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And taking my bag from me, he riffles through it, pulls out the car key, and unlocks the car.
43
Sara
Peter is driving, and I’m glad. I don’t think I could do it right now—not without crashing, at least.
I don’t have that worry with Peter. He handles the car like he does everything else: with calm, lethal competence. As I watch him pull out of the parking spot, it occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen him behind a wheel before. Whenever we were in a vehicle together, someone else drove and Peter was in the back seat with me. Which brings me to another question: Where are Peter’s teammates? Why is he here alone?
And what did he mean by “quit his job?”
My mind is racing in tune with my hammering pulse, but I gather my careening thoughts and try to focus on one thing at a time. “What do you mean by ‘us?’” I ask, staring at his strongly etched profile. Or more specifically, devouring it with my gaze. I’d forgotten how strikingly masculine his features are, how beautiful in that dangerously magnetic way. His face is still as lean as when we left the clinic—whatever he was doing, it wasn’t rest and relaxation—and his high cheekbones are like twin blades, his stubble-covered jaw so hard it could’ve been hewed from marble.
I catch a glimpse of his silver gaze and the scar on his left eyebrow as he glances at me before returning his attention to the road. “I mean I’m here for good,” he says calmly. “I got full amnesty and immunity—for myself and the rest of my team.”
My breath stalls in my lungs. “Amnesty and immunity? As in…”
“As in, I’m no longer a fugitive, yes.”
And just like that, I’m careening off a cliff. He’s no longer a wanted man? “How? What did you do? How is that even—”
“It’s a long story, but I essentially did a favor for a former employer of mine—remember Julian Esguerra, Kent’s partner?”
I inhale sharply. “The one who wanted to kill you for endangering his wife?”
“That’s the one,” Peter confirms as we merge onto the highway and pass a slow-moving truck. “In any case, in exchange for that favor, Esguerra used his leverage with various governments to get the hounds off our trail.”
I stare at him, speechless. I had no idea illegal arms dealers had that kind of pull, though I guess I should’ve suspected. Lucas Kent even talked about some CIA contact of theirs—John, Jeff Somebody?—when we all had dinner at his Cyprus mansion.
“Wow. That must’ve been some favor,” I finally manage, and Peter nods, looking straight ahead.
“It was.” He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t press him. I have more important things to cover first.
Balling my damp palms on my lap, I try to sound casual. “So, when you say you’re here for good, what exactly do you mean?”
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “What do you think I mean, my love? You wanted a dog behind a picket fence? Barbecues and children in the park? Well, I can now give you that—or rather, Peter Garin can.” He switches into the right lane and gets on the exit ramp. “That different world you wanted, that life—it’s yours, ptichka… and so am I.”
My heart stutters in my chest. “You want to date me? Here? Like a normal couple?”
“No, ptichka. I don’t want to date you.” He takes a right turn and pulls into a nearby gas station—which is when I notice the gas tank is nearly empty.
“I’ll be right back,” he says, turning off the car and stepping out. I watch numbly as he expertly fills up my Toyota, paying at the pump with a fancy-looking black credit card.
My Russian assassin has a credit card, and he’s using it to pay for gas.
The sheer improbability of that—of Peter suddenly here, doing something so utterly mundane—adds to the sense of unreality I’ve been battling since we left the bar. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in some bizarre dream and will wake up at any moment, cold and alone in my bed.
But no. The driver’s door opens, bringing with it a wave of humid summer air and the pungent odor of gasoline as Peter gets back into the car, folding his long frame behind the wheel.
If it’s a dream, it’s the most realistic I’ve ever had.
“What do you mean you don’t want to date me?” I ask as we pull out of the gas station and turn onto a two-lane road. “What do you want, then?”
He stops at a red light and looks at me. “I want everything, Sara.” His deep voice is low and soft, his gray eyes reflecting the streetlights around us. “I want your days and nights, your hours and minutes. I want to share your joys and sorrows, your triumphs and frustrations. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms every night and wake up every morning smelling your hair on my pillow. I want you, ptichka—with me for all time, in all ways.”
