Wild Men of Alaska Collection - By Helmer, Tiffinie Page 0,117
shower’s glass door. She smirked, wondering what he’d think of her making herself so at home in his bathroom? Not that it would matter. She wouldn’t be here long. She had a stash of supplies in her backpack up on the mountain.
The sweater was roomy and warm. She used his comb and left her hair to dry down her back. Time was up. She reentered the bedroom to find Sergei lying on the bed, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, reading a book. She doubted he was reading. He’d better not be reading. That meant he wasn’t worried about her in the slightest.
The man had better worry.
Sergei’s breath caught at the sight of Kate. No makeup, her deep red hair wet down her back, wearing the soft green sweater that did amazing things to her porcelain skin. Her eyes gleamed like cut stones. She looked soft and cuddly, fresh and beautiful. And dangerous. He wanted to gather her into his arms and tumble her down onto the bed. Stay with her for days, weeks, loving every inch of her. He hadn’t had enough time with her last they were together in a bedroom. He doubted a lifetime would be enough time to learn all that he wanted to about this woman.
He climbed off the bed, and didn’t miss her need to take a step back. Good.
He made her nervous.
How about he make her a little more nervous?
“Come.” He walked through the bedroom door and headed down the stairs to the great room. She paused before following him. He knew he confused the hell out of her. She’d expected him to conduct their “talk” in the bedroom. There was no way he’d be able to concentrate on anything but getting her out of her clothes and into his bed if they stayed there. Best to move the conversation to neutral territory. Plus, she wouldn’t expect it of him.
He stoked the fire as she paced around the room looking at everything, all the while keeping him in her peripheral vision. She glided as she walked, and he found he could watch her all day.
“How long have you been living here?” she asked.
“Almost two years.” He set the red-hot poker back in the stand, seeing her eyes catalog his every move. He wondered how long it would take her to try and reach for the poker as a weapon to use against him? He hoped long enough for it to at least cool down.
“Why here, other than the obvious comparisons to Mother Russia?”
“I have no love left for Mother Russia,” he replied his voice cold. “But I do enjoy the fishing, the wildness, the freedom that Alaska offers me. Besides, your lower forty-eight is too damn varm.”
“Why no love for Mother Russia?”
He didn’t want to go there. “Answer me a question, Katja. Why has it taken you so long to find me?”
“So the picture was a plant.”
“A very good one, I thought.” Six months ago Cache Calder, the renowned photojournalist for World Events, looking for a “Where Is She Now” story, located Mel Bennett, and Sergei had made sure he’d been partly seen in one of the photographs that had made the magazine’s publication. No one else but Kate “No Mercy” Mercer would have the guts to come after him. He’d begun to lose hope she’d nibble on his bait, and had started to consider searching her out. Again, he asked, “Why so long, Katja?”
“Did you miss me?”
“Yes.”
She caught her breath, obviously expecting a sarcastic response to hers. She swayed right, away from him, as though retreating from his verbal tango.
He wanted to take her into his arms, lock her tight in his embrace. Press her body up against the wall, spread those long legs of hers apart, and lose himself inside her once again. His mouth watered remembering how they’d exploded together that first time against the slammed door of their hotel room.
Sergei waited her out, until she turned back around and regarded him with distain, those jade eyes narrowed with accusation. “Why did you kill Perry?”
Here came the questions she’d been leading up to. While he’d enjoyed the promenade, it was time to get to the party. “Because he hired me to kill you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Perry had hired Sergei to kill her?
Kate reached out and grabbed the edge of the bookcase shelf.
“I don’t believe you.” She straightened away from the bookcase and stood strong, though her knees wobbled in her borrowed jeans.