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Authors: Christina Dodd

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BOOK: Chains of Ice
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“He
is
Chosen, and he needs help,” Father said persuasively. “You’d be doing him a favor.”

In business school, they’d trained the students to be logical, to look at the issues. So which concern should she bring up first?

That on her father’s urging, she’d minored in the Russian language in her undergrad studies—so obviously he, or
someone
, had been planning this for a long time?

That he’d promised the Gypsy Travel Agency she would “handle” this matter?

That he believed in the legend he’d taught her so many years ago, and apparently expected her to believe it, too?

But if she pinned him down, wouldn’t he grow angry or evasive like he always did when she tried to talk about their relationship?

She was such a coward. Her throat closed up every time she thought about confronting her father, and all because she was haunted by the sight of her mother’s back as she walked away.

Genny didn’t want to be alone.

So, hoarse with frustration, she said, “This . . . place, Rasputye, is a long way from Moscow. My Russian probably isn’t going to be appropriate for the area. He won’t understand me.”

Father’s eyes sparkled the way they did when he knew he was winning. “He’s American.”

“Is he violent?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t expose you to violence!”

She didn’t believe her father. Not anymore. She didn’t believe him about a lot of things. She wished she could, but she didn’t.

She hated it, but with the past six years of schooling, logic had made her turn a cool eye on her father’s legal problems and helped her realize . . . no one prosecuted his kind of white-collar crime unless they were sure of their facts.

He was guilty. He had stolen the artifacts, sold them for an obscene profit, and even now he couldn’t admit that justice had been done.

Her father was an unrepentant criminal.

Even now, a few artifacts—the ones that had been appraised for nothing, she supposed—rattled around their house.

“If this Chosen doesn’t want to come, what do I do then?” She knew Father would have an answer. He had an answer for everything.

“All they ask is a good try on your part.” His dark eyes gleamed. “But, Genny, you aced Negotiations.”

“I’ve got nothing to offer him, nothing to negotiate with.”

“You don’t know that until you meet him.”

Father wasn’t suggesting she sleep with this guy, was he? Even
he
wouldn’t prostitute his only child.

But he would offer her an irresistible gift to get her to do what he wanted.

He leaned forward, his tense posture matching hers. “If you do this, if they forgive your loan, I can move out of your grandparents’ home. With my help, you’ll get to the top fast. We could buy a condo in the city, live the way we used to, entertain, be important again.”

“You’re going to sell Grandma and Grandpa’s house?” Her grandparents had lived there as long as she remembered. They had lived there until four years ago when they’d died within six months of each other. The house had been his childhood home.

“It’s in the Bronx.” The way he said
Bronx
, he made it sound like a leper colony.

Then he saw her revulsion, and changed tack. “If you go to Russia, you’ll spend a whole summer with your lynxes. You’ll get to observe them in their natural habitat. They’re an endangered species, and you’ll help save them.”

Mountains.

Wilderness.

A deep, peaceful, soulful quiet.

The chill wind in her face . . .

She didn’t want to do this. It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. But . . .

Freedom.

“What else do you know about this gifted guy?” It was a surrender. She knew it. So did Father.

“What do you want to know?”

“Start with his name.”

He pushed the itinerary back across the table. “John Powell. His name . . . is John Powell.”

Chapter 4

Apasnee Airport
Ural Mountains, Russia

“T
hat man will make you believe he’s the yeti.”

Genny pulled her wheeled travel duffel off the airport luggage cart and wished the guy in the group by the door wasn’t so obviously projecting his voice so she could hear.

“He’s got hair down to his shoulders and a beard to the middle of his chest, and his clothes look like a sheepskin factory exploded all over him. He’s the Abominable Snowman, but not as cute and furry.”

The guy sported that short-guy cockiness. Personally, she would bet he whimpered when he got that tattoo around one wrist. He probably went in for both wrists and chickened out before the artist finished.

Or maybe he was marked because he was Chosen.

One corner of her mouth quirked in a smile, then drooped again.

Chosen. She didn’t want to think about them, about her father and the deal he’d made, and John Powell. She wanted to—needed to—concentrate on the Ural lynx and what she was doing here.

“The yeti’s got nothing on this head case.” Mr. Loud-mouth was American, obviously; a couple of years older than she, with a G.I.-surplus khaki shirt and reddish sandy hair cut into a long buzz that made his head look like a burr. His beard was exactly the same length and covered his jaw and chin, surrounding his freckled, pale-skinned face to create a monotone of color. In that overblown, dramatic tone, he said, “They say the yeti catches rats with his bare hands and eats them raw. They say he picks out a woman, watches her obsessively, then drags her away and when he’s done with her, she’s never interested in a man again.”

“For God’s sake, Brandon, do we have to listen to that claptrap again this year?” There were two women and four men in the group, and the woman who spoke was young, attractive, East Indian, with black hair cut neatly around her shoulders and dark eyes with sweeping eyelashes. Her English was precise, faintly British, with only the faintest Hindi accent—and perhaps, the fact that she towered over Brandon by a good five inches may have had something to do with her open impatience.

“Yes, and telling stories to frighten children is not why we are here.” The other woman had a heavy Russian accent and a heavier frown, which she bent on Brandon. “We are here to study the Ural lynx.”

“I know, but look. The last member of our group has arrived, and she needs to be warned.” Brandon grinned at Genny. “You would hate to be abducted by a big hairy beast, wouldn’t you?”

“Better than a short hairy beast,” muttered the East Indian woman.

With a pugilist’s quick reflexes, Brandon turned on her. “Are you trying to pick a fight, Avni? Already?”

“Shut up, children. I’m not listening to you fight all summer.” The Russian woman stuck out her hand. “Genesis Valente?”

“Genny.” Genny shook hands. “You’re Lubochka Koslov. I’m a big admirer of yours.”

Lubochka was middle-aged and attractive with pale skin, short dark hair, and dark eyes; six feet tall and big boned with swimmer’s shoulders and man hands. “Genesis, this is Misha Sokolov, my assistant.” She indicated a squat, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and dark, thinning hair. “He’ll work out your schedule and give you direction.”

“I’m honored to be accepted on your team.” Genny shook his hand.

Genny had used Russian language software day and night to prepare for this trip, but she didn’t need a translation for Misha’s grunt of response. She knew what that meant:
someone paid us well for the privilege.

Yes, someone had, the Gypsy Travel Agency.

And she . . . she would pay, too, when she found the Chosen and tried to persuade him to return to New York City.

But she shied away from that thought, ashamed that she’d so desperately wanted this adventure she’d been willing to agree to the terms. More than that, she was embarrassed because for those few minutes after her father had presented her with the itinerary, she had believed . . . believed her father wanted her to be happy. Buried so deep, she didn’t dare admit she felt the old, familiar hurt of knowing he didn’t care at all.

But although she suppressed a jumble of feelings, one floated along the top of her consciousness. No matter why her father had given her this present, no matter why she accepted it—this was three months of freedom before she began work to repair Father’s reputation and their finances. And nothing and nobody, not even Brandon the Short, was going to ruin it for her.

Lubochka continued the introductions. “Reggie Caverlock, English, first year here, but he’s a respected wildlife expert with many years in the field.” Lubochka’s brown eyes twinkled with anticipation.

“I’m Scottish, actually. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Valente.” Reggie had the accent and voice of Gerard Butler. Unfortunately, the face didn’t match up. It was a lived-in face, a face that had seen a lot in his forty years, the face of a sun-worshiper, a drinker, a smoker, and. . . . And then he smiled.

Genny caught her breath.

Oh, yes, he was a womanizer, too. His hazel eyes crinkled in the corners, his generous lips quirked cynically, and his lived-in face reminded her of . . . of George Clooney. Reggie Caverlock was a charmer who had seduced many a girl out of her panties.

“Good to meet you.” She tried to shake his hand. He kissed her knuckles.

Avni bumped her shoulder. “Don’t pay attention to Reggie. He’s a piece of work.” But she sounded affectionate, as if he’d already kissed her knuckles. “I’m Avni Patel, this is my third year here, and I guess my last. I graduated from Oxford this year and I’m going back to India to work in wildlife studies there.”

“We’ll miss her. Avni has been the best at catching and photographing lynx in daylight. They are seldom seen then, but she is able to remain so motionless, they don’t realize she is around.” Lubochka whipped around and glared once more at Brandon. “Unlike some people who fidget so much, we have only photos of the great cats’ hindquarters as they run away!”

“I have bad luck,” Brandon muttered.

Genny lifted her eyebrows at Avni.

Avni pointed at Brandon and rubbed her fingertips together suggestively.

He’d paid for the right to be here. So Genny wasn’t the only one.

Lubochka introduced him abruptly. “Brandon Lam.”

As Genny shook his hand, he squeezed it meaningfully. “I’ve been doing this two years. If you have any problems, you let me know and I’ll help you out.”

“Thank you.” Genny already knew she wouldn’t go to him if she was being attacked by ten yetis.

“Thorsen Rasmussen, an amateur observer so talented we invited him to drop in at any time.” Lubochka smiled at the tall, pale, thin Dane with obvious affection.

Avni stood behind them and rubbed her fingers together again.

Okay. So Genny needed to get together with Avni, because Avni was the one who had the goods on the team. “I need to use the restroom before we leave,” Genny said.

“Me too.” Avni picked up her battered suitcase and headed toward the sign.

Genny followed.

“Hurry up. We’re late already,” Lubochka shouted.

“I’ve got to go, too,” Brandon said.

“No, you don’t.” Lubochka snapped her fingers at him like he was a dog. “You help Misha carry the bags.”

In a loud, sullen voice, Brandon asked, “What is it with women having to go to the bathroom together?”

“It’s so I can tell her what a snot you are, you little pipsqueak.” Avni projected her voice, too; then she and Genny hustled into the chipped, bare, utilitarian restroom.

Genny looked around and grimaced.

Avni laughed. “Europeans aren’t as fussy as Americans about their creature comforts, and the Russians are particularly hearty. Wait until you get to Rasputye. We’re at the inn, built before the 1917 Russian Revolution. It makes this look like luxury. Did you bring toilet paper?”

“Camper’s TP.” Genny took one open stall.

Avni took the other. “Guard it with your life.” She lowered her voice and talked fast. “The walls are thin everywhere in Russia, so always figure someone’s listening.”

Genny looked around uneasily. “Got it.”

“Here’s the deal. Lubochka will accept anyone on the team if they pay for the privilege. She’d make a pact with the devil himself to save even one of her lynxes. But she is absolutely uninterested in the team except as employees and fact-gatherers. She’ll throw your ass out if you don’t perform. Brandon had to pay more this year than last to come back because he’s such a loser.”

“Like how much?” They were both chatting quickly.

“I don’t know for sure, but I just finished my degree in wildlife studies, so I’m trained to the job; plus I’m good at what I do, and my father had to pay twenty-five thousand for me.”

“Twenty-five thousand dollars?” Genny was horrified. “American dollars?”

“American dollars,” Avni confirmed. “How much did it cost to get you here?”

“I don’t know. It was a graduation present. But do you think it was more than twenty-five grand?”

“I don’t
think
. I
know
. I listened in on a little conversation between Lubochka and Misha and twenty-five is the least they’ll take, and for that you have to have training and/or experience.” Avni flushed the toilet. “So they may have taken Brandon the first year for twenty-five because he’s got the degree and experience in wildlife observation. But the little jerk doesn’t need employment—”

“Wealthy family?” Genny had to jiggle the handle to make it work.

“And big trust fund.” Avni washed her hands in the rust-colored water. “So he goes from study to study being a pain in the patootie until they decide he’s not worth whatever he’s paying them. Which is a bundle.”

“What about Thorsen? He’s an amateur, too.” The water was gritty. The bar of soap was yellow, old, and cracked. Genny was glad she didn’t bite her nails anymore.

“He’s good at observation—plus he writes a big check every year to the cause, so he can do no wrong in Lubochka’s eyes. In the last two summers, he came through at least once a month and stayed a few days every time. He usually comes in his helicopter.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

As they headed for the door, they clearly heard footsteps, a zip, and a guy on the other side of the wall using the facilities.

“See? Thin walls.” Avni headed into the airport lobby and then out the door into the chilly sunshine. “It’s a four-hour drive to the village on lousy roads that just get lousier. Don’t drink anything—they won’t stop. There aren’t any seats in the vehicle, so try to catch some sleep or you’ll get carsick.”

Genny stared at the faded yellow sixties Volkswagen van parked in front. “I already feel a little sick.”

Avni followed her gaze, and laughed.

Lubochka sat in the driver’s seat revving the engine. Its muffler was a long-ago memory, and billows of blue smoke belched from the tailpipe. Misha sat beside her, polishing his glasses and looking irritable. The windows in back were held shut with bungee cords, and inside, they could see the men moving bags around.

“Look at it this way. Once you get to Rasputye, nothing else can be as horrible.”

“Not even the yeti?” Genny waited for Avni to laugh again.

Instead, she shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m not going to admit it to Brandon, but the guy is scary.”

Taken aback, Genny said, “You mean there
is
a yeti?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen him come into the inn for his mail. The villagers are all scared of him. He’s a hermit, and he’s got, I don’t know, PTSD or combat fatigue. Or he’s just plain crazy. The guy is
feral
.”

“Feral? What’s he done?”

“He was in some kind of Special Forces unit, and he went nuts and killed his whole group. They say he’s violent. I know for a fact that thing about the women is true.”

“What thing about the women?”

“He gets in the mood where he wants a woman. He picks one out. And he watches her, stalks her, takes her to his cabin and he . . .” Avni waved a helpless hand.

“He
rapes
her?” Genny was more and more horrified.

“No! No. Wow. No. Apparently not.” Avni’s eyes gleamed. “No, he seduces her. Gives her the best sex in the history of the world. When he’s done with her, other men just don’t measure up.”

BOOK: Chains of Ice
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