businesses and get off the radar.”

“Da.”

She tilted her head to one side and gave him that sex-kitten grin he liked so much. “And my man being a true badass makes me feel safe.”

Iosif smiled at her, lifted her chin with the touch of a fingertip and pressed a soft kiss to her full lips. “Your man, eh?”

“Any woman who thinks otherwise will get my foot up her ass. If you ever think otherwise, I’ll gut you with a rusty spoon.”

Usually dour Iosif chuckled at the possessive growl in her voice. “Any man who touches you dies.”

“Good.”

They exchanged glances, secure in the knowledge that they both meant what they said. Latasha settled her hand over Iosif’s and gave it a light squeeze.

“You understand me better than anyone,” she said. “That’s just one of the reasons I love you.”

“And another?” he inquired, one eyebrow again rising.

She laughed. “Fishing for compliments? I love you also because you’re hotter than a habanero… and you’re not a dick about it. In all the time I’ve known you, you never used women like so many other men do.”

“My mama raised me to respect women,” he said. “Of Vitaly, Pyotr, and me, I’m the only one who had a stable family life growing up. They were orphans, raised by the state, which is a brutal way to grow up. My mama and papa wanted me to attend university, but I wanted the glory of the military. So, that’s where I went. I did well.”

Latasha snorted. “Modest. ‘Did well’ doesn’t cover what you did, you big bear. I never understood why you went from the military to the Bratva, though.”

“I was wounded and discharged, no longer useful to Russia. The Bratva, though, they had use for me, gave me respect when I’d lost it amid bandages, painkillers, and self-pity.” He wrapped his hand around hers, relished the protective feeling it gave him to shelter her fragile bones within his gentle grip. “Then I started carrying out assignments for them and there was no way back.”

Latasha wanted to pry further, but understood that some secrets were too painful to share. So she asked, “How did you end up on Maksim’s crew?”

“I heard about him through various channels, heard that he ran a little more liberated operation. His brother is a complete brute, cold, unpredictable, murderous. Rumors of Maksim showed that his brother disliked him, mainly because he held to a code of honor. I wanted to work for a man like that, even if I didn’t particularly wish to leave Russia.”

“You liked Russia?”

“It’s beautiful there. Sure, we get snow and cold, but that just makes us appreciate spring and summer all the more. There is nothing more delicate than a Russian summer in the countryside, nothing more spectacular after a long, icy winter. But winter has its own beauty when the sun turns the snow into diamonds and smoke curls from chimneys. Someday I will take you to my homeland, and you will fall in love with Russia, too.”

“You make the countryside sound wonderful, certainly nicer than dreary old Cleveland.”

“Cleveland is not all bad. I have been to your Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.”

Surprised by his dry humor, Latasha laughed just as their waiter returned with plates heaped with food. Light conversation continued as they ate, punctuated by soft, fleeting touches and heated glances.

“So, what’s on today’s agenda?” Latasha inquired as they leaned back in their chairs and sipped cups of dark, rich coffee. She absolutely had to find out what kind of coffee this place used and how they made it, because she’d never tasted coffee so good.

Iosif raised an eyebrow in silent suggestion.

“No,” Latasha laughed. She took another sip and chuckled again. “I did not come to Costa Rica to spend all our time locked in a hotel room.”

Iosif sighed with real regret, though he kept his small half-smile. He knew her body, unused to the rigors of passion, was tender. He also understood her eagerness to enjoy the activities and entertainment their exotic honeymoon location offered.

“There’s a zip line we can go on,” he suggested.

“Zip lining through the jungle?” Latasha’s eyes brightened with anticipation. “That sounds like fun.”

“I didn’t know you were an adrenaline junkie.”

“Why do you think I’m an emergency room nurse?” she quipped. “Excitement that comes with a good salary.”

Iosif nodded, knowing that she avoided mentioning the compassion that led her to the healing profession. His bride wanted to help people, too. He thought that, perhaps, her choice of profession somehow balanced the harm he did as a professional thug. He wadded his napkin and set it beside his plate. Rising, he asked, “Shall we go?”

“Right now?” Latasha glanced down at herself. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

Ah, she was right. He’d only thought she looked fetching in that pretty sundress and strappy sandals, not that they wouldn’t be appropriate for the zip line adventure.

“Tomorrow then?” he suggested. “Today, I will take you shopping.”

“You hate shopping.”

“But I love you and you like to go shopping.”

Her conflicted expression amused him.

Coming to a decision, she nodded and said, “It would be a shame to go back home and not have a few mementos.”

He nodded and rose. She took a final sip of that heavenly brew and set down the cup. Iosif escorted her back to their room where she retrieved her purse, a dainty macramé affair that held little more than identification, credit card, cash, and a small pack of tissues. One never knew when one might sneeze.

The hotel dispatched one of the shuttles maintained for the convenience of their guests. The driver looked twice at Latasha before an icy glare from Iosif stopped the other man’s obvious appreciation of her uncommon beauty. The big Russian made sure to seat himself so that he would be between anyone else in the vehicle and his bride. That prickly feeling at the back of his neck still hadn’t disappeared. He just wished he knew whether the danger pointed toward him or Latasha.

They arrived at the local market without incident. The driver offered to return to pick them up at the drop-off point in a few hours. Iosif made note of the location and time and took his wife’s slender hand in his. Slowly, slowly, they wandered from stall to stall, fending off vendors seeking to sell overpriced trinkets to rich North American tourists. Iosif stood guard over Latasha as she sifted through handmade jewelry, hats, scarves, and other goods. Twice he saw the two men who had occupied the hotel’s outdoor terrace during breakfast. He wondered if the two men were merely enjoying the market. Iosif didn’t believe in coincidences. A flicker of motion caught his peripheral vision. Reflex, not thought, governed the hand that shot out and caught the skinny arm of a juvenile pickpocket.

“Give it back,” he ordered, his voice low and menacing.

The boy’s eyes widened, first in wily denial, then in fear as the hand gripping his arm tightened. The pain from the big tourist’s grasp would doubtless leave bruises, the boy knew. Bowing to the inevitable, the boy offered a smile, not even slightly apologetic, and handed back Latasha’s wallet.

“Latasha,” Iosif said, catching her attention.

She turned around and gasped to see her husband holding a boy in his cruel grip in one hand and her wallet in the other.

“Pickpocket,” he explained curtly.

“I should have been paying more attention,” she admitted.

Iosif didn’t bother denying that. “Look in your wallet and make sure everything is there.”

With shaking hands, she took the wallet from his hand and quickly checked its contents. She directed a glare at the boy and said, “Give it back.”

“¿Que?”

“Mi dinero,” she hissed and looked up at Iosif. “He took about half of my money.”

Iosif grasped the boy around the throat, exerting a firm squeeze that left the young thief in no doubt as to the big man’s ability to choke the life from him with little effort. The boy shrugged and dug in his pocket to retrieve the folded bills he’d managed to extract from the pretty lady’s wallet before the big man had caught him. Latasha took the money from his grubby hand and counted it.

“It’s all there.”

“Don’t let me see you again,” Iosif snarled in an undertone that frightened the boy more than shouting would have.

“Vete a casa, muchacho,” Latasha said as she returned the bills to her wallet and the wallet to her purse. She zipped it shut and closed her hand over the shoulder strap. She looked back to Iosif and said, “Let him go. He won’t bother us further.”

“You’re sure about that?”

She shrugged. “He won’t bother us again today. And I’ll do better at paying attention.”

Iosif released his hold on the boy’s neck. The child dashed away, not being so foolish as to linger. With stern control, Iosif quelled his rage. Seeing his fury, Latasha settled a hand on his arm.

“It’s okay, Iosif. We’re okay.”

Not until the hard flesh beneath her hand relaxed and he took a deep breath to release the stress, did she lift her hand from his arm. Iosif immediately captured it and brought her palm to his mouth for a kiss. He closed his eyes for a second, simply grateful that her touch calmed him. He could very well have killed that little thief.

“Let’s head back to the hotel,” Latasha suggested, no longer in the mood to shop.

“You’ll be hungry,” he said. “Lunch first.”

“And you,” she said. “You’ll eat, too.”

“Da.”

They strolled through the market’s crowds of vendors and vacationing tourists until they entered the shade of a restaurant that had actual customer seating. A smiling host seated them at a small table. Another smiling young man approached and rattled off the day’s specials in charmingly accented English. Latasha and Iosif ordered their food and settled in to wait.

“They are following us,” he murmured as he saw the same two men enter the restaurant and be seated by the host.

“What? Who?”

“The two men who were just seated.”

Latasha wanted to protest his paranoia, but she merely set her hand lightly on his forearm and said, “They probably just like this restaurant. I’ve always heard the best places are where the locals eat.”

“Mm-hm,” he hummed lukewarm agreement, which Latasha knew was his way of placating her without admitting fault. “If they are locals, then why were they eating in a hotel restaurant?”

“Maybe they really like the food there?”

Iosif shrugged, neither accepting nor refusing her explanation.

“Iosif? Does the Bratva work with Hispanic gangs?” Latasha inquired, keeping her voice low so as not to be heard by anyone other than her husband.

“Like the Culebras?” he asked, maintaining an equally quiet tone as he referred to the criminals who had mistakenly kidnapped Giancarla, one of his bride’s best friends who was now married to one of his best friends and the mother of that man’s children. “Bah. Undisciplined animals.”

He cast a covert glance at the two men from the hotel restaurant. No, those two did not look like street thugs. Their more sophisticated grooming proclaimed them something higher in cartel hierarchy, but not top tier criminals. No—

“Maybe they’re just businessmen,” Latasha reasoned.

Oh, they were businessmen, all right. Iosif could guess what business they conducted.

“Perhaps they are merely here for drugs,” he whispered.

“Merely,” she repeated faintly.

Iosif met her gaze steadily. “People who avoid illegal drugs need not fear those who deal in them.”

She shook her head. “I see too much in the emergency room, Iosif, people who will do anything to get enough money to buy their next fix.” She closed her eyes against a recent memory and, opening them said, “Last week, an addict traded his twelve-year-old daughter for drugs. Her brother tried to rescue her and ended up in the emergency room with three gunshot wounds. He died on the table before the doctors could help him.”

He could not refute the truth of that. He covered her hand with his and said, “Then we will simply avoid them.” Her green eyes, dark with sorrow and painful memories, flickered up to meet his gaze. “We will enjoy our honeymoon.”

Before she could respond, their waiter returned to set plates of steaming seafood and vegetables on the table.

“Honeymoon?” the waiter repeated, eyes and smile bright.

“Yes. We are just married,” Iosif replied and brought his wife’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles.

“Congratulations!” the waiter exclaimed. “I bring you wine, wine to celebrate!”

Before either Iosif or Latasha could decline, the waiter headed toward the kitchen, intercepted by one of the two suspicious men who walked toward the restroom. The other of the two men rose from their table and approached Iosif and Latasha’s table. He tipped his hat to Latasha, smiled, and said, “I could not help but overhear that you are newlyweds. Allow me to offer congratulations.”

Latasha smiled and murmured a blushing thank-you.

The man looked at Iosif and commented with an oily smile, “She’s a most unusual beauty. It is a fortunate man who possesses her.”

Iosif didn’t like the cold gleam in the other man’s eyes, but polite behavior demanded that he accept the man’s praise. He nodded and murmured his thanks. Beneath the table, his hand fisted.

“Ah, but you must eat your meal while it is still hot and fresh,” their unwanted guest commented. “Enjoy your day.”

The man returned to his table just as the waiter returned bearing two glass flutes of sparkling wine. Setting each glass on the table, he said, “With the chef’s compliments!”

“Oh, how sweet!” Latasha exclaimed and tasted the fizzy liquid. She held the glass away from her for a moment, giving in to the urge to sneeze as the bubbles tickled her nose. She frowned at the glass. A second sip brought a small smile of appreciation. “I don’t know what kind of wine this is, but it’s not sickly sweet. It’s actually rather pleasant, kind of like a semi-dry Riesling.”

Iosif took a small, exploratory sip, then set the glass down. He’d had more time and opportunity to refine his palate than had his young bride. The wine was barely adequate. But he simply nodded and said nothing as she finished it off while she ate her lunch.

“Are you not going to drink that?” she asked, looking pointedly at his wine.

“Nyet. I prefer red.” He gestured at her to take it.

She nodded, accepting the offer because she did know that he preferred bold, very dry, red wines. She’d looked up some of the bottles he kept in a special cooler just for wine: her husband was a wine snob just like Cecily was a food snob. Latasha didn’t mind. The quirks just added depth to their characters. Regardless, she enjoyed the light, fizzy beverage. It complemented her meal nicely.

They finished their meal and wandered further through the market. Iosif either held his bride’s hand, settled his hand in the curve of her lower back, or wrapped his arm around her, never allowing her to venture beyond his reach. Instinct warned him of danger, but he could not see from where it might come or upon whom it was focused. Not wanting to disturb her pleasure, he said nothing and maintained a quiet watchfulness even as he gladly purchased Latasha a charming seashell bracelet and floppy straw hat.

They returned to the drop-off point to wait for the shuttle, taking advantage of the sturdy benches placed in the shade beneath thickly clustered palms.

“I cannot believe how beautiful it is here,” Latasha gushed, leaning against Iosif’s side.

“Da,” Iosif agreed and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. She giggled, still a little tipsy from the wine imbibed with lunch.

They sat in companionable quiet, listening to the murmur of conversation from the market beyond and the soughing of the tropical breeze through the lush greenery surrounding them. The shuttle arrived as promised and they boarded, along with a handful of other resort patrons who had also enjoyed the festive market.

Sitting together, they chatted with lazy amiability about the market wares, the food, the sights, and what they planned to do the next day.

“Zip lining through the rainforest,” Latasha decided with a brilliant grin. “Ever since I saw Bill Engvall’s skit about his zip lining adventure, I’ve always wanted to go.”

“Bill Engvall?”

“He’s a comedian, funny as hell,” she explained. “Back when we were living in the apartment, Gia rented the DVD that we watched on the old DVD player that Cece’s parents gave to her. I made popcorn and we laughed ourselves silly that evening.” She sighed. “Ah, good times.”

Iosif’s expression maintained careful neutrality, though he wondered how Latasha could have fond memories of the deplorable pit in which she and her roommates lived for three years. He supposed it was human nature to find joy even in the meanest circumstances, and he appreciated that ability in his lovely bride.

They looked up in surprise as the shuttle creaked to a halt.

“What’s going on?” Latasha murmured, peering out the window.

A rap at the driver’s door yielded the driver’s side window rolling down. The driver managed one word—¿Que?—before he slumped sideways in a spurt of bright red blood and the pfft of a silenced pistol. A tanned hand yanked open the vehicle door and another hand grabbed the dead driver and jerked his body out of the vehicle. The heavy click of the door locks disengaging sounded ominous in the heavy quiet, broken only by the muffled whimpering of one of the other passengers.

Latasha felt steady pressure on her shoulder and realized that Iosif was pushing her downward. She glanced up at him, eyes wide with terror.

“Spuskat'sya,” he murmured, ordering her to get down.

Latasha wasted no time arguing and slowly sank toward the rubber mats on the vehicle’s floor, even as the front passenger side door flew open and a man jumped into the vehicle. Internally, Iosif frowned; however, he maintained an impassive expression and watched, memorizing, calculating.

The second man quickly scanned the 10-passenger van and grinned with evil intent when he noticed the empty seat next to Iosif.

“You, big man,” the thug said as he leveled his pistol at Iosif. “Send your woman forward.”

“Come and get her,” Iosif muttered a challenge.

The man laughed as though the Russian had cracked a joke and, with nonchalant cruelty, shot one of the other passengers. Blood spurted at the sickening sound of the bullet penetrating flesh. Screams erupted as the passenger groaned and slumped over in a widening pool of blood.

“Send your woman forward or I kill another one,” the man ordered.

Latasha looked up and saw from her husband’s expression that he was prepared to sacrifice every other life on board that vehicle to save hers. She bit her lip and rose, unable to endure the guilt that his decision would dump on her conscience.

“Latasha, nyet,” he whispered, his voice harsh as he recognized the determination in her eyes, the bleak courage of what she was doing. “Don’t, please.”

“I can’t be responsible for killing innocent people, Iosif. I’m a nurse. I save lives.”

He took hold of her hand. “Do you know what they’ll do to you?”

Her whole body trembled in terror, and she felt her bowels liquefy. She nodded once and whispered, “I know.”

“Survive,” Iosif growled through clenched jaws, so he wouldn’t beg. “Stay alive. I will find you.”

A glimmer of trust flared in her eyes. She nodded, unable to speak if only because her abductor had edged forward and grabbed her arm. He leveled his gun at Iosif who began to rise.

“No, big man. Say good-bye!” With a high-pitched giggle, he squeezed the trigger.

Iosif anticipated the shot and dodged before the firing pin could send the bullet on its way. He crouched down behind the seats as the man dragged his bride outside and fired a few more shots for good measure. He leaped up and rushed to the front of the van, just as the man shoved Latasha into a car. The car’s engine revved. Smoke shrouded the tires, which screeched as the driver peeled away at high speed.

Iosif turned around to see two of the passengers holding their cell phones aloft, recording the incident. He had no need of their electronics; he’d already memorized the car’s license plate. Knowing the police were likely on their way and not wanting to deal with law enforcement, he disembarked and walked toward the market and melted into the oblivious crowd as lights and sirens congregated around the hotel shuttle, two fresh corpses, and the remaining passengers. With rough purpose, he pulled his own cell phone from his pocket and dialed.

“Iosif, you’re on your honeymoon. Why do you call?” Maksim’s voice boomed across the connection in English.

Speaking in terse Russian, Iosif explained what happened.

Maksim wasted no time cursing the situation. “I’ll set Gennady to running the license plate. I do not have a formal agreement with the cartels down there, but I do have a connection with someone who will help. For a fee.”

“Pay it,” Iosif demanded. “I will reimburse you.”

“Of course, you will. Tell me what you need and I’ll relay the list.”

Thinking quickly, Iosif listed several items.

“I shall send Bogdan to assist.”

“No. There’s no time to waste.”

“All right.” Maksim hesitated, then growled with deep-throated viciousness, “Kill them. Kill them all.”

Iosif thanked his boss and disconnected.

He waited, fairly vibrating with impatience. But these things took time. Maksim would have to negotiate terms with his contact, and then Russian boss’ connection would have to procure the illegal supplies he specified if they weren’t ready-to-hand.

Finally, Iosif hailed a taxi and returned to the hotel. Once in his room, he took a quick, cold shower and grabbed the small pad of paper and pen the hotel offered to all guests. With sharp jabs of the pen to the paper, he jotted down notes, everything he remembered about the two men: their appearance, their apparel, their voices, their weapons, the make and model of their car.

Damnit, he should have bugged her clothes with trackers.

The phone rang. Finally.

“Can you talk?”

“Yes,” Iosif answered.

“Go to the lobby in forty-five minutes. You will meet Carlos Grullo. He knows what you look like; I sent him a picture. He has agreed to provide you with what you need.”

“Thank you, Maksim.”

“Do what you must, Iosif, then come back home and bring your pretty wife with you. She’ll need to talk to Livvy.”

Once again, Iosif could only thank his boss. Yes, he silently acknowledged, Latasha would need Olivia, who’d once been sold into sexual slavery and liberated by the Bratva boss who married her.