Chapter Twenty-Six
Several days later, James’s ringing phone awoke Quinn from a sound sleep. While he fumbled with his phone and cleared his throat, she blinked and squinted against the morning light filtering into their apartment bedroom. Clearly irritated by the commotion, Rasputin leaped off the bed and stalked out.
“Hello.” James sat up and, after a brief pause, replied to the caller in Russian.
Her addled state didn’t allow her to catch much of what James was saying.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed the pen that lived on his nightstand, and began to write. As he did, he made the kind of monosyllabic grunting noises people make to let the other person know they’re furiously writing down every detail of imparted information.
Curiosity piqued, Quinn was now fully awake and caught bits and pieces of what James said. He thanked the caller and offered to buy him a drink the next time he was in town. The call ended.
“I take it that was your Moscow contact,” she said.
“Mm-hmm. Just as we suspected, there’s no way for us to contact Borovsky directly.” Their conversation stalled when James got up and used the bathroom. “Got the info on one of his lieutenants, a guy named Ivan Ovechkin,” he said as he exited. “We’ll start with him.”
“Good. Now that we know Perun’s Chariot belongs to Borovsky and assuming he’s on it, we can start planning the op to meet up with him in person.”
James headed for the kitchen while Quinn took her turn in the bathroom. While she washed her hands, inspiration struck. Excited by her idea, she hurried from the bathroom and found James at the sink, filling the coffeepot with water.
“Let me take point,” Quinn said.
James looked at her with a puzzled expression.
“On the op. I should be the one to meet with Borovsky.”
“No, you shouldn’t.”
Her lips pressed together in a deep frown. “Not this again,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Not what again?”
“Your overprotective streak.” Her aggravation burned hot. “I’m a trained operative, the same as you.”
He slapped the faucet off. “I’m fully aware of that.” “And yet you still treat me like I’m the librarian you met at the Westside Library a year and a half ago.”
“That’s a load of crap.” He dumped the water into the coffeemaker and jabbed at the start button. Then he whirled on her, his eyes blazing. “And completely unfair. Did I say you weren’t ready when we were tasked to break into Ziegler’s office? No. I was thrilled to have you by my side. And what about Saint Petersburg? Never once did I even hint you shouldn’t go in with the rest of us.”
“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t come back now.” Her volume had risen to equal his.
Still clad in only his boxers, he crossed his arms over his bare chest and widened his stance in defiance. “It hasn’t.”
“So you have some other reason why I shouldn’t take point?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Borovsky is a Russian man. He’s never going to give a woman the time of day. We’ve got to go at him from a position of strength and respect. And that means man to man. That means me. I take point.”
Quinn shook her head. “No. That’s exactly the opposite of what I think we should do.”
“So now you’re an expert on Russia? After being there once? I lived there, you know.”
She rocketed so beyond livid, her vision went wonky before an eerie calm settled over her. In a dispassionate tone, she said, “I know I’m not an expert on Russia. And you don’t have to remind me you lived there. I missed you every stinkin’ day you were gone.”
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off before he could utter a sound.
“So you don’t think I know enough about anything to have a good reason why I should take point, huh? Well, I do because I know men. You said it yourself. Borovsky loves beautiful women. I’m no supermodel, but I like to think I clean up pretty good.”
James’s shoulders lowered a fraction.
“And I agree with you that a super-rich, super-powerful man like Borovsky won’t respect me because I’m a woman. That’s the entire point. We use his machismo to our advantage. He’ll assume I’m just some weak-willed woman he can overpower with his animal magnetism. If I bait it so he thinks he can get the formula and I’ll succumb to his charms, he’ll be begging me to meet him in person.”
Now it was Quinn’s turn to stand with her feet set apart and arms folded in front of her.
James blew out a long breath and his gaze lowered to the floor. His arms now hanging limply at his sides, his voice was soft when he said, “The day of our wedding, right after I finished getting ready, your dad took me aside. He said he wanted to talk to me about something. I thought it was going to be a reprise of his ‘You hurt my daughter, I hurt you’ speech. It wasn’t that at all.”
Quinn cocked her head, baffled by the abrupt change in topic.
His focus moved from the floor to his hands, where the thumb of one rubbed into the palm of the other. “He said marriage wasn’t always going to be tickle fights and fireworks.”
Quinn’s ill humor ebbed. “He used those exact words?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I don’t know if I should laugh or gag at the idea of my parents having tickle fights.” She let loose with an exaggerated shudder.
He chuckled and took a step toward her. “Anyway, he told me when we engage in ‘verbal combat’—his words again—and I hurt your feelings, I need to apologize and ask for forgiveness.”
“My mom told me pretty much the same thing,” she said and shuffled closer to him. “Now I see it was all a conspiracy.”
“For our benefit.”
“Yeah.” At the same time, they each took a final step that bridged the distance between them. James laced his fingers behind her back while her hands rested on his bare shoulders. “It’s hard to argue with a couple who’ve been married for almost forty years,” she said.
“It is, so I’m going to take their advice and apologize. Your reason for wanting to take point is brilliant. I’m sorry I dismissed it before I even heard it. And I’m sorry I made that snarky comment about you and Russia and stuff. It’s not true and I was out of line.” In his face, she saw nothing but absolute sincerity when he said, “Please forgive me.”
“I do.” As she stared at a spot on his chest, her mother’s words about both sides saying hurtful things echoed in her mind. “And I’m sorry I jumped down your throat about you still being overprotective. You’re right. You’ve never tried to keep me from being a full team member. If anything, you’ve been incredibly supportive. I apologize.” She cut her eyes up to his face again. “Forgive me?”
He dipped his head and caught her up in a tender kiss. “Of course.”
She brought his mouth down on hers again and gave him a scorching one of her own. Her belly clenched as every cell in her body seemed to pulsate. She broke the kiss long enough to whisper, “I think this is the part where we make up.”
James lifted her and set her bare bottom on the kitchen counter. “The best part.”
Quinn wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him with abandon, reveling in the erasure of their height difference. It was delicious, being at his level: eye to eye, face to face, chest to chest. When she took his lower lip between her teeth and sucked, he gripped her hips and slid her to the edge of the counter. She threw her head back and gasped when he moved into her, writhing and bucking against him as her pleasure built.
He released a feral growl when she raked her fingernails across his bare back. He leaned her back and thrust deeper. She grew more frantic until she arched and nearly blacked out as she expelled a long, lusty moan.
James tensed, called out to a higher being, and then relaxed.
Quinn panted for breath, her teeth tingling, and her every nerve buzzing. In the background, three long beeps pierced through her warm, happy haze. “Coffee’s ready,” she murmured.
“Caffeine is good in the morning.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “But you are better.”
“Ditto.” She breathed a quiet laugh. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to slice mushrooms on this section of the counter ever again without getting hot and bothered, though.”
“We have lots of other counter space.”
“What happens when we’ve done this on every inch of it?”
“We move.”
She laughed and kissed his neck. “Sounds good to me.” She slapped his butt and said, “Come on. We need to get to work. We have an op to plan.”
* * *
A week later, Quinn sat on the sofa of their apartment and eyed the phone lying on the coffee table. It belonged to her recently conceived alter ego, Victoria Chamberlain. She wiped her palms over her thighs to dry the nervous perspiration and reminded herself that slipping into a new persona was something she’d been trained to do. Plus, James and her grandfather were always insisting she was a natural at it. Still, butterflies swooped in her gut as she readied to call Borovsky’s lieutenant, Ivan Ovechkin.
The thing was, the stakes were incredibly high and she didn’t want to blow it. They wanted to bust Borovsky before he could reestablish his Saint Petersburg ring.
Quinn pictured the faces of all the children who had been trapped in that terrible life. Her resolve steeled, she picked up the phone. She tapped the numbers on the screen and put the phone to her ear. As she listened to the ring tone, she locked eyes with James sitting on the edge of his armchair. His steady gaze and encouraging nod imbued her with confidence.
The moment she heard a voice at the other end of the line, she became Victoria Chamberlain.
“Hello. I’m trying to reach Mr. Ivan Ovechkin.” She lowered the register of her voice a touch, making it warmer. Richer. Smoother. “I was told I could reach him at this number.” Her words were refined and unhurried.
“Who is this?” The man’s voice snapped with annoyance.
“Oh, good. You speak English.” She released a relieved, throaty chuckle. “My Russian is abysmal.”
“Who is this?” He was growing more aggravated with each passing second.
“Forgive me. Where are my manners? My name is Victoria Chamberlain. I have an item for sale I believe Mr. Konstantin Borovsky is interested in purchasing. I was told Mr. Ovechkin could relay a message to him on my behalf.” She paused and waited for him to confirm his identity. When the silence dragged on, she said, “Am I speaking with Mr. Ovechkin?”
“What is this item?”
Whomever she spoke with was trying to keep the upper hand.
Allowing real irritation seep through, Quinn said, “I’m not going to have the same conversation with every lackey on the food chain. Either I speak with Mr. Ovechkin right now, or you get to explain to Mr. Borovsky how you let the chance to purchase sole control of a newly developed drug slip through your fingers because you were too busy playing games.” She let her verbal barrage hang between them before adding a caustic, “Good luck with that.”
“I am Ivan Ovechkin.” He still sounded grumpy, but the interest that had crept into his voice was unmistakable.
Her tone turned silky again. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Channeling her inner Victoria, Quinn crossed one leg over the other and continued. “The drug was developed by Dr. Dieter Ziegler. I believe Mr. Borovsky was at one time one of the parties interested in purchasing it.”
“Perhaps.”
“Let’s not start that again,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not going to play this idiotic cat-and-mouse game with you. Good-bye, Mr.—”
“Wait,” he said with a panicked edge in his tone. “A mind-control drug?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Borovsky is interested.”
“Good. When can I meet with him?”
“It is not so simple. I must have proof drug works.”
“That’s fair. I can send you a video of Ziegler’s own tests.”
“No. That will not prove what you say you have is real drug.”
“Are you accusing me of trying to sell you a fake?”
“No. But I will not waste Mr. Borovsky’s time if it does not work as promised.” Real fear colored his words when he added, “That would be bad for me.”
They had prepared for this scenario. “I see your point. I already have appointments to meet with several other potential buyers over the course of the next week. After that, I know I’ll be exhausted from all that traveling, so I’ll be going on holiday in Monaco.”
Maritime authorities had tracked Perun’s Chariot to the Mediterranean. Monaco was a magnet for super yachts like Borovsky’s. The belief was he would be willing to go there since he could hide in plain sight.
“I adore sunbathing at their topless beaches,” she purred. “No tan lines.”
Her eyes landed on James, who gaped at her. From the sharp intake of air she heard on the phone, she imagined Ovechkin to be similarly slack-jawed. She shot James a wink. It was just too easy.
“Perhaps you can meet me there?” After a brief pause, as if consulting her calendar, Quinn said, “I can see you a week from Friday.”
“That is acceptable.”
“Wonderful,” she cooed. “I’ll be in touch regarding the exact when and where. Ciao.”
She touched the screen and tossed the phone on the cushion. Relief and excitement rippled through her.
“Nicely done,” James said.
“Thank you.” She rose from the sofa, moved to his lap, and slipped an arm behind his shoulders. “How’s your French?”
“Language? Passable. Kiss? You tell me.” He threaded his fingers into her hair and drew her into a deep, open-mouthed kiss that left her twitchy and throbbing.
“I’m not sure.” Their breaths mingled as she gazed into his eyes and rubbed his nose with hers. “I’m gonna need a lot more data. You know. For science.”
His lips curled up in a tiny smile. “If you insist,” he said and gave her a kiss that dissolved her bones. “You know. For science.”