Chapter Eighteen

Maisa clutched Otter to her chest and wondered if she was in shock. The terrier’s little body was trembling all over and he was panting worriedly. She petted him with hands that shook, trying to comfort both him and herself. She knew what Dyadya was—what he’d done in the past, the people he’d associated with, why he’d had to go into hiding—but it had never touched her own life so violently.

She’d never even heard a gun fired in real life before.

She took a deep breath, looking at Sam. He faced straight ahead, watching the road, his blue eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, the side mirrors, and back again. His expression was calm but his lips were thinned, and there were new lines on either side of his mouth. He’d shot at an SUV full of people with a sort of deadly calm that should frighten her, she knew. He hadn’t even been breathing fast. It struck her suddenly that he might’ve done this before.

Shot at people.

Killed people.

Jesus. The reality of Sam was so far away from what she’d initially thought it was almost funny. He wasn’t the all-white good guy she’d pegged him for. He had dark, murky-gray depths that ought to have her inching away from him.

Instead she found herself leaning toward him. Sam knew what to do. He could keep her safe. There was a part of her that wanted that from him—wanted it deeply. Wanted only to curl up close to him and let him protect her.

Not to mention that calm, capable violence was sort of a turn-on.

Maisa swallowed and looked down at poor Otter. She didn’t have only herself to think about. There was Dyadya, too. Sam was not her uncle’s friend.

He might be their enemy.

She had to keep a clear head. Fend for herself and her family, small though it was. Not let herself get drunk on testosterone fumes. “Where are we going?”

“To my cabin,” Sam said. She was right: he did know what to do. He glanced in the rearview mirror and she knew he was watching Dyadya. “Do they know where you live?”

“This I do not know.” She didn’t turn, but she imagined her uncle’s elaborate shrug. “Perhaps my house is no longer safe.”

“Hiding… hiding will not save us,” Ilya moaned. “He will find me and cut off my balls. It is what he does.”

Maisa turned to stare in horror at the little man in the backseat. He was huddled in the corner, as if trying to hide.

“Who?” Sam demanded.

“Jabba Beridze.”

“The mobster?” Maisa saw Sam’s hands tighten on the wheel. “He’s Vegas, isn’t he? What’s he doing in Minnesota? Why’s he after you?”

“I… I…”

Sam slowed the truck abruptly. “If you want me to help you, Ilya, I need to know what’s going on.”

“I have something he wants,” the pudgy little man blurted.

The diamonds, Maisa thought. Was that was what was in the black suitcase Dyadya insisted be taken from his truck wreckage? Had he put the diamonds in a different suitcase and left her with one containing a bomb? But if so, what was in the second suitcase taken from their truck?

“It is not safe for me,” Ilya insisted. “Beridze will not stop until he has what he wants. Until I am dead. He is mad. I must leave.”

Sam snorted. “Good luck with that. Even if you could find a truck to buy or rent, the roads are probably already closed. Doubt anyone will be going in or out of town.”

“Then I am already dead,” Ilya moaned.

“Not yet you aren’t.” Sam turned into the lane that led to his cabin. Otter perked up, presumably at the prospect of home.

“What will you do?” Dyadya asked.

Sam pulled into his drive and turned to Maisa. “You and George should be safe here. They didn’t follow us and they have no idea who I am.” He was already out of the truck door when she realized he was planning on dumping them.

Maisa opened the passenger-side door and Otter jumped down as if abandoning ship. She scrambled after, the wind catching her breath as she called anxiously to Sam. “Where are you going?”

He was wrestling the two suitcases from the back. Dyadya was already on the doorstep. “I’m taking Ilya to the police station. We can protect him there and I can get backup.”

“But you can’t leave,” she said stupidly, her mind stuck on the fact that he might be going back into danger.

“Listen, you’ll be safe here,” he said. “Ilya’s the one they’re after. I’ll take him into town, that’ll take the danger away from you—and your uncle.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” she hissed at him low. For some reason her eyes were watering. “It’s you.”

“Yeah?” He paused, looking at her, his blue eyes boring right to her soul. “Good.”

Her heart clenched. “Sam—”

“I’m a cop, May. I’ll be fine.”

“But…” He was right—of course he was—but she hated to let him out of her sight.

He was tall and muscled and knew how to shoot a gun from a moving vehicle, but he was only a man after all. Only flesh and blood.

Flesh could break. Blood could bleed.

She turned abruptly, making her way to the front door. Otter was already there, front paws against the wood, impatient to get inside to the warmth and shelter.

She was, too, but she paused and let Dyadya walk ahead. Let Sam open the door and set the suitcases inside, disappearing briefly before he reemerged, loading his gun.

Still she hesitated, even as her uncle’s voice faded as he walked inside with the dog. When she entered, Sam would leave. He would have no reason for staying.

She scowled. It didn’t matter. He’d been a one-night fling six months ago. She’d been drinking, she barely remembered that night, truly.

All that was long past—in the past. They had no future together, only a present.

Oh, God, even she didn’t believe her protests anymore.

He was in front of her suddenly, his ridiculous cowboy hat pulled low on his brow against the wind.

“You’re so stupid,” she snapped, teeth chattering. There was ice forming on her eyelashes, but she glared at him anyway. The watering of her eyes was from the wind, nothing more. “This isn’t your fight. They aren’t even your people. You’re a small-town cop, nothing more. That’s what you yourself said.”

“Hush,” he said, and his mouth was on hers, hot and alive, his tongue thrusting into her mouth as if he had every right. As if she hadn’t just eviscerated him with her sharp words.

Stupid, stupid man.

She clutched at his heavy Minnesota coat and opened herself, kissing him back angrily. He tasted of pine and snow and the winter wind, and she hated him suddenly with a passion she never even knew she had.

It wasn’t fair that it had to be this man. It simply wasn’t fair.

He pulled back and used one gloved hand to pull her black beret over her ears, the gesture so tender she wanted to scream. “Go inside, May, and lock the doors. Try the landline. I doubt it’s still working—the lines have probably blown down—but if it is, call Doc first. Tell him what’s going on, then call the next county. Maybe they can get someone through to us.”

Then he was striding toward his truck, tall and broad shouldered and brave and every woman’s dream.

No. That wasn’t right. Her dream. Maisa’s dream.

She was so fucking screwed.