Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Yet more trouble. No doubt because of you.”

With a last glare, Anya turned to climb the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Emma demanded.

“I told you that Mikhail intends to take me to his home.”

“How do you intend to escape?”

“He promised he would tend to the details.” Reaching the top of the ladder, Anya reached up to push open a trap door. “I am to meet him on the roof.”

Emma tilted back her head, unable to believe after all that had occurred that her sister could still behave in such a reckless fashion.

“You are placing your trust in a slave trader who has not even shared his plan of escape?” she rasped, reaching to grab the skirt of Anya’s gown. “For God’s sake, he will have you completely at his mercy.”

Anya kicked out, dislodging Emma’s hand. “Let go of me.”

“Please, Anya, listen to me.”

“No.”

Anya shoved her satchel through the small opening before scrambling behind it, pulling herself out of the attic and onto the roof.

Emma grabbed the ladder and prepared to climb after her sister. “Wait.”

Anya peered through the opening, her curls tumbled about her pale face.

“I am sorry, Emma, but you cannot come with us.”

Emma’s eyes widened in stunned disbelief. “You intend to leave me here to be sold in a slave auction?”

“You should never have followed me.”

“Anya.”

The trap door was slammed shut and Emma listened in amazement as there was the sound of scraping, as if something were being shoved over the door to keep it from opening. Still, Emma remained poised on the ladder, refusing to believe her sister would actually abandon her in the attics while she made her own escape.

No matter what happened in the past, Anya could surely not be so heartless?

It took nearly a quarter of an hour for Emma to accept that her sister could indeed be that heartless. She had climbed the ladder, pounding on the trap door that would not budge and futilely calling for her sister who refused to answer.

At last she had been forced to accept defeat.

“Dear God,” she muttered, laying her head against the wooden rung of the ladder and closing her eyes in weariness. “I have been so stupid.”

WITH AN ANNOYED impatience, Dimitri allowed the two guards to roughly drag him through the brothel, at last shoving him onto a low divan in the parlor.

It had taken three attempts to at last be caught by the ridiculous fools. He had all but approached them and requested a waltz before they had noticed him pretending to pick the lock of a side door. He could only assume that the men had grown weary of guarding females who had yet to earn a single ruble for them.

Now, he turned his head to watch as Valik entered the room, his hair tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it more than once. The expression on his beefy face, however, was smug. No doubt he was preening at the mistaken belief he had accomplished something no other man had managed.

“Ah, Dimitri Tipova,” the Russian drawled, halting directly before the divan. “You cannot know how I have longed for you to pay a visit.”

Dimitri settled more comfortably on the cushions, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankle.

“I should have visited you much sooner if you had not been fleeing from me in terror.” He flicked a glance toward the two guards who both stood like mindless statues. “Not that I am surprised. Those men who peddle in the flesh trade are by nature spineless cowards who skulk in the dark and prey on the weak.”

“You dare to lecture me?” Valik gave a sharp laugh. “You command every criminal in St. Petersburg, including a dozen whores. Christ, you chop off the hands of anyone who irritates you. And you look down your nose at me?”