Page 14 of Dangerous Secrets

Nick waited for her to tell her story, but she didn’t.

Interesting.

In Nick’s experience, people who have been through trauma are almost always eager to talk about it. It was like a badge of honor—look what I went through, look at what I survived.

Charity’s story was particularly dramatic. A fire—started by a disgruntled employee—breaking out the fifth floor of the five-star hotel in Boston where she was staying with her parents. Her father wrapping her in blankets and throwing her off the balcony in a desperate attempt to save her, then rushing back into the room to try to save his wife. It took two days for the room to cool down enough to collect the charred bones for a funeral. Charitynever got to attend the funeral. By that time, she’d already had two operations and was sedated.

Why wasn’t she telling him all about it?

But she wasn’t, and she wasn’t uncomfortable with silence, either, like most women were. She sipped her wine and watched him calmly.

Nick finally broke the silence.

“So he leaves Russia and moves to the States? Why? I mean the Soviet system fell, after all. Why didn’t he just stay? Particularly since apparently he was a big shot there.”

This was bullshit. Nick knew exactly why Worontzoff was here and he was looking at it right now. Charity Prewitt. A dead ringer for a woman long dead, Worontzoff’s lover, Katya Amartova, who had perished in the labor camp.

Nick had seen the photos of Amartova and the resemblance to Charity was uncanny. A normal man wouldn’t ever expect that a woman who merely looked like the woman he’d once loved could be her, but Worotonzoff had gone well beyond normal years ago.

She was silent another moment, then rested her chin on her fist. “I don’t really know why Vassily moved here. He’s never actually talked about it. I just assumed he wanted a clean slate and emigrated here to wipe the past out.”

Well, also to set up a criminal empire here. Therewasthat.

“We don’t really talk about these things,” she continued in her soft voice. “Mainly we talk about books. Vassily has a great mind. It’s a privilege to spend time in his presence.”

Fuckhead, Nick thought sourly, then caught himself again, appalled. The secret to undercover work is to stay in character, even inside your own head.Especiallyinside your own head. He’d been carrying on an internal monologue all this time and if he’d been chatting with someone a little less harmless than Charity Prewitt—with, say, Guillermo Gonzalez, who’d shoot ahole in anyone’s head at the least suspicion that someone was double-crossing him, blow your kneecap out for the hell of it and your elbow off for target practice—then he’d have been a goner.

Thisneverhappened. Ever. Nick was as focused as the laser beam that every morning was aimed at the window of Worontzoff’s study. Always. As a soldier and now as a member of the Unit.

He had to get his head out of his ass and pretend he was dead from the belt buckle down from now on.

Charity turned her head to the big picture windows. Snow had started gently falling, dusting the big spotlit evergreens in the sloping lawn outside the restaurant, a scene straight out of a Christmas card. She sighed and pushed away her half-eaten tiramisù. She dabbed her mouth with the big linen napkin and placed it on the table.

She needn’t have bothered wiping her mouth. Nick couldn’t even imagine her being sloppy with her food. Her moves were all so graceful, just watching her was a pleasure.

Head. Out. Of. Ass. If he kept repeating it enough to himself often enough, it might just happen.

“Nick.”

His head snapped up. She’d pushed back from the table, body language clear. Oh God, he hadn’t pumped her at all for enough intel on Worontzoff. Again, at the wordpump, his dick leaped in his pants.

Jesus.

He let his left hand drop to his lap, wondering whether he should surreptitiously pinch himself. Maybe if he hurt himself enough, it’d go down.

“Yeah?”

She smiled at him. “It’s starting to snow. I don’t have snow tires, so I should get to my car before the streets become too slick.”

A drop of sweat ran down his back. He didn’t want this evening to end. Of course, he hadn’t got as much info as he wanted, but he also . . . didn’t want the evening to end. This was the nicest evening he’d spent in . . . shit. Since before the Gonzalez job, which had lasted a year. And before that had been Fuckedupistan. We were talking years, here.

He relaxed his face. “I’ll drive you home, don’t worry. And I have snow tires and they’re brand-new. We can still have coffee. Or would you like a brandy?”

Her eyes were so clear, it was like looking into limpid pools of water. That pale pink mouth tilted up. “That’s very nice of you to offer, but I’ll need my car tomorrow. So if you’ll just drive me back to the library, that’ll be fine.”

With bad tires? Nick balked. No way.

But that pretty, pointed little chin looked just a little stubborn so he couldn’t just say,hell no, I’m not letting you drive home in lousy weather with the wrong tires.Much as he’d like to.

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