Love.
The thought is sweet. Bitter. Sobering. Only yesterday, I worried that he’d never reciprocate my feelings, but now, my fear is the opposite. He shouldn’t love me. He can’t. It’s better if my love remains one-sided. I love him too much to hurt him like that. But our hearts have already merged, and the man staring down at me isn’t the man who abducted me in a dark alley.
He’s the man who loves me.
I reel at the realization. The thought knocks my heart askew in my chest. I’m still battling to come to grips with the uninvited insight when he pulls out, leaving a wet puddle between my legs and a disconcerting coldness in my soul. I’m trying to reconcile that frosty distance with the heat of the knowledge burning in my mind, but then he presses our mouths together in a kiss that consumes me from the inside out. A barrier drifts between us even as that kiss forges our bodies and souls closer together. It’s a kiss like no other, a kiss that spells love and goodbye in the same breath. It’s push and pull, a force that has equal power to fuse or wreck.
I’m hovering in that confusing space when he tears his lips from mine to press a chaste kiss on my cheek.
“We better have a shower,” he says.
Throwing back the covers, he takes my hand to lead me to the bathroom, but the distance between us grows until the atmosphere becomes stiff like cardboard, and my throat throbs with a knot of unshed tears.
When Yan gets out of the shower and hands me a towel, I can’t hold my tongue any longer. “Is everything all right?”
He meets my gaze squarely as he dries off. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You’re different.”
“Now’s not the time for amateur psychoanalysis,” he says sharply.
The rebuke is like the prick of a needle in my heart. After what we’ve just shared, it’s bewildering, but I school my features. “You’re right. We should focus on the job.”
He pulls me to him and kisses the top of my head. “Get dressed. I’ll prepare breakfast.”
Pushing the nagging worry aside, I focus on the tasks that take priority. While the men get ready, I attach the body pads, apply a bronzing lotion, and work on my cheekbone fillers and makeup while the tanning lotion dries. I secure a hairnet with pins and carefully fit the wig. Then I get dressed. The dangling earrings, bangles, and cluster ring add the finishing touches.
When I’m done, I study my full-length reflection in the mirror. The result is good. Great, actually. No one will be able to tell I’m not the real Natasha Petrova, not even from close-up. Not unless one’s met her in person, and Dimitrov has never met her.
Yan and Ilya are in the lounge when I step out of the room, dressed in their transport company overalls and caps. Ilya gives me an approving nod. Yan runs his gaze over me, but there’s no acknowledgement in his eyes. No approbation or disapproval. They’re just… blank.
“Yan?” I walk over and try to take his hand, but he pulls away.
He tilts his head toward the table that’s laid with cold cuts, cheese, toast, and orange juice. “Better eat something. You’ll need your strength.”
“Can I get you some tea?” Ilya asks, weirdly sympathetic.
I look between the twins. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Yan replies curtly. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Make sure you’re ready.”
“Where’s Anton?” I ask.
Yan packs some of my neatly folded clothes into an expensive overnight bag for the sake of appearances at the hotel. “Taking care of Kiss.”
What? Today of all days? “Couldn’t it wait?”
“No.” He adds a pair of shoes to the bag without looking at me. “By tomorrow, Kiss could be gone again or dead, and I want answers.”
“What about my bodyguard?”
“You’ll tell Dimitrov something came up.” He shrugs. “It happens.”
I gape at him. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t worry.” Ilya gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll manage fine without Anton.”
Ignoring Ilya, I keep my attention focused on Yan. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Yan snaps. “You just have to do your job.”
I flinch at the outburst.
“It’s all right,” Ilya says softly. “It’s just nerves. The job, you know.” He shoots Yan a nasty look.
“Eat,” Yan says. “You have ten minutes.”
I’m not hungry, but Yan is right. We’ll need our strength.
After a light breakfast, I apply lipstick and put on the heels we’d gotten for the occasion. Yan and Ilya test wireless ear mics that are connected to their smartwatches. It allows them effortless and discreet hands-free communication. As I’ll be searched, I’m not wearing a mic. I’ll only have the phone Yan gives me, which I slip into my bag. It’s the secure number Dimitrov used to contact me, in case his guards decide to check. Yan’s hackers have uploaded Natasha Petrova’s contacts and apps to the phone, complete with mirrors of her social media accounts. One never knows how thoroughly Dimitrov will be checking me out.
We load the crated painting, the case with disguise material, and the overnight bag in the van. As I’m about to get in, Yan curls his fingers around my wrist, and for a moment, the fiercely passionate man of this morning breaks through the surface of icy detachment.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You, too.”
He kisses me on the forehead, so as not to spoil my lipstick, before helping me into the passenger side. Ilya gets into the back and Yan drives. We make a stop at the hotel a few blocks away from the Hotel Paris, where the two security guards already wait in the room we rented. I take care of their disguises, turning them into Yan and Ilya’s doppelgängers, before they walk to the Hotel Paris via the back alleys. We wipe away our traces and fingerprints, check out, store the disguise bag in
