In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(12)

She hadn’t had the courage to tell her friends about the Illuxit job yet. She cringed from the thought of telling Rachel, but there would be visits, and Skype. Her friends had saved her and sheltered her, and she loved them for it, but they continued to see her as a vulnerable child. They’d never understand that she was an adult until she broke away.

The Illuxit job was a bolt from the sky. It knocked her a few spaces ahead on the playing board, the game being to stop the filthy scum who kidnapped vulnerable people, used them, and tossed them. She would pound those bastards into powder. Rinse them down the drain with a high-pressure hose. She wasn’t afraid of death threats.

Truth to tell, she was more afraid of Sam’s kisses.

You don’t have to be afraid of me. Right. She squeezed her legs together around the buzzy throb of arousal. She’d been off balance since the day she met the guy, years ago. He’d been trolling for info with a stack of grisly photos, intent upon his task of finding killers and bringing them to justice. At which, from all accounts, he was very talented. Intuitive, relentless. A good detective, like her father had been.

She’d tried so hard to hate him for it. It just wasn’t working.

Her phone rang. Her heart thumped as she jerked it out.

No. Not Sam. Hazlett, her benefactor, boss, and brand-new friend. The one who had pushed through the nomination for the Solkin Prize. He was an attractive man, who was showing all the telltale signs of being interested in her. Like she needed any more of that right now.

She was half-dizzy with disappointment, but she put on her game face and hit ‘talk.’ “Good evening, Mr. Hazlett.”

“I’ve begged you to call me Michael,” Hazlett replied, his deep voice jovial. “Is this your subtle way of keeping me at a distance?”

Um, yes, actually. “No, it isn’t. I got Nadine’s e-mail, with the ticket. I told you that economy class would be fine, remember?”

“Allow me to treat you, Svetlana. You deserve it.”

“That’s not the issue,” she said. “Donate the difference in price to an anti-trafficking nonprofit, if you want to make me happy.”

“I do want to make you happy. And I will donate that money to the nonprofits, many hundreds of times over, I promise. And guess what—I’ll still put you in first class, given the opportunity. Sorry.”

She gritted her teeth. “But I don’t need—”

“That’s the freshness of youth talking,” Hazlett said with a chuckle. “In twenty years, you’ll treasure that leg room, believe me.”

She exhaled. “Michael,” she said slowly. “Don’t condescend.”

“Oh, never. Just joking. And I’m so glad you’re calling me Michael. So, how was the wedding?”

Incendiary. Mind blowing. Outrageous. Orgasmic. “Ah . . . lovely.”

“I wish you had been with me here in New Delhi,” Hazlett said wistfully. “These pompous blowhards at the seminar could have used a dose of distilled reality about human trafficking like only you can give. It’s so satisfying, seeing people’s faces change when you do your magic.”

“I wish I could have gone, too, but I—”

“Certainly you couldn’t. I understand completely. A friend’s wedding takes precedence. I stand rebuked.”

“I’m not rebuking you!” she protested, flustered.

“Of course not. I’m glad to know that you have your ticket. Forgive me for insisting on first class, but I can’t help myself. I can’t wait to see you in San Anselmo. Bon voyage, Svetlana.”

She got through the rest of the pleasantries somehow and closed the call, red-faced and smarting. Feeling clumsy and stupid.

Sam shoved her off balance, too. He rattled her cage, melted her into hot, mindless froth. But he never made her feel stiff or humorless.

The cab was almost home. Soon, she’d peel off that dress and all the fantasies that went with it. She’d bought it for the gala in Italy, and decided at the last minute to wear it to the wedding, too. The rum breezers brought over by her upstairs neighbor Paul last night were also partly to blame. It was so easy to rationalize, with alcohol in her system. A single girl had no business not looking her best, Paul had sternly lectured her. She should look smoking hot at all times, particularly at a wedding.

And Sam would be there, looking at her. She’d been so busy not allowing herself to think that thought, it had filled her consciousness.

The minute he’d actually seen her, she’d wanted to run and find a blanket to wrap herself in. The piercing intensity of his eyes, the vast heat blazing out of him. It crept insidiously into her secret places from across the room, making her shiver and melt. And yield.

Sam looked different, with his hair yanked angrily back, his face so tense and thin. His jaw shadowed with beard scruff a shade darker than his hair. He looked grim, focused. Hard. But no less gorgeous.

For God’s sake, why? This was a guaranteed disaster. Of course, her improbable friends had pulled it off. Even the more problematic ones, like Tam and Nick and Aaro, and the McClouds, too. All of them were beating the odds somehow. Happy, in their own weird, particular ways.

But she was Svetlana Ardova, with a rattling crowd of skeletons in her closet. There was no more room in there. She was at capacity.



Josef rifled through the silky undergarments that lay on top of Svetlana Ardova’s open suitcase. The place had been stripped to nothing, furniture sold, books and pictures boxed up.