Her Rogue Russian(29)

 

"All a part of our cover," Maxim breathed as he drew back. Savannah said nothing. They both knew this went way, way beyond the pale. What was there to prove by doing what they did? Who was there to even know what they had done together just now?

 

No. They had to keep what they had done between them or risk losing everything to this chaotic, animalist burst of lust.

 

Maxim zipped up his fly, snatched his shirt, and banged his way out of the bathroom stall, as Savannah bent hastily to gather her own flimsy things together. Her worst fears remained unrealized: there was no one else in the bathroom there with them. Likely any woman needing to use the toilet had turned and sought accommodations elsewhere when confronted with the universal sounds of a couple getting it on.

 

Savannah dressed, noting that her face was flushed almost beyond recognition when she looked in the mirror. She did not blush. Then again, there were a lot of things she had sworn she did not do until this evening.

 

She rearranged her appearance as best she could, before exiting out the bathroom after Maxim. Out on the dance floor, she realized her date was nowhere to be found. The booth toward the back remained empty, and after a cursory peek into the men's bathroom, she realized with a sinking feeling that he was nowhere on the club's premises. She went outside, and was unsurprised to discover that the Nighthawk was gone.

 

 

 

        

          

        

         

 

Unsurprised …  but furious. Had Maxim jumped her to try and throw her off whatever plan he had in store? Had he actually succeeded?

 

"Damn it!" Savannah swore below her breath as she hailed for a cab. He couldn't have gotten far, and she would find him. Only one question remained, then: what was it that had called him away?

 

The cell phone, she realized. It had buzzed in his pocket and received a text while they were holed up together in the bathroom.

 

Maxim was gone, and so was Gordy Safin's cell phone.

 

 

 

 

 

7

 

 

 

 

 

Maxim

 

 

 

 

 

He may have had his share of hookups in his past life as head of security, but Maxim had never been one to take a woman he wanted so immediately and recklessly.

 

He hadn't intended to leave Savannah alone back at Roza, but he needed to clear his head. The woman could look after herself-she had proven that much time and again, and he needed to immediately follow up on this latest lead. It was better for them both if she stayed put.

 

Maxim pulled the Nighthawk up at the next stoplight and fished Gordy's burner from his back pocket. The message read:

 

6101 E LANSING

 

ANSWERS HERE

 

 

 

It was worded too oddly, and the timing too coincidental, for it to be anything but a message for him. Maxim's fingers clenched over the phone, only for a moment; then a green cast from the traffic light above told him it was time to move again. He pocketed the burner and kicked the Hawk back to life, tearing off down the street toward Lansing. Everyone on the block was either at Roza or had already gone to bed for the evening. The lone wolf rode alone.

 

And yet he wasn't alone.

 

God, he could still smell her on him. He shook his head, trying to clear her from his mind, but she just kept coming back again and again. Savannah Casillero had installed a mental trapdoor in his brain and having sex with her had only exacerbated the problem. It hadn't driven her from his bloodstream-it had made him crave her even more than before, if such a thing was possible, and he was steadily being led to believe that it was. His feelings for her were more than feelings of physical attraction. Even something as basic as lust would have been surmountable at this point, but now? Now, he couldn't focus for thoughts of her.

 

He was in deep shit already. He may as well try to close the evening with some sort of clarity-and if that meant riding out alone to confront answers about his father's killer, then so be it.

 

It was dark on Lansing Street. Maxim pulled up outside the address, a two-story apartment block that couldn't have housed more than five or six tenants in all, and noticed that the streetlight was out. He shut off his bike and wheeled it up the drive, conscious of the gravel crunching beneath his boots. He didn't bother stepping lightly. He knew he was expected.  

 

He parked the Hawk and started up the steps to the address. Nothing greeted him: not a person, not a porchlight. He ignored the mental alarm ringing in the back of his head. He had been in plenty of situations that set it off before and gotten himself out of plenty more. Alone.

 

Still, he couldn't help wishing that Savannah was here with him.