Chains of Ice (15 page)

Good ol’ Brandon. He had been doing his research. He’d found out about her father, and in a masterful stroke, he had used the information to undermine her.

He’d done a good job of it, too.

Everyone on the team had said the right things—that she wasn’t her father and they trusted her. But they didn’t meet her eyes. And when Lubochka took her aside, asked for the directions to the lynx den, and assured her she had thoroughly examined the photos and certified they hadn’t been Photoshopped, Genny’s mortification was complete.

Now she couldn’t wait to escape into the forest.

She groped her way through the dark
traktir,
slipped out the door, and stood staring upward at the stars. When her eyes had adjusted, she moved toward the edge of the village and into the forest. Shadows blanketed the ground, and she saw nothing, heard nothing, not a footstep or a breath, yet she sensed John’s approach.

He stopped a few feet away, a darker spot in the forest.

“John?” She reached out her hand.

He gripped it. “What’s wrong?”

She tensed. “Nothing. Why?”

“The earth, the trees, the animals are at peace, yet there is dissonance in the woods, and it emanates from you. What is it?” He squeezed her hand and repeated, “Genesis, what’s wrong?”

In the dark, in that moment, when she could see nothing, her senses expanded, entwined with his—and through him she absorbed the scent and atmosphere, felt the growing trees and the living creatures.

As she did, the turmoil inside her calmed.

Since her father’s downfall, she had faced worse slander and more dire situations than this. Out here, the ghost of her father’s disgrace wasn’t important. All that mattered was learning to know the forest as John knew it. All that mattered was the lynx and the owl, the elk and the bear. In a tone as dismissive as she could make it, she said, “Yesterday I had some trouble with Brandon. Don’t worry. I can handle this. I always do.”

He slid an arm around her waist, pulled her close.

Was he absorbing her emotions as she had absorbed his? Did he feel the increased beat of her heart, the way her temperature rose with his closeness?

His breath brushed her face, and his scent filled her head; she closed her eyes and wished for his kiss.

“Are you ready?” John whispered.

“Ready?” She was so ready.

Last night she had tossed and turned, suffering teenage-like angst, and once she did sleep, she had dreamed not about Brandon and his nasty little revelation, but about John. The dream had been lusty, illicit, politically incorrect—calibrated by her subconscious to keep her balanced on the edge of desire.

She cleared her throat, lowered her voice. “Yes. Yes, I am ready.”

“Tonight’s the night,” he said. “We will find our male lynx.”

Her heartbeat went into a skid.

Of course. What else would he mean? Among the other humiliations she had revisited last night was the knowledge that she had initiated that kiss yesterday.

He had embraced her, but he hadn’t touched her as if he felt any lust at all.

He had kissed her so thoroughly, she had been shaken to the core. But he had called the halt.

He had probably slept perfectly well.

She had not.

When he was close, she breathed in sexual tension. She fought the urge to pose, chest thrust forward, or put on makeup, or sew ruffles onto her down vest. It was embarrassing and humiliating to react with such primitive instincts to such a primitive man.

She had to get over this. Starting up the trail, she said, “You’re right. I feel it in my bones. Tonight we’ll find our male lynx.”

“I had trouble with the exposure. When I spotted him, it was completely dark. I was terrified my flash would go off. Then he moved so quickly I could only snap photos. Video was impossible.” Genny sat beside Lubochka in front of the computer, still so excited by the encounter she was talking too much, too fast.

Avni, Reggie, and Thorsen hovered behind, staring in rapt attention as the pictures came up on the monitor.

Misha was out on observation duty.

Every few minutes, Mariana wandered in from the kitchen, looked at the photos, looked at Genny, muttered some dark imprecations, and left again.

Two villagers sat in the corner, drinking vodka.

Brandon was hunched over a cup of coffee, back turned, pretending he didn’t care.

And nobody believed she had stolen
these
photos.

“Where did you spot him?” Reggie asked.

“His territory is outside the boundary of Nadja’s, and all around it, so I think we can safely say he’s her mate.” Genny pointed to the beautiful, isolated beast on the monitor. “Look at his coloring!”

“This is the first time we’ve observed this cat.” Lubochka zoomed in on the male lynx.

The big cat stared right into the camera—its white teeth bared, its whiskers flared, its eyes wide and menacing. Where Nadja’s face had been softened by motherhood, this animal’s expression, the epitome of danger and beauty mixed, clearly warned off trespassers.

“He reminds me of something.” Genny cocked her head, trying to place it.

“In India, in Madhya Pradesh, we had a tiger preying on a village.” Right now, Avni sounded very Indian. “He was lame, so he was coming in, dragging away women and children and eating them. Easy prey. I was there when he was trapped. We had to put him down or he would have gone back for more, but I tell you, he had exactly that expression in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid. He was angry.”

“Why would that lynx be angry?” Brandon turned on the bench. “He’s got a good life, roaming the forest, screwing all the female cats he can find.” He laughed, and looked meaningfully at Genny.

So she answered him, telling him things he already knew. “There are so few, we thought they were extinct. People who should be protecting them would do anything to hunt them down, kill them, skin them and sell their skins. Or capture them and sell them as pets to rich assholes.”

“Yeah.” Brandon’s eyes gleamed brightly.

And she realized—
he was the guy the poachers would sell to.

She really didn’t like him.

Her pity for him had vanished, chipped away by the day-to-day exposure to his smarmy remarks and lazy attitude. He was a little rich boy, a bully, with no morals and no strengths. Maybe he had had a rough life. Maybe his family was unfeeling or abusive. But like everyone else in the world, he had had choices. He didn’t have to be an uncaring jerk. That was the choice he made.

The door opened.

Brandon glanced, did a double take, and gaped toward the entry.

Lubochka did the same, and Avni.

The Russians stared and muttered.

John was here. He stood in the door of the
traktir
, his face in shadow
.
He blocked the afternoon light, a broad man with a football player’s silhouette and beefy hands that clenched and unclenched in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

Genny’s heart took a leap of joy. And then wariness.

Because . . . what had he come for? To see that she’d gotten back safely? To make sure she kept her promise not to speak of him? Or to claim her as only a wild man could, lifting her into his arms and carrying her away so that once more they could kiss and do all the things she’d dreamed about . . . ?

Hurriedly she turned her back.

Nope. She had to remember. He wasn’t interested in her.

So she could be casual.

Yet right now she strained to hear his almost noiseless footsteps as they moved into the room.

Mariana walked out of the kitchen, stared inquisitively. “May I help you, sir?” Then she did the same double take the others had.

Genny meant to keep her back to him. She really did. But everyone was acting so oddly . . .

Genny turned to face the room—and stood, riveted . . . by this guy who
wasn’t
John.

He wore jeans and a faded denim shirt and, most important, close-cropped hair and clean-shaven face.

Then he looked at her, and she couldn’t turn away from those clear blue eyes.

“Paul Newman in
The Long, Hot Summer
.” Lubochka kept her usual boisterous voice to a murmur.

“Brad Pitt in
Troy
,” Thorsen said softly.

Okay. So Lubochka was definitely not gay, and Thorsen definitely was. And everyone was speaking so quietly, they might have been in a place of worship, and standing so still, they might have been saluting the flag.

The yeti was gone, replaced with this guy who looked splendidly normal and American and . . . my God. Hot. John looked at home in a military haircut, and without that mass of hair clogging his face, Genny could gaze at his fine-crafted bone structure: the hawkish nose, the broad forehead, the olive skin molded over the strong jaw and cheekbones.

Actually, the truth was—Genny couldn’t look away.

This was the man in the photo she kept in her backpack. He wore his experience like a dark cloak. He paced across the floor, all his attention apparently on Mariana, but Genny thought he was aware of every detail in the
traktir
: who was there, what they were doing, how they stared . . .

“John, we haven’t seen you since early spring.” Mariana hurried toward him like a hostess anxious to deal with a surly guest.

“I had to come into Rasputye for supplies.” His voice was deep. He spoke slowly. He walked in, and he dominated the atmosphere in a way he hadn’t out-of-doors.

Genny thought perhaps it was because the room couldn’t constrain his size. Or perhaps he deliberately stalked rather than walked, glared rather than stared. He pinned the gaze of each person, one at a time, as he walked past.

But not Genny’s. His gaze slid past her, and she realized . . . she had been waiting for him to nod to her, speak to her, acknowledge her.

But no. He pretended he had never met her.

She deflated like a three-day-old balloon.

No one noticed, thank God. Everyone’s attention was fixed—on John.

Gathering her dignity, she turned back to the monitor.

Fat lot of good it did her. Lubochka was still watching John. Everyone in there was watching John. And his image was burned on Genny’s brain.

As a yeti, John had looked powerful, but the furs and leather had masked the details of muscle and bone that formed his body. He was built like a swimmer: massive shoulders and ripped arms tapering down to a slender waist. Then long legs with thighs as ripped as his arms. His body transformed denim into Armani.

“John, you look—” Mariana hesitated.

“Yes?” His voice was absolutely without inflection.

She changed her tone to match his. “You look well. Do you want your mail?”

“Yes.”

Curiosity tugged at Genny, pulling her half around in her seat.

Mariana dug underneath the bar, and came up with three envelopes of assorted sizes, all battered and with American postage.

John sorted through them, his expression brooding.

Mariana placed her hand on his arm. “They are still writing you.”

“Yes.”

“They don’t give up,” Mariana said.

“No.”

As he turned away, Mariana’s hand slid away from him.

“I’ll bet you could bounce a quarter off those abs,” Lubochka murmured.

“I’ll up your bid and bounce a silver dollar,” Avni answered.

“Really.” Reggie’s accent sounded quite stuffy and disdainful. “All this staring and muttering isn’t good form.”

“
He’s
got good form,” Thorsen said.

Lubochka pushed him and grinned.

“Only Genny’s had the taste and moderation to remember the elementary rules of civilization,” Reggie said. “She’s managed to handle any feminine reaction to Powell with complete restraint.”

If only Reggie realized his praise was unwarranted. Genny knew from personal experience that John’s lips were soft and full—but before the shaggy beard and mustache had covered their contours. Now she could see his mouth; and something about the color, the shape, the texture made her want to test him once more, to see if he really was as good at kissing as she remembered.

She was pretty sure if she took a vote, the women in this room—and Thorsen—would be willing to bet he was.

Walking over to the table, John dropped his mail. He sat down opposite Brandon. He pulled some crumpled rubles out of his pocket and put them down, looked at Mariana and raised his eyebrows.

Her surprise made her slow to respond. Then she hurriedly said, “I made
zharkoye
and bread. Do you want some?”

He nodded, picked up his mail, opened it, and read as if no one else was in the room.

Mariana rushed into the kitchen.

Genny refused to stare. Resuming her seat beside Lubochka, she said, “I figure he’s fifty pounds of solid muscle.”

Lubochka looked at her in a daze. “Fifty pounds? More like two hundred, two ten . . . Oh! The lynx. Right.” She examined the photo on the monitor. “Fifty pounds, maybe more.”

“I thought so.” Behind her, Genny could hear Mariana’s footsteps, the clink of the bowl and silverware as she set them in front of John.

“The cat,” Reggie said, “is in prime condition. I think the reason we’ve never seen him before is that he’s a young male just come to adulthood. He probably had to beat another male for his position of dominance and right to breed.”

“That’s very likely,” Lubochka agreed. But she kept glancing back at John.

Avni said, “When a handsome new male comes onto the scene, there’s a pretty good chance there’ll be a fight between that male and any ugly, undersized specimen lurking in the forest, and the handsome new male is going to win.”

Avni wasn’t talking about the cats.

Careful not to make a sound, Genny scooted her stool around so she could observe the room from the corner of her eye.

John ate the Russian stew with a hearty appetite, smeared the dark bread with butter, drank from his mug of beer, and sneered at the contents of his letters. At least, that’s what she thought he was doing. Certainly one corner of his mouth curled up and his eyes were narrowed on the page.

Across the table, Brandon watched him warily; and when John paid him no heed, Brandon smirked, then made faces, then scratched himself like a baboon.

Reggie shook his head in disgust.

Avni leaned against the wall and grinned.

Genny waited.

John caught sight of Brandon, and scrutinized him for a long, cool moment.

When Brandon realized he’d been caught scratching his crotch, the way he flinched almost started Genny laughing . . . except she wasn’t sure John wasn’t going to flatten him.

“You’re Brandon Lam,” John said. “The one who calls me a yeti.”

Avni let out an explosive laugh that changed to a fit of coughing.

Brandon blanched. He glanced around accusingly, or maybe he was merely looking for escape. He looked back at John. “How do you know that?”

“You haven’t been quiet about it.”

Brandon clearly couldn’t decide what to answer . . . and keep his life.

Lubochka covered her mouth with her hand to hide her grin, and leaned back in her chair to enjoy the show.

“Brandon. Do I look like an abominable snowman?” John asked.

Mesmerized, Brandon shook his head.

“No. I don’t. So I could be unhappy about that kind of slander from a sawed-off shrimp of a guy like you. Couldn’t I?”

“Yes,” Brandon breathed.

“Yes. But I won’t take my revenge. At least—not right away . . .” John’s attention shifted back to his bowl.

Apparently that gave Brandon the courage he needed. “You look different. Did you get a deal on that haircut?”

John lifted his gaze again and observed Brandon with all the fondness of a cowboy boot for a cockroach.

Emboldened, Brandon asked, “Why did you do it? You got a girlfriend? Some hairy, yeti girlfriend you want to impress?”

Genny ducked her head and realized . . . her hands had involuntarily curled, and she held them protectively close to her belly.

What had made John shave his face? Had he picked out his new four-day playmate? Was he stalking a female with the intention of taking her to his cabin and using her to . . . to relieve his masculine desires?

Was that female Genny?

John put down his spoon. “Never doubt the yeti still lurks within, waiting to tear you limb from limb.”

Brandon’s oily amusement vanished.

The Russians in the corner guffawed.

Genny glanced up.

She wanted John to want her. She wanted to kiss him again, to take off her clothes, to press herself against his sculpted body and feel his pecs, his belly, his thighs. She wanted to hold his erection in her hands, measure its length and breadth, put it between her legs and accept him into her body. She wanted to do all those things, and at the same time . . . he was the perfect gentleman, nice and kind, helping her search out the lynx in the area so she could take photos.

Nice.
A blah word for what was obviously a blah sentiment . . . for her.

She cringed a little. Was he teaching her, showing her, because he felt
sorry
for her?

Reggie caught her eye and shook his head in disgust.

Genny blushed. How had he realized what she was thinking?

Then she blushed more. He hadn’t. He was disgusted about Brandon. Of course.

John picked up his spoon again.

Brandon rushed into speech. “These villagers say you’re here because of the crossroads.”

The two Russian men cast evil glances at Brandon.

He continued. “Because you’re some kind of freak that’s attracted to a mystical place that exists somewhere around here.”

John lifted his cold blue eyes to Brandon. He scanned the room, stared hard at the two villagers, who pretended to be blind and deaf to the scene. His gaze drifted over Genny without a sign of recognition. “What’s your question, Brandon? Are you asking if I’m a freak? Or are you asking if I’m here because of a mystical connection to the
rasputye
?”

John’s mild reaction lent Brandon courage. “I
know
you’re a freak. I just don’t understand why a decorated American would run away to this particular Russian piss-hole. I mean, if you need some woo-woo to cure whatever’s wrong with you—your PTSD or your crazy fits—Sedona, Arizona, is supposed to be the bellybutton of the world, and it’s one hell of a lot closer to home.”

Unhurriedly John reached out. He gathered a handful of Brandon’s shirt in his fist. He stood, and as he did, he lifted Brandon up and dragged him across the table.

Brandon kicked wildly.

The stew and beer went flying.

John brought him close, so they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. “I don’t want to cure my crazy fits,” John said with precision. “I feed on them.” Opening his fingers, he dropped Brandon.

Brandon smacked the table, fell off onto the stool, waved his arms to get his balance and lost the battle. The stool skidded out from under him, shot into the air, and he sprawled on his back.

The Russians chortled and slapped their knees.

So did Avni.

John kicked his stool aside, put more money on the table—“For the mess,” he said to Mariana—and walked out the door.

Brandon scrambled to his feet. He glanced toward Genny.

She pretended like she hadn’t noticed any of it.

No one else bothered to pretend, and Genny felt almost,
almost
, sorry for Brandon again—until he stomped up the stairs, kicking each tread like a boy sent for a time-out.