Page 29 of John’s Yearning

“Yep.”

John disconnected the call and dialed Damian’s number.

The older twin answered immediately. “Morning, John, still up?”

“Barely,” John replied. “Anything I should know?”

“So I’ve been checking out this Alexi guy all night. Total geek. He’s got every cliché down pat: gets home, orders pizza, and spends all night playing computer games or something. Boring as shit, I tell you. No girlfriend from what I could tell. No surprise there. But then I checked out his background, and listen to this.”

John involuntarily straightened in his seat. “Yeah?”

“He’s Russian. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.” His last name, Denault, didn’t sound Russian at all, though his first name certainly did.

“Yeah, parents are Russian, he grew up in St. Petersburg. Apparently the grandfather was French.”

“Well, that explains the non-Russian last name.”

“Speaks fluent French. Came to the US on a work visa five years ago, started working for Google, but left. Not sure yet why. I’ll try to find out. But I digress. The point is he’s Russian. And you said we’re looking for a child trafficking ring. And who runs those kind of rings?” Damian made a dramatic pause. “The Russians.”

“Bit of a stereotype, but let’s go with it.” It was at least a start. “What’re your next steps?”

“I’ll look into his connections, see who he meets, who he talks to, who he corresponds with. And I’ll check out why he left Google and came to work for Ms. Rice.”

“Good. If you need help, coordinate with your brother. And check if this Alexi owns any properties anywhere. You know, where he could hide the children.”

“I was gonna do that,” Damian quickly shot back a bit defensively.

“Uh-huh.”

“I was. Honestly! You’re not gonna use that as a minus point in my eval, are you?”

“Don’t worry too much about your evaluation. Just get the job done. This is a team effort. Don’t forget that. The goal is to find the girls. The methods don’t matter. You find the girls, you pass the test. Even if you stumble on the way. Clear?” It never hurt to encourage Damian and dangle a reward in front of him.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, good work so far. Call me as soon as you’ve got something. I’ve got one more errand to run and then I’m gonna get a few hours of shut-eye. But if anything comes up, wake me.”

“Sure thing.” Damian disconnected the call.

At the next red light, John turned right, and only once he was halfway down the block, did he realize where his subconscious had taken him. He was outside of Savannah’s condo. He let out a mirthless laugh. He was one sick son of a bitch. After practically mauling her the night before, he was back at the scene of the crime, hungering for more.

He brought the car to a stop and looked up at the windows on the second floor. Though it was still early, he saw a movement behind one of the windows. Was Savannah in the kitchen, making breakfast? What would it be like to be there with her, to watch her as she made coffee, perhaps still dressed in her bathrobe, naked underneath? Would she interrupt her task if he pulled her into his arms, opened the belt of her robe and touched her? Would she allow him to pull her onto his lap on a chair? Would she ride him right there, in the middle of the kitchen, impaling herself on his rock-hard cock, not stopping until he shot his seed into her?

His hand went to his crotch. Fuck! He was hard as granite. And confined to his car. There was no garage he could use to access Savannah’s flat without exposing himself to the burning rays of the morning sun. Sexual frustration coursed through him. However, he knew it was better this way. Even if he could safely reach her flat, he shouldn’t, even if there was a spark of attraction between them. Savannah was in a vulnerable position, full of fear for her daughter’s safety, consumed with pain. He had no right to take advantage of a woman like that, even if he didn’t want to harm her, but soothe her, give her comfort.

Before he could stop himself, he was already dialing her number. When she didn’t answer on the second ring, he wondered if he’d only imagined the movement behind her window, his imagination playing tricks on him. He was about to disconnect the call, when there was a click on the line.

“Yes?”

He swallowed. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. “Savannah, it’s John. John Grant,” he felt obliged to say. Who knew how many men named John she knew?

“John.” There was a breathless quality to her reply. “Do you have any news? Did you find something?”

The hope he heard in her voice, the confidence she seemed to have in him, tore at his heartstrings. If only he could give her something that would help her believe that she would get Buffy back.

“Nothing much yet.” He closed his eyes.