Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“No.” She shook her head, her hand pressed to her throat. “Do you believe your father is involved with the gentlemen who abducted Anya?”

Dimitri grimly restrained his need to yank her back into his arms. His experience with tender virgins might be limited, but he did know when a female was on the brink of bolting.

“Yes.” He shoved his fingers through his hair, his body hard and aching. A distressingly predictable sensation when he was in the companionship of this frustrating woman. “His debauched taste for young girls has never diminished.”

“Why did you not kill him when you discovered he was responsible for the death of your mother?”

Dimitri lifted his brows, startled by the blunt question. “He was a powerful nobleman and I was a mere boy,” Dimitri reminded her, his tone dry.

“I cannot believe that is what deterred you.”

“You think I was born a bloodthirsty criminal? Or perhaps you assume all bastards are without morals?”

A blush stained her cheeks, but she refused to be cowed. An unfortunate habit.

“I think you loved your mother and would move heaven and earth to avenge her death.” She narrowed her gaze, studying him with unnerving perceptiveness. “So why do you hesitate?”

“Because death is not enough,” he roughly admitted. “I want to make certain that Count Nevskaya and his cronies publicly suffer for what they have done.”

The hazel eyes darkened. “And how many girls have been hurt because you were more concerned with humiliating your father rather than making certain he was unable to abuse helpless children?”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Dimitri Tipova was struck speechless as Emma turned on her heel and left him standing alone in the grotto.

THERE WAS A HEAVY, gray chill in the air as Dimitri left his horse in the shadows of a high hedge, and walked toward the plain black carriage that waited on the elegant street corner.

Wrapped in a heavy coat and muffler that served as his disguise, Dimitri cast a sour glance at the brooding clouds. Although St. Petersburg would always be his home, he often wondered if Czar Peter regretted his fierce determination to create an empire out of this wet, frozen landscape. The emperor had, after all, sacrificed an enormous number of his people, not only to the cold and disease and wolves as the city was being built, but also to keep his throne from a land-hungry Charles XII as well as uprisings from the Cossacks and even his own son, Alexei.

With a shake of his head, he dismissed his inane thoughts and paused at the side of the carriage. Covertly glancing up and down the quiet street to ensure there were no prying eyes, he tugged open the door and climbed inside.

He settled on the leather seat across from Josef, who kept his gaze trained on the window that offered a perfect view of Pytor Burdzecki’s town house.

“Well?” he demanded.

Attired in rough wool clothing more suitable for a dock-hand than a man who had acquired a small fortune over the past years, Josef grimaced.

“Not so much as a leaf has stirred.”

“And there has been no word from the others?”

“Nothing.”

Damn. He had commanded two dozen of his most trustworthy cutthroats to keep watch on the homes of those gentlemen he suspected were involved in his father’s nefarious amusements. The notes he had stumbled across had specifically mentioned noon, but unwilling to take any chances, Dimitri had demanded his employees hide themselves near the various homes before the crack of dawn.

“You made certain the household servants were to be followed?” he demanded.

With an offended expression, Josef reached for the nearby bottle of vodka and a large glass.

“You do not pay me because I am careless.”

Dimitri could not argue. Josef possessed a meticulous cunning that had made him a successful thief long before Dimitri had taken him beneath his wing.

“Forgive me, Josef. I had convinced myself we could catch the bastards in the midst of their foul deeds.” He clenched his hands, needing a means to vent his simmering frustration. “Now it seems they are to elude me yet again.”

Josef gave a lift of his shoulder. “The messages you discovered had no date. It could be they mean the next Friday.”

“Or a Friday long past and once again I am too late,” he snapped.

“Here.” Pouring a large measure of the vodka, Josef shoved a glass into his hand. Dimitri swallowed the potent liquor, grunting as he lowered the glass and Josef leaned forward to refill it. “Another.”