Page 49 of Dangerous Secrets

Charity pushed at Nick. “Let me go!” she hissed.

With a little sigh, he pulled out of her and stepped back, penis bobbling at half-mast. Charity looked at it, then at him and with another sigh, he tucked himself away in his pants and zipped up, wincing, the zipper loud in the silence.

“Charity! Where are you, girl?”

Mrs. Lambert’s sensible boots made a clomping sound on the library’s ancient hardwood floor. Charity could follow every step she was making. She was checking the periodicals room, the reading room. A discreet knock on the lavatory door.

There was only one place left to check.

“Wipe that grin off your face,” she said in a fierce whisper, hopping over to her missing shoe, straightening her skirt, combing her hair out with her fingers. Nick obediently assumed a serious expression, biting his lips not to smile. His eyes were full of amusement, though.

It was quite all right for him to be amused. He’d be leaving soon. Charity was going to spend the rest of her life here, and Mrs. Lambert was the biggest gossip in town.

Charity even had a morals clause in her contract, which had amused her when she’d signed it, the idea of infringing the morals clause of her employment contract as remote as the thought of flying to Pluto.

Nick cleared his throat and she leaped to cover his mouth with her hand. His eyes gleamed at her. The devil.

“Not a word,” she said fiercely. “Not one word!”

When she dropped her hand, he mimed zipping his mouth. His smiling mouth, the scoundrel.

“Charity, my dear. Where on earth are you?” the boots clumped closer.

Charity checked her skirt, smoothed it out, fanned herself quickly in an attempt to cool down and winced at the thought of her kiss-swollen lips, and of being naked under the skirt. She was sure the smell of hot sex surrounded her like a cloud.

Well, there was nothing for it but to brazen it through. She lifted her head and took in a deep breath.

Showtime, she thought and opened the door, closing it quickly behind her.

“Why Mrs. Lambert,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

Chapter Fourteen

Vassily Worontzoff’s mansion

November 24

The instant Nick walked up the granite steps and walked through the huge door of Worontoff’s crib—palacewould be a better word—every hair on his body stood on end.

There was no visible reason for it. No reason at all why his blood was running cold. No reason for the adrenalin dump.

Everyone streaming up the steps and into the house was elegant and wealthy. Solid citizens. Culture mavens.

The buzz of well-bred voices echoed around the huge foyer, mixed with the murmur of well-trained servants taking coats, offering drinks, pointing towards a big reception hall.

Nick recognized the governor of Vermont, two Senators from big states, a high-tech tycoon and a famous movie director. Everyone else looked like they were famous. Average age 50, average income several million dollars per annum on up.

This was it.

He was in the belly of the beast.

This was when Nick shone. He was at his best in extremis, close to the heart of the danger. He’d been here before, often. It was the whole point of being undercover, to get close to the unprotected center, as an insider.

It was when that internal mechanism he’d been born with revved up, the one that gave him the moniker Iceman. It was like a sixth gear and once it kicked in, his thoughts, sight, hearing were enhanced. He was preternaturally aware of his surroundings, his entire body turned into a quick-response machine. He could be cool and calm on the outside while on the inside, his head was working its way through the complex geometry of betrayal.

While all the smug, self-satisfied elegant folk were eating Worontzoff’s hors d’oeuvres and drinking his French champagne, congratulating themselves on being invited into the great man’s home, Nick took stock.

Ninety-five percent of the people here were as clueless as lambs right up to the moment of slaughter. They had no idea what they’d walked into.

---