As he assumed the position that would give him maximum comfort over what might be a long period of time, while at the same time assuring maximum accuracy, he felt himself disappear, sinking and floating at the same time, cut off from the world, his entire being narrowed down to his finger on the trigger and eye on the scope.
It was the closest thing he knew to happiness.
This is where he belonged, he realized in a sudden rush of insight. This is what he was born for—the hunt. And what greater, more exciting hunt, than that of man?
How wrong he had been to want to go into business with Drake. Rutskoi wasn’t a businessman, not even close. Drake knew his guns but his real genius was in moneymaking. Drake would have made a fortune from whatever it was he decided to sell. Cars, real estate, stocks. It just happened that he’d started business in a godforsaken part of the world where weapons were the main commodity.
What the hell had Rutskoi been thinking? He’d been so eager to get out of the Russian army and out of Russia, he’d somehow convinced himself he was a businessman. Wrong. He was a hunter. That was his nature.
And—he finally understood—that was his future.
A 10-million-dollar contract would never come again, because there would never again be a target like Drake, not in this lifetime. Drake was an outlier, a black swan. Like Tamerlane or Alexander or Napoleon. His like would not come again for another hundred years.
But the world was full of targets. Thousands of them. Millions. Men standing in your way, blocking the path upward, men with knowledge that could hurt you, men who betrayed you, men who’d killed and needed killing in turn. The world was full of them and full of their enemies.
The world was not full of men with Rutskoi’s skill set. He was a genius with a rifle, and was one of the few military snipers who could take his skills out of the armed forces and not go insane. Hired killers were often unbalanced, a step shy of madness, highly unreliable, blunt tools.
Not Rutskoi. He was as sane as could be. Not a coldhearted killer, but a technician with a highly prized skill, which he was going to start selling very dearly to the highest bidder.
Once he took Drake down, Rutskoi would invest part of his 10 million dollars in a new identity and a luxurious home base, far from prying eyes, and send out the word that he was available, for a fee. Success and discretion guaranteed.
As his body settled on the carpet, his entire being settled into this new plan. It felt utterly right, as right as the rifle in his hands, his cheek at the spot weld, his eye on the scope. This was his destiny; he just hadn’t realized it before.
His sights settled on the mirrored surface of the floor-to-ceiling window of Drake’s living room, where they would remain until the end.
Once Drake stepped foot into his living room, he wasn’t leaving it alive.
November 22
Grace set up in the library. God knows there was enough room for her.
The light streaming in through a whole wall of floor-to-ceiling windows put her own small skylight to shame. Drake’s home was an environment she found conducive to work. Some invisible hand always lit a fire for her. The room was beautiful and utterly quiet. No one disturbed her. When she remembered to eat, there was always a trolley outside the door with delicious food.
She worked like a woman possessed. The violence of the attack at Harold’s gallery, the burning flare of sexual heat between her and Drake, the blossoming of tender feelings for him—all these things made their way from her soul through her fingers and onto canvas.
She lost herself totally in her work, at times stopping when she noticed her back aching, to discover she’d been painting for eight solid hours.
Drake secluded himself in his study all day, doing whatever mysterious things he did.
The day before, an elderly man had come and with quiet efficiency set up a makeshift yet highly professional photographic studio where she was working. He had a selection of wigs and glasses and was very adept at makeup. He must have taken a hundred photographs of her, in every possible permutation, some in which she barely recognized herself. Blonde Grace, brunette Grace, old Grace, studious Grace, slutty Grace…
Drake sat watching, impassive, as she changed personas, then quietly walked out the door with the man and didn’t come back to her until nightfall.
Each evening, he apologized for spending time away from her until she finally had to put her finger over his mouth and tell him to hush.
The truth was, she didn’t mind spending time alone. She was used to it, used to being able to dedicate herself wholeheartedly to her painting without distractions. And Drake was a huge distraction, in every way.
When he came to her, he filled her entire mental horizon. Everything was forgotten in his presence, as if he were this huge magnet that pulled everything in her to him.
The sex was almost frighteningly intense. She’d dreamed about someday finding a man she could be with, but in her daydreams, sex wasn’t that much a part of it. Truth was, the daydreams were puerile, like toothpaste ads, two people running in slow motion toward each other in a sunny field. Nothing like the dark, powerful, frightening, almost visceral tug between her and Drake. The sex in her fantasy—like those movie trailers for all ages—was bland and pleasant. Utterly unlike the mind-altering experience it was with Drake. Something that turned her inside out, turned her into a woman she barely recognized.
As if her thoughts of him had conjured him up out of thin air, there was a sharp knock on the door, and Drake looked in.
She put her brush in a solvent can and wiped her hands on a cloth, realizing that the palms had turned damp the instant she saw him. “Hi,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer, just walked to her. No, that wasn’t quite true. He didn’t walk, he flowed.
Grace, strength, power, it was all there in the strides. And it was totally subconscious. She had no doubt that when he wanted to intimidate, he’d be a master at it. His body—his entire being—exuded power and an ability to erupt into devastating violence at a split second’s notice.
But he wasn’t trying to intimidate her in any way. His walk to her was simply the walk of a powerful animal in its prime, moving toward something it wanted.
Her.
It was right there in the gleam in his dark eyes that never once looked away from her face, in his ground-eating strides, the intensity that surrounded him like an almost visible aura. He was even smiling as he took her elbow and sat them down on the couch in front of the fireplace, lifting her hand to his mouth. He meant the smile, but it somehow looked unnatural on that hard, somber face.
He kissed the palm of her hand and curled her hand in his fist. “I have some things to see to, but I don’t want to stay away from you too long. Will you wait here for me? I love the thought of coming back to you here, right here, surrounded by your paintings. As a matter of fact, I thought maybe we could eat lunch in here.”
As if she could refuse him anything. That strength wasn’t just physical. His will was like a force field around him, almost shimmering in its intensity.
“Yes. Yes, of course I’ll wait here for you, if it pleases you.” She reached out with her hand to touch his wounded shoulder. “You’re not overdoing it? You shouldn’t be resting?”
Just like that, like throwing a switch, his aura changed. Became pure, animal sex. Those dark eyes gleamed, thin nostrils flared. She felt it on her skin, as if an electrical charge had washed over it, striking sparks where he touched her.
He leaned forward to kiss her on the neck, lips warm, breath hot. As he spoke, she could feel his lips moving. “My beautiful Grace. I am fine. Please do not worry about me. I do not need rest, I need something else. When I come back, I’ll show you exactly what I need. In the meantime…” He nipped her earlobe and a shudder went through her body. He took her hand and lay it over his groin.
My God. He was huge, so hot the warmth punched through even the tough fabric of his jeans. He slowly licked her ear and her breath came o
ut in a shaky rush.
This must be life’s payback for having been so indifferent to sex all her life. She’d been like a locked door and it turned out that only this one man had the key. His mouth on her neck gave her goose bumps, made her back arch, giving him access to more of her.
As he licked her, dragging his teeth over her skin, her hand tightened around his penis. She wasn’t the only one affected by his mouth on her. Impossibly, as she ran her hand up the amazing length, his penis moved, thickened, lengthened even more. When she cupped her hand around the bulbous tip, discernible even through the jeans, his breath came out in an explosive rush of air that ruffled her hair.
“God,” he breathed. His big hand covered hers, trapping her hand over him. It wasn’t actually trapped, though. Her hand was more than happy to stay right where it was, feeling him moving beneath her. It was like touching a primeval source of energy. Strength, power, male potency. Her hand burned as the surges of blood rushed through him.
Each jump in her hand was met with a clenching of her internal muscles, an elaborate sexual dance she did only with Drake.
He licked her ear again, breathing slow and hard. His deep voice was low. “I need to go right now, or I won’t go at all. I wouldn’t leave you if I didn’t have to. But when I come back, I want you to remember what you’re feeling now.”
As if she could forget.
“Okay,” she whispered. She’d closed her eyes to concentrate on the feel of him in her hand and on what was happening with her body. She opened her hand and felt his lift from hers. He moved so silently she heard nothing. It was only when she heard the big door close that she realized he was gone.
Grace tipped her head back, eyes still closed, and simply concentrated on her senses. She’d ended up following Drake’s order and hadn’t put on any of the amazing collection of underwear she’d found in those boxes. The clothes she’d found had been exquisite, exactly the kinds of clothes she would buy for herself if she had the money.
The underwear, on the other hand…Well, wow. She’d never have had the nerve to buy what she found in those fancy boxes.
Bought on a tight budget, her underwear was plain, comfortable, white, stretchy cotton. A world away from the frothy silk and lace confections she’d found, incredibly sexy and revealing.
She’d pulled the lingerie from the boxes like Gatsby pulling out his shirts. No plain white cotton in these elaborately wrapped packages. None. Instead, all the colors of the rainbow.
Pink, lilac, pale yellow, taupe, teal, mint…the colors were simply exquisite. Every frothy piece looked delectable enough to eat. Bras, panties, teddies, silk-jersey tank tops, camis and tap pants and tee shirts and…slips! Whoever had done the shopping had old-fashioned tastes, because there were slips included. Grace had never worn a slip in her life. Her mother had never worn a slip. Slips were things people wore long ago, in movies. While carrying long cigarette holders and exchanging witty dialogue with someone like Cary Grant in a huge white bedroom.
She was tempted, though, fingering the fine satin slips with the lace bodices.
In the end, while choosing between a teal La Perla bra and panty set with lace insets and a gorgeous satin cami and tap pant duo, his words had came back to her. Don’t wear underwear. The silk, satin and lace just slipped from her nerveless fingers as she remembered him touching her. Remembered the feel of his hands on her. And suddenly another layer of clothes felt stifling and constricting.
So she’d gone without these past days. Her nakedness wasn’t visible of course, under the cashmere sweaters and soft wool pants. But she knew, and so did he. She felt everything so keenly against her skin.
Grace concentrated on what her senses were telling her, right now.
The softness of the sweater was a caress against her breasts. She was slightly wet between her thighs from fondling Drake. Without panties on, the wetness was as tangible against the sensitive skin as a kiss of cool air.
It was hard to feel the danger lurking just outside, because against all the odds, right now she felt so very safe and warm. Not just because she was in a fortress guarded by a small army of men, but also because there was…Drake.
He was the reason she was in danger. He was the reason no one would harm her.
Sitting on that magnificently comfortable couch, head tilted back, eyes closed, listening to the roar and crackle of the fire, Grace pondered her situation.
It had been clear to her from childhood that there were forces loose in the world much more powerful than she was. Forces that were indifferent at best, and at times even hostile to her. She wasn’t a child anymore, and could to a certain degree defend herself, or at least take precautions. But by the same token she also knew she was not a powerful person, able to cut a swathe through life.
All she had wanted was to be left alone to paint; she asked for nothing more. And if that meant a life that was a little lonely, so be it. It was all she had asked for.
Even that, now, was taken away from her, in that same whirlwind that had blown her into Drake’s arms. She wasn’t powerful but he certainly was, in every way there was.
Denying it was stupid, fighting it wouldn’t help. She was in Drake’s hands. Completely and utterly.
It was a good thing those hands looked so huge and strong. And it was an even better thing that they were protecting her.
There was absolutely nothing she could do about any of it.
It was like a little surrender, there on the comfortable couch.
Twelve
November 23
A huge, complex mechanism was being set in motion.
There was some pain. Less than Drake would have thought, but still. After all, he was destroying a lifetime of work, everything he had built since he was a homeless boy on the streets of Odessa.
Drake had spent the past twenty-five years becoming stronger, faster, bigger and more powerful than anyone else. He’d sweated for his empire, bled for it, killed for it. And now it was going to crumble like sand and disappear down a hole.
Drake had turned it over and over in his mind, wondering whether what he was doing was too drastic, but in the end it came down to a stark truth. He could keep his life as it was, or he could keep Grace, but not both.
As long as he headed his empire, there would be men wanting to kill him. Once word got out that he had a weak spot, Grace’s days were over. It wouldn’t even be a quick kill, oh no.
It was the most terrifying thought in the world.
Long ago, Drake had made his peace with the thought of his own violent death. It seemed to him to be the only way he could die. The only question was when. To a certain extent, the thought didn’t even bother him that much, he’d been used to it since childhood.
But the thought of Grace in the hands of mobsters who would use her to exact revenge against him—it drove him insane. He could scarcely stay in the same place as the thought. It hurt him constantly, a painful jolt to the chest, as bad as a bullet wound.
Most of his enemies had grown up in places where women were treated like cattle.
The images came to him in sharp, slicing flashes that were physically painful. Grace—tied to a chair while they pulled her fingernails out. Grace—hanging from her arms while they cut her to ribbons. Grace—bound to a table, gang-raped for weeks, dispatched with a knife across the throat.
As far as he knew, Drake didn’t have a neurotic bone in his body. He was a cold realist, through and through. Those weren’t hallucinations. Those images in his head terrified him so much because they were a possible reality. They weren’t horror images from some nightmare you wake up from, but images from this world, his world, one mistake away.
What stood between these images of a broken and bleeding Grace and a healthy, laughing Grace was him. His strength and power. If he did this right, Grace would live. If he did it wrong, she’d die a screaming death, begging for it.
Entering the library silently in late afternoon, Drake stopped. Grace was resting on the cou
ch, eyes closed, perhaps asleep. She’d been working nonstop these past days, producing remarkable work. Every once in a while she’d catnap on the couch in the library.
Coming in and seeing her on his couch made a sharp pain pierce his chest. For one terrifying moment, it felt like his chest was splitting open.
She was just so damned beautiful. All the other beautiful women he’d known and fucked—they vanished from his head like a cloud dispersing in a high wind.
Just look at her, he thought. Curled up on the couch, eyes closed, head tilted back.
The leaping fire loved her face. It washed the pearly skin with a pink glow, highlighted the high cheekbones, outlined the lush, full mouth. In the open vee of the sweater, the delicate collarbones cast tiny horizontal slashes of shadow. Her hair came alive in the glow from the hearth, the fire finding licks of flame in the shiny depths.
Everything about her was so delicate, even fragile. Those narrow, elegant artist’s hands were folded calmly on her lap.
Drake had once seen an Afghan warlord take a hammer to the small hands of a female servant who had spilled a little hot lamb stew, qorma, on his lap. Drake had been unable to stop him since they were in a room full of the warlord’s armed guards.
Later, it had been Drake’s distinct pleasure to find that warlord’s gross, misshapen head between the clean crosshairs of his rifle and gently pull the trigger.
He sat next to Grace, carefully, not wanting to disturb her slumber.
She wasn’t sleeping. She turned her head toward him, then opened her eyes. They gleamed like fragments of the sea in the penumbra.
He touched her face lightly. “Did I disturb you? I didn’t mean to.”
“No.” Her lips curved slightly. “I wasn’t asleep. I was just—thinking.”
His heart gave another painful hammer blow in his chest, only this time not with longing.
“What—” His voice was slightly hoarse. At some point, she was going to come to the realization that he had ruined her life. “What were you thinking about?”