Until last evening.

I thought I didn’t need her forgiveness, but the light, almost euphoric feeling in my chest today says otherwise.

My shower takes less than five minutes. Once I’m dressed and ready to go, I walk over to the bed to give Nora a kiss before I leave. Leaning over her, I brush my lips against her cheek, and in that moment, her eyes flutter open.

Her lips curve upward in a sleepy smile. “Hi . . .”

“Hi yourself,” I say huskily, reaching over with my hand to brush a tangled strand of hair off her face. Fuck, she does things to me. Things that no small girl should be able to do. I’m about to finally get revenge on the man who killed Beth and stole Nora from me, and all I can think about is climbing back into bed with her.

She blinks a few times, and I see her smile fading as she remembers that today is not just any morning. All traces of sleepiness disappear from her face as she sits up and stares at me, heedless of the blanket falling down and exposing her naked torso.

“You’re leaving already?”

“Yes, baby.” Trying to keep my eyes off her round, perky breasts, I sit down on the bed next to her and clasp her hand between both of my palms, rubbing it softly. “The plane is already fueled up and waiting for me.”

She swallows. “When are you going to be back?”

“If all goes well, in about a week. I have to meet with a couple of officials in Russia first, so I won’t get to Tajikistan right away.”

“Russia? Why?” A small frown bisects her forehead. “I thought you were going to take care of some business in Ukraine on your way back.”

“I was, but things changed. Yesterday afternoon I received a call from one of Peter’s contacts in Moscow. They want me to meet with them first, or else they won’t let us get to Tajikistan.”

“Oh.” Nora looks even more concerned now, her frown deepening. “Do you know why?”

I have some suspicions, but none that I want to share with her at the moment. She’s far too worried as is. Russians have always been unpredictable, and the increasingly volatile situation in that region doesn’t help matters.

“I’ve had some interactions with them in the past,” I say noncommittally, and get up before she has a chance to question me further. “I have to go now, baby, but I’ll see you in a few days. Good luck with your tests, okay?”

She nods, her eyes suspiciously bright as she looks at me, and unable to resist, I bend down and kiss her one last time before walking out of the room.

* * *

Moscow in March is colder than a witch’s tit. The cold seeps through my thick layers of clothing and settles deep within my bones, making me feel as if I’ll never get warm again. I have never particularly liked Russia, and this visit only solidifies my negative opinion of the place.

Freezing. Dirty. Corrupt.

I can deal with the last two, but all three combined is too much. No wonder Peter was glad to remain behind to watch the compound. The bastard knew exactly what I would be getting into. I could see the smirk on his face as he watched the plane take off. After the tropical heat of the jungle, the bone-chilling temperatures of Moscow in the last grip of winter feel downright painful—as do my negotiations with the Russian government.

It takes nearly an hour, ten different appetizers, and half a bottle of vodka before Buschekov gets to the point of the meeting. The only reason I tolerate this is because it takes about this long for my feet to defrost from the sub-zero chill outside. The traffic on the way to the restaurant was so bad that Lucas and I ended up getting out of the car and walking eight blocks, freezing our asses off in the process.

Now, however, I’m finally able to move my toes—and Buschekov seems ready to talk business. He’s one of the unofficial officials here: a person who wields significant influence in the Kremlin, but whose name never comes up on the news.

“I have a delicate matter I’d like to discuss with you,” Buschekov says after the waiter clears off some of the empty platters. Or, rather, our interpreter says that after Buschekov says something in Russian. Since neither Lucas nor I understand more than a few words of the language, Buschekov hired a young woman to translate for us. Pretty, blond, and blue-eyed, Yulia Tzakova looks to be only a couple of years older than my Nora, but the Russian official assured me that the girl knows how to be discreet.

“Go on,” I say in response to Buschekov’s statement. Lucas sits next to me, silently consuming his second serving of caviar-stuffed blinis. He’s the only one I brought with me to this meeting. The rest of my men are stationed nearby in case of any difficulties. I doubt the Russians will try anything at the moment, but one can never be too cautious.

Buschekov gives me a thin-lipped smile and responds in Russian.

“I’m sure you are aware of the difficulties in our region,” Yulia translates. “We would like you to assist us in resolving this matter.”

“Assist you how?” I have a good idea of what the Russians want, but I still want to hear him lay it all out.

“There are certain parts of Ukraine that need our help,” Yulia says in English after Buschekov answers. “But, world opinion being what it is right now, it would be problematic if we went in and actually gave that help.”

“So you would like me to do it instead.”

He nods, his colorless eyes trained on my face as Yulia translates my statement. “Yes,” he says, “we would like a sizable shipment of weapons and other supplies to reach the freedom fighters in Donetsk. It cannot be traced back to us. In return, you would be paid your usual fee and granted safe passage to Tajikistan.”