Moving Target (Target #3)(22)

“There is nothing to fear. My home sits on a cliff, with views of the entire town. Only one way in by land.”

“You have to promise. Say it.”

I sigh. “I promise to do everything within my power to stay with you at all times.”

She snuggles into me again. “Thank you.”



We arrive in Praiano that evening. I found a replacement car in Milan, courtesy of Benjamin’s help. I think it drives even smoother than my former one.

“Would you like to eat or go straight to my place?” I ask.

“Is it safe to eat here?”

“Yes. No one knows I live here. I met Leonid while I was living at my house in Pecorile—another town on the coast of Italy. It’s eight hours northeast of us.”

Besides, I don’t know if the text is really from Konstantin. He’s only used that form of communication once before, preferring face-to-face meetings. There is every chance he is still searching for Chloe, while Leonid is working for an enemy of us both.

Perhaps he wants Chloe to use as leverage.

We pull into a small car park and get out.

I take Chloe in my arms. “We will only stay here for two days, and then take a boat to my private island under the pretense of a fishing trip. I have a house there. No one, and I mean no one, knows of it, not even my family.”

“Is there any place you don’t have a house?”

I have multiple houses because it’s much easier to hide money in real estate. “Antarctica. Too cold even for this Russian.”

“Har. Har. Har.” She looks me, the dark circles under her eyes telling. “Can we get something to go?”

“Yes.” I kiss her forehead, giving every appearance of lovers as people stroll by us. It’s not far from the truth since she was in my bed last night, and I intend to keep her at my side.

We make a quick trip of the getting food and extra supplies. Once we’re back at my house, I grab my second phone and text the man who keeps my island house supplied with everything I could possibly need at a minute’s notice.

He thinks I’m some rich British idiot, with more money than brains, and I am content with that impression. It’s actually quite hard to maintain for any length of time.

Besides, I pay him well enough to ignore my idiocy.

Chloe eats at the table in the kitchen while I pour wine for the two of us. Sitting across from her, I place our glasses between us.

“Great food.”

“The best in town.” I begin to eat as well. “Do you know how to swim?”

“Yes. I was a lifeguard in college. You?”

“Not a lifeguard, but yes. I actually enjoy living by the ocean. Swimming, snorkeling, and diving. Perhaps I was born in the wrong country?”

“Maybe.” She twirls the last of her pasta on her fork and eats it, then drains the glass of wine. “When you’re done eating, can you show me to my room?”

“I’d rather you sleep with me,” I say truthfully. “Not just for sex either.”

“To keep me safe?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Once I’m done, I begin to clear the table, Chloe helping me. She’s dead on her feet, but I appreciate her thoughtfulness. “You can sit. I’m almost done.”

“Okay.”

I dry the wineglasses and put them away. Turning to her, I hold out my hand. “Ready for bed?”

Her eyes are huge in the low light of the kitchen. She nods, her curly, black hair sliding forward.

“You can use the bathroom first,” I offer.

“Thanks.” She walks with me to the bedroom. “Your house is pretty.”

“I’m glad you think so. I bought the property as is, so I cannot take credit for the interior.”

She gives me a shy smile as we arrive at my bedroom door.

“I don’t expect anything from you. Tonight or any other night.”

Her hand comes between us, small palm flattening against my chest. “I’m not reluctant to be with you. I’m scared, Dima. I’m powerless and there have only been two other times in my adult life that I’ve felt that way. Once was when Mario died.

“And the other?” I ask hoarsely.

“When you sent me away from you in New York.” Her fingers curl. “I wanted to stay longer.”

“You were too young, and I had to leave. I had a life you could not be part of, dushka.”

“And now?”

“Now you have no choice, and I fucking hate that.”





13





Chloe



I can’t stop thinking about what Dima said to me last night before bed, about my not having a choice anymore. He blames himself, and it’s not remotely his fault.

Stepping outside, I find Dima drinking coffee as he leans against a concrete wall that is half his height.

“Your house has great views,” I say, carefully approaching him.

He turns to me, his cold eyes warming. “Would you like some coffee?”

“Not really a coffee girl. Gave up all caffeine years ago. Still drink tea. I don’t think that counts.”

He starts for the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I.”

“Why do you sound so English?” I ask and he stops, turning to look at me. “You said your father sent you off to live with Konstantin to learn to be… who you were, but when did you have the time to—”