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“Where are we going?” I ask as he carries me out of the room.
Undeterred by our lack of clothes, he makes his way to the closest bathroom, which is the one by the pool. Fortunately, we don’t run into anyone on our way.
His aftercare is gentle. He washes my hair and body in the shower before patting me dry with a soft towel. When we’re both wrapped in fluffy robes, he carries me to his bedroom and puts me to bed with an instruction to rest while he fetches dinner.
I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the uncertainty. Against my better judgment, I open my mouth, but I need to know. I have to know if Dania was lying.
“Alex?”
He stops in the frame and turns to look at me.
I brace myself for humiliation. “Do you—”
The phone rings shrilly on the nightstand.
Frowning, he walks over and lifts the receiver. “Yes?” His voice carries a hint of irritability.
His frown deepens as he listens. After a moment, he says with a clenched jaw, “I see.”
He lifts his gaze fleetingly to mine and catches me watching. Turning his back to me, he continues in a tight voice, “That won’t be necessary. I’m no longer at the office. I’ll call you back in five minutes.” The phone makes a click as he returns the cordless receiver to the base.
I clutch the blanket to my chest. “Is everything all right?”
When he faces me again, his expression is schooled, but the worry lines are still visible around his eyes. “There’s been a complication. I’m afraid I won’t have the information tonight on the man who’s hunting me.”
A stone drops in my stomach. “I’m sorry.”
He gives me a strained smile. “It’s not your fault. I’ll get dinner, but I won’t be joining you. I have to deal with this.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll get the dinner.”
“No,” he says in a commanding tone. Softer, he adds, “Stay in bed, my love. You need to rest.”
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, the lethargic effect of my orgasms vanishing as fear brings a fresh wave of tension.
“No, but thanks.” He checks his watch. “You wanted to ask me something before the phone rang.”
I pull up my knees and hug my legs. “It’s nothing important.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
I nod, though I have no such intention. My courage has already failed me, and in light of that telephone call, we have much more serious matters to worry about than whether Alex loves me.
24
Alex
Tima is still in the kitchen when I go downstairs. I instruct him to prepare a tray for Katerina and a sandwich for me. While he’s getting our dinner ready, I grab a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the closet in the gym and get dressed. The food is ready when I return to the kitchen.
After delivering the tray to Katerina, who’s already half asleep in my bed, I leave her with a kiss and go to my study. A gourmet sandwich and a glass of water is set on the desk. I dial Adrian and finish the sandwich in three large bites while I wait for him to answer.
He picks up after several rings.
“What the fuck happened?” I ask, chugging back the water.
“Someone other than us wanted to find Mukha. He was already dead when I got there.”
“Fuck.” I scrunch the napkin in my fist. “How?”
“A bullet in the back of his head.”
That has a ring of Vladimir Stefanov to it. It’s his favorite style of execution. He likes to shoot between the eyes, but when his men follow orders, they do it the dishonorable way, by not looking the person they’re killing in the face.
“I managed to sweep the place before the police got there,” Adrian continues. “There was no sign of a computer or laptop. All his equipment had been cleared out. If Mukha had made a hard copy of the file, whoever got to him took it.”
I grit my teeth. “In other words, it’s a dead end.” Literally.
“Pretty much,” Adrian says with resignation. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not for now.” I push away from the desk and stand. “Keep your ear to the ground. If you happen to stumble upon anything useful, I want to know about it.”
“I’ll do that,” he says before ending the call.
Fuck.
I slam a hand on the desk. Mukha was my only lead to what’s brewing with Stefanov. There’s still no sign of Besov. According to the man who’s watching his apartment, he hasn’t returned home. That leaves me with one alternative—a last resort. I’ll have to get the information from Stefanov himself. I’m not opposed to the idea of torturing the motherfucker, but I won’t be able to trust the filth that comes out of his mouth. I was hoping to have the information before taking him on. If he’s going to such lengths to hide it, there’s a good chance he may not spill the beans even when I pull off his fingernails one by one.
