She pulled her hand from his and twisted in her seat so she could see him in profile. Her heart beat steady and loudly as she made her confession. “That night, right before I heard the men outside my apartment door, I was in my kitchen eating strawberry ice cream. And I fantasized about licking it off your chest. But then I worried you might be allergic. I imagined asking you in a text, so I could be sure my sex fantasy did you no harm.”
“I am definitely not allergic, and you can use me as an ice cream dish anytime. Real or imagined.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The apartment in a city on the coast north of Valletta was a small one-bedroom, but unlike most of the places they’d seen so far, very modern with marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and a not-enclosed balcony that overlooked the sea.
It was on the fifth floor and had a state-of-the-art security system that included ironwork on the exterior doors that wasn’t just decorative. Freya knew how to find a vacation rental for the paranoid traveler. Or ones with Russian spies on their heels.
Kira was dizzy on her feet after the day she’d had. It had started with a visit with Cousin Andre in his hotel room and ended with his invasion of her room.
Now she was in an apartment in Sliema, having left the trussed-up spy in her lovely room with a view of the Grand Harbor. “I think I liked the view of the harbor and Fort St. Angelo better than the dark sea.”
She felt Rand’s stare as he said, “The view is beautiful from my perspective.”
She smiled and carried her bag into the bedroom. Today had been a roller coaster, and it wasn’t over yet. She shouldn’t act on the impulse she was feeling, but honestly didn’t know if she’d be able to restrain herself.
Still, she’d try.
“I’m going to take a shower, then we need to read the notes.” It was wild to think she’d had two letters—actual communication with her father’s secret “friend”—for hours, but hadn’t read them yet. She might as well take a shower. What was another twenty minutes?
“I’ll make sure everything is secure while you shower.”
“Thank you.”
She was practically in a daze as she stripped and stepped into the hot spray, but within a few minutes, she felt rejuvenated. It was nearing eleven p.m., and she had no clue what time it was in the US, which told her the long day had dispelled all traces of jetlag.
She wondered how Rand coped, being a day behind her, but knew SEAL training had probably given him some kind of magic control of his body clock and sleep schedule.
A few hours ago, she’d been prepared to never see him again. Now she couldn’t imagine being here without him. In the immortal words of Ferris Bueller, Life moves pretty fast.
Had her father tried to run Rand off because he feared a background check would reveal his and her mother’s secrets? It made sense. Her father had always wanted her to be happy, and she couldn’t imagine him trying to sabotage a potential relationship for any other reason.
But he’d put his needs above Kira’s, and she was fairly certain that day at the hospital and his interference in the weeks that followed were far from the first time he’d prioritized his secrets over Kira’s happiness.
The apartment was locked tight, and Kira was in the shower. Rand checked in with Freya. She had notified her CIA contact about fake Andre, and it was highly likely the man was being extracted from Kira’s hotel room as she and Rand spoke.
Whether he lived or died was up to his own people. He’d come after Kira when she was unarmed and alone. Rand didn’t feel one iota of remorse for what would happen to him now. He’d probably been the one to bury the real Andre in the backyard. He certainly had other people’s blood on his hands.
He hung up with Freya and called his commanding officer to give him an update. The fact that Russian spies were involved meant this remained relevant to the DoD, but it was looking more and more like it was connected to Kira and not JEB Little Creek. As far as his commander was concerned, it had been the right call to send Rand to Malta, and they’d keep him there as long as they could. He was pleased with Freya’s handling of the FSB agent through CIA channels. His final order was to keep him in the loop, then he hung up.
Rand booted up his computer—he was glad that with the security on the apartment, he could keep his computer close instead of storing it in the car—and started reading the full dossier on the Kulik family. They were their best lead at this point. On the drive here, Kira had given him the rundown on what Reuben said at the outdoor bar while she drank Sex on the Beach and Rand brooded over a Cisk.
They’d traveled quite a journey since then. Rand knew she and Freya had talked before fake Andre arrived, and he had a feeling that had smoothed over some of Kira’s hurt feelings, but it didn’t exonerate him. For now, they were on even terms. He was thankful and wouldn’t push.
He read the dossier, then rose and went to the kitchen. They’d stopped at a store on their way out of Valletta and gotten a few basics, including a six-pack of Cisk in bottles. He grabbed one and popped off the top and returned to the couch. He scanned the dossier again as he sipped the Maltese lager.
Kira entered the living room, hair still dripping. She wore a pink satin camisole with matching pajama pants, and he wanted a fucking medal for not losing his mind with how sexy she looked.
“You want to shower?”
With you. Yeah.
He shook his head. He wouldn’t say the thought aloud. They still had a lot of road to travel before they could return to the place they’d been when she kissed him on the Fort St. Angelo wall.
“You ready to look at the letters?”
She nodded. “It’s about time.”
As they’d promised Freya they’d do, they photographed everything before Kira split the seal on the letter she’d been given in Birgu. She studied the envelope and the angular script with her father’s name and the Birgu address in black ink.
A fountain pen, were he to guess. Who still used fountain pens?
“The postmark is several days after his death.”
Rand wrapped an arm around her and gave a gentle squeeze. It was easier to comfort her over Conrad Hanson’s passing now that they had an inkling of why the man had rejected him for Kira practically on sight.
Rand wanted to believe he was worthy of Kira Hanson. He wondered if, given a chance, he could have won either or both of her parents over. Conrad was fiercely protective of his only child, but in this, the man had spectacularly failed.
Rand was the one protecting her now.
But then there was Kira herself, who’d proved herself no damsel. She’d brought a baseball bat to Malta and used it without hesitation.
She pulled a single sheaf of paper from the envelope. The writing was in German and, just like the letters she’d found in her dad’s fire safe, unsigned.
