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She definitely felt good enough to want to fix breakfast.
She was starved.
Duke was already up and moving around. She could smell coffee coming from the suite’s kitchenette, the sound of his voice a low, deep murmur as he spoke, then Ethan’s reply. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the sound was familiar and comforting. It should be, she thought, amused; she’d been hearing it for years whenever she managed to take another wound.
Duke was right, she was lucky to be alive at this point.
And it didn’t make sense either, because she knew she was damned good in the field. Hell, it was all she’d been doing for twenty years; she should be good at it. But for as long as she could remember, her luck had sucked in the field. From being found by a stray guard in a hut in Guatemala at six and nearly getting her throat cut before Tracker had arrived, to any number of other debacles. Life threatening, but debacles all the same.
Duke seemed to believe the problems began with that hospital falling in on her. How very wrong he was, unfortunately.
Knowing Ethan would insist on checking the wound, she didn’t bother checking it herself. She quickly showered, then put on just the long shirt she’d worn the night before over her tank top and boy shorts.
She’d never been able to tolerate thongs or the lacy pretty stuff under the standard mission gear clothes. Plain old black cotton with no chance of riding between the cheeks of her ass. Maybe, though, if she stopped fighting, she could buy some pretty lacy stuff.
She could watch all that hungry lust fill Duke’s eyes and fly apart in pleasure as he showed her how much he appreciated it.
A little smile tipped her lips at that thought when she stepped into the kitchenette to find Duke and Ethan at the table, a tablet between them as they scrolled through pictures.
“Updates?” She nodded to the tablet as she stepped past them to the coffeepot.
“Doogan and the boys have been busy,” Duke stated. “Alex actually found some information on the guys who attacked the safe house.”
Carrying her cup of coffee, she sat down in the chair next to Duke as he flipped the tablet to face her.
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Grecia Davinov?” She almost blinked in shock. “The Russian billionaire. We worked for him one time years ago when his family was being threatened. Why would he target us? Besides, kidnapping’s not Grecia’s thing, and there’s no way he could have known who I am to Bliss.”
“This”—Duke flipped to the next picture—“is one of the men Saul took out at the safe house. Grecia’s brother, Rastor Davinov. Former Russian Special Forces and expert marksman. The other was a known associate of Rastor’s, a small-time Russian mobster that works out of Moscow.”
Duke showed her the next picture. “Our snipers were Rastor’s sons, Ilya and Gregor Davinov, also Russian Special Forces. They’re all rumored to speak excellent English and were actually high-level emissaries for Grecia’s Russian business at one time.” Ilya matched the DNA under Bliss’s nails from her near abduction; Gregor was the one Natches killed outside the house. Duke flipped to the younger man Angel had been trying to remember for the past two nights. “We suspect this is Grecia’s estranged son, Viktor. Which explains why you might have remembered him. His looks have changed a bit since you were with Davinov’s security detail.”
Maybe. She remembered the old photos she’d seen of Davinov’s son, but as Duke said, his looks had changed quite a bit. No matter what, the man in the photo was definitely one of the dead men out in the garage.
“My original question,” she reminded him. “Why come after Bliss if the reason they’re here is to kill me? And why try to kill me to begin with? We weren’t the only security personnel Grecia Davinov has used over the years.”
As she spoke Ethan pulled his chair over with a quiet, “Leg, please.”
“Well, I didn’t say we had all the answers, baby. I said we identified them. I called Tracker earlier. He’s calling some of his contacts close to Davinov’s organization. We should know something soon.
”
He had called Tracker? Oh Lord.
“Did you spill your spineless guts about my leg?” she snapped, then her eyes widened in horror at the knowing look on his face and Ethan’s snicker as he cleaned the salve from the fresh stitches to apply more. “You told him?” Outrage filled her voice. “You knew I didn’t want him to know. God—” She tightened her lips against the rest of the curse. “We are going to discuss this habit you have of telling everyone my damned secrets, Duke. We really are.”
Ethan’s chuckle just pissed her off more.
Jerking her head around she gave him a killing look. “Slap a Band-Aid on it already, Chuckles. I have things to do. And I don’t want to hear your comic relief crap either.” She pointed a finger back at him imperiously.
He wisely kept anything he was about to say to himself. Damned good thing, too, she thought, directing another furious look in Duke’s direction.
“Come on, Angel,” he chided her gently. “Tracker and Chance would have tried to hurt me for keeping it from them.”
As she stared at him, she knew instantly that he hadn’t just told Tracker in the last few hours or since learning the identities of the Davinovs.
“Oh my God, you called while I was out of it, didn’t you?” Pure amazed disbelief filled her. “Why, Duke? Why would you do that?”
If Tracker knew, then J.T. and Mara knew. And Mara would have called Duke herself. . . .
