all to hell. "But what is the devil doing with a holy object?"
"Nothing good, I'll bet."
"No." She tapped the desk.
"You're disappointed."
"I don't know." She thought about the details of the Varinski mythology. "There's the part about the icon—"
"Icon?" Rurik was instantly alert.
"Nothing. I just . . . nothing." She did not need to go into that right now. Turning back to the screen, she said, "Look. Clovus is sick." The stone carver had rendered the picture of Clovus's various bodily disorders with disgusting completeness.
"And he blames the object, whatever it is, and sends it to the king with one eye." Rurik leaned back in the chair and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. "That would be perfect!"
"Perfect?" She could hardly contain her disap pointment. "If the Hershey bar were in Europe somewhere? Why?"
"Because otherwise, this object was blown sky-high in the tomb, and even if it wasn't destroyed, it's going to take ten years to sift through the wreckage and catalog every piece, and who the hell has ten years?"
"Right," she said sarcastically. "Now all we have to do is figure out which one-eyed, mean son-of-a-bitch eleventh-century European ruler he sent it to."
In the end, for all his disclaimers, Rurik deciphered enough of the Old English to figure out the one-eyed king had lived and pillaged in Lorraine, now a province on the far eastern edge of France. They would start there.
His scholarship impressed Tasya. That and the heat he provided by sitting close, and his fingers rubbing at the base of her neck . . . she liked sitting here with him, deciphering the carvings, talking about their next move. They were comfortable with each other, two people who had a lot in common. Almost . . . friends.
Friends, except for the fact that she hadn't been completely frank with him—to say the least—and there was that sex thing that they did so well and which made her want to run so far away.
Because Rurik Wilder would never be threatened by her career and her independence, and scamper away. Rurik Wilder wasn't threatened by anything. He wanted a relationship with her—what kind and how long, she didn't dare ask—and that terrified her. Terrified her because of the people who chased her. Terrified her because he could get hurt. And that wouldn't be fair to him.
While she pulled the card, replaced it in her camera, and stashed her camera safely away, he cleaned the remnants of the photos from Mrs. Reddenhurst's computer. Tasya watched with a sense of satisfaction; they'd done a good night's work. They made a good team.
He switched the computer off, then turned, and so swiftly she didn't have time to back up, he caught her hand in his. "Now, tell me about you and the Varinskis."
The reckoning had come sooner than she'd thought.
Chapter 12
"I don't know where to start." Tasya tried to run her fingers through her hair, and at once the rigid spikes reminded her what she had done to change her looks, and why.
"Start at the beginning." Rurik used his toe to pull the chair right in front of him, and pointed.
She might not like his attitude, but she sat. After all, she owed him. She'd got him involved in something so far above his head, he could never handle it.
Although perhaps she was kidding herself. Because as this day had worn on, she'd become more and more impressed with his competence. The guy had a way about him: he'd dug her out of the tunnel, hidden that backpack full of survival supplies, scouted out the B and B—all actions that revealed his character. This was a man who expected danger and prepared for trouble.
Still, she'd brought the trouble, so she leaned forward. "You know who the Varinski Twins are?"
"Two experienced assassins from a legendary Russian—well, now Ukrainian—crime family who were caught in Sereminia committing murder for hire and are now in prison awaiting trial."
"Exactly. They're not the first members of the family to be caught, but they are the first ones
"Nothing good, I'll bet."
"No." She tapped the desk.
"You're disappointed."
"I don't know." She thought about the details of the Varinski mythology. "There's the part about the icon—"
"Icon?" Rurik was instantly alert.
"Nothing. I just . . . nothing." She did not need to go into that right now. Turning back to the screen, she said, "Look. Clovus is sick." The stone carver had rendered the picture of Clovus's various bodily disorders with disgusting completeness.
"And he blames the object, whatever it is, and sends it to the king with one eye." Rurik leaned back in the chair and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. "That would be perfect!"
"Perfect?" She could hardly contain her disap pointment. "If the Hershey bar were in Europe somewhere? Why?"
"Because otherwise, this object was blown sky-high in the tomb, and even if it wasn't destroyed, it's going to take ten years to sift through the wreckage and catalog every piece, and who the hell has ten years?"
"Right," she said sarcastically. "Now all we have to do is figure out which one-eyed, mean son-of-a-bitch eleventh-century European ruler he sent it to."
In the end, for all his disclaimers, Rurik deciphered enough of the Old English to figure out the one-eyed king had lived and pillaged in Lorraine, now a province on the far eastern edge of France. They would start there.
His scholarship impressed Tasya. That and the heat he provided by sitting close, and his fingers rubbing at the base of her neck . . . she liked sitting here with him, deciphering the carvings, talking about their next move. They were comfortable with each other, two people who had a lot in common. Almost . . . friends.
Friends, except for the fact that she hadn't been completely frank with him—to say the least—and there was that sex thing that they did so well and which made her want to run so far away.
Because Rurik Wilder would never be threatened by her career and her independence, and scamper away. Rurik Wilder wasn't threatened by anything. He wanted a relationship with her—what kind and how long, she didn't dare ask—and that terrified her. Terrified her because of the people who chased her. Terrified her because he could get hurt. And that wouldn't be fair to him.
While she pulled the card, replaced it in her camera, and stashed her camera safely away, he cleaned the remnants of the photos from Mrs. Reddenhurst's computer. Tasya watched with a sense of satisfaction; they'd done a good night's work. They made a good team.
He switched the computer off, then turned, and so swiftly she didn't have time to back up, he caught her hand in his. "Now, tell me about you and the Varinskis."
The reckoning had come sooner than she'd thought.
Chapter 12
"I don't know where to start." Tasya tried to run her fingers through her hair, and at once the rigid spikes reminded her what she had done to change her looks, and why.
"Start at the beginning." Rurik used his toe to pull the chair right in front of him, and pointed.
She might not like his attitude, but she sat. After all, she owed him. She'd got him involved in something so far above his head, he could never handle it.
Although perhaps she was kidding herself. Because as this day had worn on, she'd become more and more impressed with his competence. The guy had a way about him: he'd dug her out of the tunnel, hidden that backpack full of survival supplies, scouted out the B and B—all actions that revealed his character. This was a man who expected danger and prepared for trouble.
Still, she'd brought the trouble, so she leaned forward. "You know who the Varinski Twins are?"
"Two experienced assassins from a legendary Russian—well, now Ukrainian—crime family who were caught in Sereminia committing murder for hire and are now in prison awaiting trial."
"Exactly. They're not the first members of the family to be caught, but they are the first ones
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