Dangerous Attraction Romantic Suspense Boxed Set (132 page)

This was perfect. He grinned at her.

“While you were asleep I got a call from the marina where I berth my yacht. They need me to sail it to another spot down the coast because they’re dredging the harbor today.” He checked his watch. “We can do that before I need to meet the builders at ten.

“Okay.” She yawned and stretched. ‘Oh, excuse me, I’m exhausted.”

“You’ve been through a lot. You need proper sleep.”

He had all the information about the new defense systems in his head. He was looking forward to his return home and a hero’s welcome to a country he hadn’t lived in since his early teens. A country he’d missed. His heart tapped lightly against his ribs and he touched his chest. Instinct told him it was time to run, and instinct had been keeping him safe for years.

Another fifteen minutes, and they parked in the secure marina and headed toward his twenty-seven-foot yacht,
Iris
. Named after his daughter, Axelle’s mother.

Her lips spread into a wide smile as she admired the sleek craft. “I’d forgotten how beautiful she is.”

Jonathon felt a thrill of pride. The boat was his one true indulgence. “All aboard.” He swept his hand in a gentlemanly gesture and Axelle hopped across the gangplank.
Iris
was always ready go. He paid a man to run maintenance every day just in case.

Just in case had turned into just as well.

“Go put the kettle on, we’ll have a cuppa as we motor around the bay.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Gramps. This is exactly what I needed.” She headed down the stairs as he primed and started the engines.

He cast off. He almost waved goodbye to the familiar coastline where he’d spent enough years for it to feel like home, but he didn’t. He hadn’t survived this long by taking chances.

* * *

Axelle found the teakettle and a big unopened bottle of water. Carefully she filled the kettle and put it on the stove. It was cool near the sea and she rubbed the sudden rush of goose bumps that spread over her flesh. The engine rumbled to life and she felt the boat start moving through the water at a steady chug. She hadn’t been sailing in years. Maybe she needed a break, although she’d better get her ass back to MSU before the end of the month to teach the rest of the semester’s course else she was in danger of losing that job too. She also needed to sort out Josef’s Ph.D., her own future research program, and see if there was any way of continuing her work with the snow leopards with other funding. But she needed this downtime after her ordeal and still needed to talk to her father.

The kettle boiled and she poured the water into a teapot complete with two requisite Tetley teabags.

She glanced around the comfy cabin. It wasn’t particularly fancy but it was fastidiously clean and tidy. There were a bunch of photographs tacked to one wall in the galley. She leaned closer, pulling off a photograph of her mother as a teenager and inadvertently knocking another couple loose. She dropped to her hands and knees to gather the pictures and hesitated. There was an old photograph, overexposed and faded, but it looked remarkably like the landscape she’d just left behind. Her grandfather as a young man stood beside a camel. Another much taller man stood on the other side, grinning at the camera. He looked vaguely familiar.

Footsteps sounded on the steps just as Dmitri’s words echoed in her ears.
Your blood owes me
.

“Where was this photograph taken, Gramps?”

Her grandfather frowned at her. “Morocco or Yemen maybe? I don’t remember.”

“It looks like the Wakhan Corridor.” She picked up all the photos and rearranged them on the board. “Who’s that you’re with?”

Her grandfather shrugged and a sense of unease roused inside her. “I don’t remember. Some tourist.”

Her grandfather had a photographic memory for names and faces. In fact, she didn’t think he’d ever forgotten a damn thing. Why was he lying? Or was he simply getting absentminded with age?

She poured the tea and took two mugs up on deck. Passed him one as he steered and she sat on the bench beside him.

The salt-laden breeze grazed her cheeks and her loose hair whipped around her face, blinding her. The enormous cross-channel ferries were coming in and out of port not far away. The white cliffs of Dover gleamed a toothy grin in the background. The sky was pale blue, the sea dark and brooding. She shivered and zipped her windbreaker.

“Do you fancy going on a little jaunt before we head back?” There was an excited light in his eyes. She nodded and he unfurled the sails, the boat surging forward as they caught the breeze. She wasn’t big on sailing, but this was his thing and chances were she wouldn’t see him again for another couple of years. It wouldn’t hurt to spend an extra hour at sea.

She hadn’t been a good granddaughter. She hadn’t been much of a daughter, either, come to think of it. Ever since Gideon had died she’d closed herself off to everyone except her leopards. It was time to make an effort.

She sipped her tea. Braced against the chrome railings she realized the swell was pretty big, and from what she remembered they were about to enter some of the busiest shipping lanes in the world. After quarter of an hour she checked her watch. “Hey, Gramps, we should probably head back else you’ll be late for your meeting with the builders.”

He turned his gaze from the horizon. “We’re not going back, Axelle.”

“What? What do you mean?”

His eyes burned with some inner fire. He seemed to be losing it. “I’m going home, back to Russia.”

“Russia?” A frisson of disquiet snaked along her nerves. He’d definitely lost his marbles, which was a bit of a blow because she didn’t know how to sail and they were zipping toward Denmark at a scary rate of knots. Damn.

“I was born in a small town outside Leningrad.”

“No, Gramps, you were born in Croydon.”

He smiled, his cheeks smooth and unlined, unlike the rest of his face. “That’s my cover story. You have an entire heritage you know nothing about, and now I’m going to get the chance to share it with you.”

Dmitri Volkov’s words echoed around her mind again.
Blood debt
. “I don’t want to go to Russia. I live in Montana. I have a job that I happen to love in Montana.”

“Because you’ve never been to Russia, never experienced the beauty of the land, the architecture, the people…”

He was serious.

A sense of dread stole through her body. “Gramps, have you ever heard of a man called Dmitri Volkov?”

A tight smile moved over his features. “We’ve met.”

Chapter Seventeen

“What do you mean you can’t isolate it?” She was in trouble. He knew it. The same way he’d known she was in trouble before he’d run into that bloody cave in Afghanistan.

Letting her die was not an option.

“Any luck finding her grandfather, this Boyle character?”

With Dmitri bundled off, probably to some black camp never to be seen again, Dempsey was going to have to rely on his instincts, colleagues, and twenty-plus years of experience fighting bad guys. He didn’t know if it would be enough. They had no idea where Jonathon Boyle was or if he
was
a spy, or if Volkov was lying to them. He’d been sent a picture of a handsome white-haired gentleman in a three-piece suit. The Metropolitan Police had raided the man’s two homes and put out an alert for his car. So far nothing.

Of all the possible scenarios this was the one he liked least. Jonathon Boyle in the wind—apparently with sensitive MOD information—thank
you
, Prime Minister—and being unable to locate Axelle.

She might not be with her grandfather.

There was also the remote possibility Axelle and Jonathon Boyle were working in collusion and acting against the interests of Great Britain and the US. Christ, he didn’t want to believe it, because the thought she might have lied to him hurt too much. Even though they’d made no promises to one another, it was one betrayal he didn’t want to contemplate.

He tried her phone again. It went straight to voicemail. “Hi, Axelle. I’m in the UK.” He paused, not wanting to leave a message that gave them away, not wanting to piss her off or scare her away with declarations of undying love or death-do-us-part adoration. “I’d like to see you again. Get in touch ASAP. Please?”

Taz snorted.

He hung up. “Fuck off.”

“They’re tracking her phone but struggling to pin it down.” Taz held up his hand, trying to hear his cell above the growing morning traffic. “Hold it. You’re sure? Get off the M25 next exit,” Taz told Baxter and closed his cell. “Someone in Signals tracked her cell to the middle of the English Channel. The police are scouring local harbors for Jonathon Boyle’s car because it turns out he also owns a boat.”

This kept getting worse.

“Coastguard is on alert. If Boyle is a Russian spy with important military secrets then they’re not going to let him get away.”

His stomach rolled. “We’re gonna need gear and a helo.”

“They’re sending kit down from London.”

It wouldn’t be fast enough. He knew it wouldn’t be fast enough. He looked out the window and spotted a small airfield with signs advertising parachuting lessons.

“Next right, Baxter,” he barked. He met the man’s eyes in the mirror and the amused glint in his eye as he jumped on board his plan.

* * *

“Volkov was the man who kidnapped me a few days ago, but you already knew that, didn’t you? He called you.” Axelle stared at him as though he’d grown scales.

“I couldn’t risk him exposing me after all these years.” He slumped forward, abandoning his rigid posture in an effort to appear more contrite. It hadn’t been an easy decision, for God’s sake, he hadn’t taken it lightly. “He said he wanted help for his family, but why now? I couldn’t allow him to get in the way of the greater good.”

“Whose greater good? Russia’s? This is crazy. It doesn’t make any sense.” She edged away from him. “Did you send the bombing raid?”

“No. No. But…” He shot her a glance. “It’s complicated.” How to explain? “Before Dmitri Volkov defected to fight with the mujahedeen, he was a member of Vympel—do you know who they are?” He met her intense brown gaze, which was now focused on him in growing horror.

“They’re an elite Russian Spetsnaz sabotage and assassination unit, akin to the SAS and SBS.” The morning sun poured over the white sails and shining hull with blinding brilliance. “In 1979 Captain Dmitri Volkov of the Red Army captured me and a man called Sebastian Allworth, in the Hindu Kush. He’s the man you asked about in the photograph below deck. Do you know who Allworth is?”

She shook her head. The skin around her mouth was white. The shock would eventually wear off and she’d come to admire the things he’d done. Respect his ingenuity. His guile.

“His son just became the British Prime Minister.” He smoothed back his hair with a manicured finger. “The British Government had people on the ground in Afghanistan, stirring up anti-communist sentiment—”

“I thought the Afghan government requested Soviet support?”

“The government did, yes. The people didn’t.” He hid his irritation. He’d warned Moscow to stay out of Afghanistan. He’d tried to sabotage the efforts of the Americans, but they’d instigated enough trouble to draw the Soviets into a conflict that had ultimately brought down the USSR. How sweetly ironic that the Americans were now battling it out in those same lands. The lessons were in the history books but people refused to learn.

“It was the height of the Cold War. Tensions between East and West were so fraught the smallest incident could have set off a nuclear war that would have been catastrophic for millions of people.” He saw himself as more a peacekeeper than spy. Pity the law wouldn’t think of it the same way if they caught him. A bead of sweat formed on his upper lip and he licked away the salty excess. Not far now. He’d activated the flash beacon to say he needed immediate retrieval.

“Volkov caught me in the Wakhan.” He gripped his age-spotted hands on the wheel. Axelle was looking at him as though she didn’t recognize him. As if she might tackle him, or throw him overboard. But she was a bleeding heart, like her mother. He was her grandfather and old to boot. She’d no more hurt him than he’d change sides.

“Volkov was about to execute me. I had to confess the truth about who I really worked for.” Anger warmed him even now, all these years later. “That was the only time I have ever been compromised.”

“What happened to Sebastian Allworth?”

“Volkov shot him.” Jonathon shrugged and looked away.

She laughed as if she thought him crazy. “So…what are you saying? You’re some sort of Russian spy?”

“The fact I fooled my own granddaughter suggests I must be a pretty good Russian spy, don’t you think?” He raised a supercilious brow. “I always thought it was a pity to be the greatest spy in history and not ever be able to brag about it.”

“My father would have known—”

“Why do you think your mother married a cold fish like Franklin Dehn in the first place?” His shoulders were stiff against the force of the wind. Against the unjust condemnation in this chit’s eyes.

“Are you saying Mama was a spy too?”

“No, no. But I maneuvered the two of them together often enough with access to alcohol and privacy, and”—he looked her up and down—” results were as expected.”

Her.

Understanding sucked the blood from her cheeks.

Franklin Dehn had been a rising star in diplomatic circles back then. Given the position he’d risen to he’d been an excellent choice. But Iris had died, and the antipathy her father and grandfather had felt toward one another had blossomed into open hostility.

“The bomb that killed her…”

He shrugged. “I don’t know who set it. Maybe Volkov, maybe some other nutter. They didn’t compromise my identity so I walked away a hero, especially when…” Grief grabbed him around the throat. He tried not to think about his daughter’s death. She’d been his princess even though she’d been strong-willed and defiant. He’d never told her the truth about who he truly was, and that had created a barrier between them. That barrier wouldn’t exist between him and Axelle. Not anymore. Once she was used to the idea they’d be closer than ever. She could write his biography and get rich on the proceeds.