Chapter 25

Sheila Thompson nuzzled the side of Conley’s neck, her warm breath caressing him. He raised his chin to savor the smoothness. Her soft hair fell across his face. He closed his eyes in mock rapture. After all, they were…

Pretending.

He slid his hand down her supple back and let it rest on the rise of her hips. She was graceful as a ballerina, swaying as she ground against him. Hard to believe they were…

Acting.

Their disguises—she’d dyed her hair red and he’d grown a goatee—made him feel like they were strangers who’d just met, even on this third night posing as a couple hunting for the Paladin, the sex club that had threatened Victor Rodriguez. Third night—a Monday—trolling the sleaziest Boston couples bars they could find. Other couples danced toward them, spinning and drifting away like saucers in a teacup ride. The mirrored ball in Misty’s Tavern painted them with colored light.

The music stopped. They walked away from the dance floor and sat at a small table to wait for new couples. New propositions. She swirled merlot in her glass and watched the red tears run down the inside.

Thompson had a lot in common with Conley’s wife Lisa. Women of resolve, both of them used to getting their way.

So very determined.

Lisa and Sheila Thompson—the same.

But Lisa was all about career and Thompson would go to the wall for an abandoned little girl she barely knew.

So very different.

When it came to warfare, Lisa was the German army—and Sheila Thompson the Russian winter.

The gauntlet began.

Big Hair made the first run. Her mate trailed behind, a young dude with a jet-black mullet.

“Hey, you guys are new,” she said and thrust her breasts so far forward her halter top became transparent. She placed a hand on the back of Thompson’s chair.

“Only to you.” Thompson smiled, covering the hand with her own.

“Looking to party?” Mullet said in a voice so low Conley felt it in his chest.

“Sure,” Thompson said. “Let’s head for the Paladin.”

“Never heard of it,” the woman murmured and massaged Thompson’s arm and shoulders. “How’s a hot tub sound?”

“You know what?” Thompson said, shrugging the hand away. “We’re not interested after all.”

Cold wind howling across the Siberian tundra, so powerful it drives powdered snow back toward the sky.

Who would have guessed?

The couple stormed away.

The waitress approached for the third time in minutes. Persistent. Young. Plain black skirt. White dress shirt. Look-away eyes. Conley held his hand over his glass. Thompson shook her head. The girl hesitated, turned, and left.

A young blonde approached next, golden-haired like a Nordic princess. The body builder at her side did the talking.

“Hey,” he said.

Eloquent.

Thompson ran her hand along his rippling arm. “Sit down, handsome.”

The blonde was quiet as she took the seat next to Conley and pressed her thigh against his. Muscles sat next to Thompson and she stroked his arm as if he were a pet. He swung his face toward hers.

“We were just getting ready to leave. How about you?”

“Sure. Ever hear of the Paladin?”

“No.”

Thompson pulled her hands away as if they’d been burned, and leaned back in her seat.

“Buzz off,” she said and sipped wine. “Amateur.”

Vast, quiet steppes covered by cracked ice that looked like broken mirrors. Bare, bent trees that nature seemed to have forgotten.

Waitress was back, a nuisance.

Nothing was going right and time was wasting. Maybe the Paladin never existed. Maybe William had it all wrong. Maybe Sage was a liar.

“We wait,” Thompson said, and it was as if she had read his mind. “We wait because that’s what always works, doesn’t it? All things come to she who waits.”

He lifted his beer. “To those who wait,” he corrected.

She smiled. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help but smile back.

The waitress set a cocktail napkin in front of him along with a beer he hadn’t asked for. She set a full glass of wine next to the almost-full one Thompson held. The girl laid a business card in front of him and snapped the corner with her thumbnail before she left. A telephone number was scrawled on the back.

He turned the card over and looked up. The waitress was gone.

“Congratulations,” Thompson said. “Lucky stiff, Conley. You got a date. Maybe you didn’t need me after all.ˮ

He shook his head and showed the card to her. A wide border of scrolls and curlicues—red, purple, orange—surrounded bold letters that spelled a name—THE PALADIN.