His Christmas Assignment

“Hey!” the guy protested.

Garek turned to him and for once he dropped the mask of humor and let his true feelings show. He also lifted his arm just enough to reveal the holster strapped beneath it.

The guy lifted his hands and backed up. “I had no idea she was yours. Sorry, man.”

“I am not his,” Candace called after the man.

But either he didn’t hear her or he didn’t believe her because he hurriedly disappeared into the crowd. Before turning toward her, Garek summoned the grin and the cocky attitude he had always shown her. “I just found out a few hours ago you were back,” he said casually, as if his heart wasn’t pounding erratically with each breath he took.

He stood so close to her that he could feel it when she breathed in; her breast swelled and pressed against his arm. “I wouldn’t have figured this for your first place to hit.”

She turned back to her drink, running her fingertip around the rim of the martini glass. “You don’t know me,” she said. “So how would you know what kind of places I frequent? Maybe I’m a regular here.”

In her sexy red dress, with her black hair fluffed up and her lips painted—she looked like the other female club patrons. But she wasn’t any more comfortable than he was in his undercover assignment. She visibly fought the discomfort though, lifting her chin as if she was ready to take a blow, and her brilliant blue eyes glared at him.

“I could be a regular,” she insisted.

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He loved her prickliness. That was probably why he’d spent the past year provoking her—trying to get a reaction from her. Trying to get her attention. He had missed her. He’d missed her so damn bad.

“I know you,” he said. He’d made a point of learning everything about her—while being careful to reveal very little of himself to her.

She shook her head in denial. “No, you don’t. But I know you.”

She had to talk loud—because of the music. But there was still the danger that someone else might overhear her. It was better if no one knew how close they were. Or had been...

Nobody could know what she really meant to him. Not even her. So he lost the grin, and he drew on another mask—one of coldness. “If you actually knew me,” he said, “you would have known better than to show up here.”

“I didn’t show up here for you,” she said, her tone so disparaging he almost believed her.

He glanced toward the crowd into which the guy had disappeared. “That loser wasn’t your date, was he?”

She lifted her martini glass. “He bought me this.”

“So you’re just here to pick up guys?”

She shrugged her naked shoulders. “Why not?”

Because she belonged with him.

“So that’s why you came back to River City?” he asked. “To pick up strange men in bars?”

She glared at him again, her eyes narrowed. “You say that like you doubt I can.”

He hadn’t meant to challenge her. He knew she could pick up any man she wanted. Even him...

And he had no business letting her affect him. But his body ached with wanting hers. “I say that like I wonder why you’d want to,” he clarified.

“I think it’s safer picking up strangers than taking a chance on a man I know.” She sighed. “The men I know always disappoint me.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to point out she hadn’t given him a chance. For a year she had ignored him or fought with him. When he had finally gotten close to her, she had run from him.

“Maybe you didn’t really know them,” he said.

She met his gaze and held it for a long moment before nodding in agreement. “Maybe not...” She wriggled down from the stool, and her body pushed against his.

He remembered that night—remembered how close they’d been, nothing between them as skin had slid over skin. His breath caught in his lungs. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. But he could hear the warning Milek uttered in his earpiece. “You have a problem.”

He’d already known that. But he glanced up and noticed Viktor had stepped from his back office into the heart of the club. If he saw Candace...

She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear and murmured, “Or maybe I’ve known them too well...”

He shook his head. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have come back. You would have kept running.”

Anger flashed in her blue eyes. She didn’t deny, though, she had run.

He stepped aside, so that she could get past him. And he advised her, “Run, Candace, run...”

She called him a name no lady should even know. But she was Candace. She’d fought in a foreign country. She’d fought in her own country. She was the toughest woman he knew. But when she walked past him, he noticed the faint sheen in her eyes. He had hurt her, and he hated himself for hurting her. But instead of reaching for her, he curled his fingers into his hands and resisted the urge.

He had to let her go.

And go she did. Her head held high, her chin up, Candace walked past him as if she didn’t know him. As if she didn’t care...

Had she cared? Had whatever Stacy had said to her compelled her to come back? To try to help save him from himself, or from Chekov?

And had he just thrown away whatever chance he might have had with her?

Like he’d resisted reaching for her, he resisted watching her walk away. Instead he lifted his head and met Viktor Chekov’s gaze. The man had avoided prison for so many years because he didn’t miss anything. He knew how to find and exploit the weaknesses of his enemies.

Had he just discovered Garek’s greatest weakness?

* * *

Candace’s eyes stung. But it wasn’t with tears. It was the cold that was getting to her. While she’d retrieved her long jacket and winter boots from coat check, she still wasn’t warm enough. The winter breeze penetrated her jacket and chilled her to the bone.

She should have used the valet parking. But she’d wanted easy access to her vehicle in case she’d needed it. Two blocks and an alley away wasn’t easy access, though. She shivered and blinked. But it wasn’t against tears. She was blinking away snowflakes.

They fell heavily, wetting her hair and dampening her jacket—chilling her even more. But maybe it was Garek’s words and his attitude that had chilled her most.

He hadn’t wanted her to come back.

She’d tried to pretend that night had never happened. She hadn’t realized that he would want to pretend the same thing—until she’d looked into his face and seen no memory of their encounter in his eyes. He had looked at her as if he’d never seen her naked.

As if that night had never really happened...

Had it?

Or had she dreamed it all?

Garek Kozminski had her doubting herself all over again. She’d thought she’d known him so well. But maybe she did. Maybe that was why he’d pushed her away like he had. He didn’t want her too close.

Not because of Tori Chekov. Just like she hadn’t seen any memory of their night on his face, she hadn’t seen any love for that woman on his face. He had lied to Logan about his reason for working for Viktor Chekov again.

Why? What was he really doing for the gangster?

For the past year she’d been claiming he hadn’t changed—that he was still the criminal he’d once been. Of course she’d had no evidence to back up her suspicion. She wasn’t even sure why she’d been so desperate to believe the worst of him. Because he’d irritated and frustrated her? Because she hadn’t wanted to acknowledge or give in to the attraction she’d felt for him?

But maybe she had been right about him after all. Had he gone back to his old life in every way?

She stepped off the sidewalk to pass through the alley to where her car was parked on the other side—on another street. The snow was deeper between the buildings as were the shadows. Her boots slipped on the snow-covered asphalt, but she regained her balance, catching herself before she fell.

She uttered a little gasp of surprise and relief, grateful she hadn’t fallen. Despite her jacket and boots, she wasn’t dressed warmly enough to take a tumble in the snow. So she slowed her steps, moving more carefully as she continued into the alley.

Maybe the person behind her was moving just as carefully or maybe the snow had cushioned his footsteps—because she didn’t hear him until his shadow fell across her. She barely had a moment to reach for her purse, to fumble for her gun, before he attacked.

Her purse fell from her shoulder, dropping—with the gun still inside—into the snow. She couldn’t use it to protect herself. And with her limbs numb from the cold, she wasn’t certain she could move quickly enough to fight off her attacker. He was big, his hands strong—as they wrapped around her neck. She couldn’t see his face, though. He wore a ski mask, but it wasn’t in deference to the cold. It was as a disguise. So she couldn’t identify him.

Why had he bothered? It was apparent he had no intention of letting her live.

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