Of course, Nick would have to break cover twice to warn her off—he’d have to reveal his real identity and reveal the nature of the mission.

Men had died rather than break cover on a mission. Keeping the code was the closest thing to a religion Nick had. What Nick was doing was off the charts. He knew it, but was helpless to stop himself.

Big bad Iceman, so out of control he couldn’t travel more than thirty miles from this spot.

It was like being on a runaway train, headed for the gorge with the bridge out. He was known for his icy self-control, but right now, someone else in his head was handling the controls and levers in the engine room. “As soon as that fucker leaves, I’m going in.”

Di Stefano’s sharp indrawn breath sounded loud over the cell phone. “No way,” he growled. “You most definitely are not. Are you crazy? What the hell has happened to you? You’re going to toss this mission right down the toilet. As soon as Worontzoff figures out she knows something, it’ll all come crashing down.”

His voice sounded tinny, far away. Certainly too far away to change Nick’s mind. Yap, yap, yap. Nothing Di Stefano could say would affect his decision. The second he’d made it, it felt right. He had to go in and convince Charity not to go to out tonight.

He could see it clearly—the divide, the fork in the road. He did one thing and this happened. Another and that happened.

He’d walk into Charity’s house right now, take her into protective custody, tuck her away in a safe house until they got the job done. Once Worontzoff was put away, he’d go back for her.

Oh yeah. She’d be pissed at being lied to, but bottom line—she’d have a pulse.

So that was Option One.

Option Two.

He did nothing—simply crouched out here behind Charity’s garage, listening to her cry and throw up, then listen to her get ready to go out and hook up with a known mobster. Worontzoff would make his play, thinking to get his Katya back in his bed and discover that Charity wasn’t his long-lost love and had no intention of warming his bed.

Nick had no problems whatsoever envisioning identifying Charity’s body on some slab in the local morgue. He’d done it often enough and he knew that Russians could get real creative with women and a knife.

Every cell in his body was screaming for Option One, the clearest hunch he’d ever had in his life.

Unless, of course, Nick Ireland’s famous hunch machine was completely broken, crushed and charred just like the bones in the coffin with his name on it, six feet underground.

Nick hunkered down, watching Charity’s road. As soon as he saw Worontzoff’s limo and driver appear and Worontzoff depart, he’d make his move.

It was the smart thing to do, the only thing to do.

And if it also meant that he’d see Charity again, hold her in his arms again, well, hey…a twofer.

Whatever went down, though, one thing was sure. Charity was not going out tonight to a murderer’s house. To prevent it, he’d die. And he’d certainly kill.

Twenty-one

“Excellent,” Vassily said, pale eyes glittering. “I knew I could count on you, dushka. It is meant, my dear. Never tamper with fate; you will only get hurt. It is one of life’s harshest lessons.”

He put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulders. His voice was louder than usual and his arm around her was so tight it almost hurt. There was something odd about him, something almost feverish, so unlike the normal, coolly rational Vassily Charity knew. She wondered if he were ill, coming down with flu.

He was holding her so tightly his fingers bit into her shoulder. Charity breathed deeply, thinking perhaps that would discreetly dislodge his hand, but it didn’t work. It only made his grip more painful.

There was the strangest vibe coming from Vassily—it was as if he were…excited. Or worked up, or overwrought. It felt as if he were losing his grip on himself. His breathing was speeded up. She could feel his rib cage rising and falling against her side, so quickly he was almost panting. He looked agitated, restless, and fitful.

If she’d felt any better, she would have inquired after his health. He was a friend, more or less the same age her father would have been if he’d lived. Certainly her elder.

It would be the polite thing to do, after all, for polite Charity Prewitt. You could always count on her to do the right thing.

Not right now, though. She wasn’t going to do the polite thing, be the nice little girl who’d been well brought up in a nice family. The fact was, she was barely holding it together—utterly depleted, rendered down to bedrock herself, clinging to the shreds of her self-control by her fingernails. She could barely stand upright. The last thing she needed was to deal with Vassily’s agitation.

What had possessed her to accept his invitation? Where would she find the strength to go out, when all she craved was solitude and the dark?

And it was entirely possible she was coming down with the flu herself. She’d thrown up three or four times between yesterday morning and this morning.

Right now, there was nothing left in her to give to Vassily, sick or not. She was down to scorched earth.

“Vassily—” Charity tried to gently pull away from him, but found to her astonishment that it was almost impossible. He’d put his other hand back on her knee so that she was effectively pinned down. Or at least that was what it felt like.

He wasn’t doing it on purpose, she was sure. How could he know he was hurting her? But he could certainly know he was crowding her.

She stood. It was the only thing she could think of to break Vassily’s grip and start getting him out of the house. She craved solitude the way an alcoholic craves a drink, an addict a fix.

Deeply, desperately. Like she would die if she couldn’t get it right now.

Vassily stood, too. Charity didn’t see him do anything, he certainly didn’t pull out a cell phone or make a gesture, but the instant he stood, she saw his limousine pull up out front, long and sleek and black. The driver stopped precisely at the point where the passenger door met her walkway.

Vassily walked slowly to the front door, helped along by his cane, elegant, controlled, limping. Charity accompanied him, hoping her legs would hold out at least until she could close the door behind him. She was close to total collapse.

Vassily turned to her, pale blue eyes staring intently into hers.

“Ivan will pick you up at six, my dear. Until then—” He reached out a scarred finger and caressed her cheek. It took all her self-control not to jerk away. He dropped his hand and pulled on gloves, looking around for his hat. Charity picked it up and brought it to him. The felt wool was thick, of excellent quality. He donned his hat, never taking his eyes from her.

“I will see you tonight, dushka.” His gloved hand picked up hers and he bowed over it. “À bientôt, cherie.”

Charity withdrew her hand and reached around him to turn the doorknob, something he would find difficult to do. “Good-bye, Vassily.”

He moved excruciatingly slowly. Out of politeness, Charity stood behind him in the open doorway, freezing. The gelid morning air sent painful frozen fingers of ice deep into her bones. She tucked her hands into her armpits in a vain attempt to keep some warmth in her system.

Very little light penetrated the slate gray cloud cover. It was almost too cold for snow. A few tiny frozen flakes tried to settle on the ground, but the wind whipped them into a frenzy before they could. Charity felt the ping of sleet needles against her cheek as she waited impatiently for Vassily to leave.

Finally, he was over the threshold, walking haltingly toward Ivan waiting at the top of the steps, his arm out. As soon as Vassily was safely in the care of his chauffeur, she scrambled to shut the door behind him, trying not to slam it in her haste to have him out of the house. Once she heard the snick of the latch, she sagged against the door, eyes closed. Panting, exhausted.