The gate clanged open again and one of Worontzoff’s cars, a Mercedes, drove through. Nick whipped around, watching the car as it drove in. He could barely make out a small, pale figure in the back.

Jesus. Charity.

He broke out in goose bumps, angry that they’d had this half-assed idea of wiring her up and sending her into the lion’s den, scared shitless that something bad would go down.

The big black car disappeared from sight, but he could envision her getting out and walking up the big stone stairs.

A few minutes later, Nick heard a soft knock on the study door. They watched on the monitor as a servant spoke softly to Worontzoff, who said something back.

Nick’s blood ran cold when he heard Alexei’s translation in his headset.

“Bring her in here.”

It was strange walking into Vassily’s home, now that she understood who he really was. She’d been here often, mainly to his soirées, when the big beautiful mansion was filled with people. A few times for tea, with just the two of them, but what seemed like an army of servants hovering in the background.

Now, the big building seemed dark and deserted, a place of danger, not delight.

All winter, she’d loved visiting Vassily. Each time she entered the mansion, it was with a little frisson of excitement, not the shudder of fear and horror pervading her body right now.

Now she knew what he was and what he saw in her. All those long, soulful conversations, the heartfelt talks about books and music—it had all been false. Vassily hadn’t been conversing with her, Charity, but with his long-lost love.

And now that she understood where the money came from, the sumptuousness of Vassily’s home made her queasy. Perhaps it was because she was so depleted, had been through such wringing emotions over the past couple of days, but it seemed to her that Vassily’s home gave off evil vibrations.

She’d never come alone after dark before, without it being a social event. The other times, the mansion and the grounds had been lit up like a Christmas tree, with servants everywhere. Now the mansion was dark, the only outside lights over the porch, leaving the big lawn and the grounds in darkness.

The big black car slid to a stop at the big stairs leading up to the porch. The driver got out and opened the back door. He hadn’t said a word coming here and he didn’t say a word now. He simply held the door open, staring into the far distance.

With each step up the big staircase, the sense of dread increased. She could feel her heartbeat, slow, thudding. It took an effort to move her feet, which felt as heavy as lead. The very air felt dead.

The temptation to look around, to see whether Nick and John Di Stefano were around, was almost irresistible. It would make her feel so much better walking into the dark, forbidding mansion to know that two federal agents were close by, one of them Nick. Whatever would happen to them once this was over, Charity didn’t doubt for a second that Nick would defend her with everything he had.

She also knew that there was a SWAT team somewhere out there, in hiding.

They were good at their job, because she had no sense of protectors being out there at all. She felt alone and small and defenseless, climbing those stairs, palms slick with sweat.

Before she could even ring the chime, the big front door opened. There was almost total darkness beyond, unlike all the other times she’d walked through this door, lit to daylight brightness by the huge chandelier in the foyer.

It wasn’t on now. The only light came from a few lamps on in the big living room at the other end of the foyer, where she and Vassily had spent hours chatting. Her heart squeezed in pain at the thought.

She automatically headed for the living room, when the servant who’d opened the door touched her arm briefly.

“This way, ma’am,” he said, and indicated the study door.

Charity frowned. She’d never been in Vassily’s study. Why did he want her in there now? She approached the study door slowly, heart pounding. The microphone felt like a hundred pound weight between her breasts and she was certain the microcamera was as visible as a red flare.

The servant opened the door and Charity walked in slowly, feeling as if she were going to the guillotine. She wished she’d worn her black turtleneck sweater because she was absolutely certain her trip-hammering heartbeat was visible in her neck.

There was utter silence in the room, five male faces turned to her. Her boot heels sounded loud in the hush of the room.

Vassily’s study was much larger than she’d imagined, almost the size of a ballroom. This being Vassily, it was lined with books, floor to ceiling and, being Vassily, he’d probably read them all. As usual, a fire burned in a hearth even larger than the one in the living room. The huge room was luxurious beyond anything she’d ever seen, with priceless Persian rugs on the flagstone floor, an enormous mahogany desk polished to a high sheen, large pieces of antique furniture barely visible in the gloom. Crystal and brass and silk.

All the light was concentrated around the desk. And on that desk was an open suitcase. It took her a second to recognize what was in the suitcase, it seemed so outlandish.

Money. Money was in the suitcase, brick after brick, tightly packed, overflowing. It must have been millions of dollars. More money than she would ever imagine could be in one place at one time.

Startled, Charity’s gaze flew to Vassily’s. He was watching her carefully, that burning light in his eyes. Charity had no idea how to react. Clearly, Vassily wanted her to see all this money, but why?

It was dangerous, to him and to her.

If she’d harbored the slightest little doubt that Vassily was a criminal, this suitcase shattered that doubt. No one but a criminal could possibly need to handle so much cash.

Vassily was watching her feverishly, expectantly. He knew she’d seen the money. What was she supposed to say? Charity felt the danger in the room, so acutely she felt faint.

She looked around at the other four men. Vassily might look at her with affection—at least until he finally realized that she wasn’t Katya—but the other male faces were watching her with hostility.

Particularly one man, dark with silver-gray hair and harsh-set features. When she met his gaze, her heart jolted at the black, fathomless hatred she read there. It came off him in sickening, dark waves.

The terrorist. Oh God.

Nick had said that the mike wouldn’t pick up her heartbeat, but it seemed impossible to her that it wasn’t. Her heart was trying to beat its way out of her chest.

“My dearest Katya,” Vassily said softly. He was standing to one side of the desk, leaning on his cane and staring at her, as if the open suitcase packed with money weren’t there. “Come to me, my dushka. Give me a kiss and then go wait for me outside. We have much to discuss.”

Charity was rooted to the spot, throat too tight for words. There was something terrible in the air, some evil presence just ready to reach out with claws and rake her. The very molecules in the air were screaming danger. Her skin prickled with it.

Vassily wasn’t moving. He simply watched her with glittering eyes. “Come, my dear,” he said again, and held out his arms, elegant black cane dangling from one ruined hand.

She had to do this. Simply had to. And then she was going to plead a headache and never come back here again.

She wasn’t built for undercover work. It felt like her entire body was signaling that she was lying as she slowly walked forward, knowing that Vassily was going to embrace her, knowing that she couldn’t flinch, knowing that she would.

The dark man watched her progress with ice-cold eyes, then turned to Vassily. “Is this necessary?” His voice was harsh, guttural, with a strong Middle Eastern accent. “She is an outsider. She has no business being here.”