They prepared to hunker down in the library, a light-filled room with built-in bookshelves, beautiful oak floors, a big mahogany desk, and lots of red leather. She looked around at the bookshelves stuffed with all kinds of books—nonfiction, fiction, hardcovers, paperbacks—stuck in indiscriminately.
Adam said as he handed her two folders, “My mom also told me that women liked to read all cozied up in deep chairs. It was just men, she said, who preferred to read in the bathroom.”
“You’ve even got women’s fiction here.”
“Yeah, it seems a man can never stack the deck too much in his favor.”
“I want to meet your mama,” Becca said.
“Undoubtedly you will, real soon.” Then he couldn’t stand it. He walked to her and pulled her tightly against him. She looked up at him and said, “I want to forget Krimakov for just a minute.”
“All right.”
“Have I told you lately that I think you’re really sexy?”
He smiled slowly and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Not since last night.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him back, thoroughly.
“I don’t want you to forget it,” she said after several minutes had passed. “You’ve gotten me a bit breathless. I really like it, Adam.”
“We’re in my house now,” he said, and this time he kissed her, really kissed her, no holding back, letting himself crash and burn, letting himself burrow into her. He brought her tightly against him, feeling all of her against him, and he wanted to jerk down her jeans, he wanted to devour her, take her until both of them shattered with the pleasure of it. He wanted to kiss her breasts, touch and kiss every inch of her, and not stop until he was unconscious. And then there was her mouth. Jesus, he was making himself crazy. It was so good he really didn’t want to stop, and why should they stop?
His hands were on the buttons of her jeans when he felt the change not only in himself but in her. It was Krimakov and he was there, just over their shoulders. Waiting. He was close, too close. Krimakov was out there, only it wasn’t really Krimakov now. Whoever he was, he was a madman. Adam sighed, kissed her once more, then once again, and said, “I want you very much, but now, at this moment, we’ve got to solve this thing, Becca.”
“I know,” she said when she could speak. “I’m getting myself back together. I’m getting myself focused now. You’re quite a distraction, Adam, it’s hard.” She pulled away from him, stiffened her legs. “Okay, I’m ready to think again.”
“I promise there’ll be more,” he said, grabbing her and giving her one last kiss. “How about a lifetime full of more?”
She gave him a dazzling smile. “Given that gorgeous modern kitchen and how I believe, without a doubt, that you’re about the best kisser in the whole world, I think bunches of years might be a wonderful thing.” Then she looked at his groin and he nearly expired on the spot.
“Good,” he said finally, just a slight shiver in his voice, and she loved the way those dark eyes of his were brilliant with pleasure in the afternoon light shining in through the windows. “Now, let’s do it.”
Two hours, three cups of coffee, and a demolished plate of Wheat Thins and cheddar cheese later, Adam looked up. “I was going over my notes on Krimakov’s travel out of Greece over the years. It’s been here all the time, just staring up at me, and I didn’t see it until now.” He gave her a mad grin, jumped up, and gathered her beneath her arms and lifted her, then swung her in a circle. He kissed her once, then again, and set her back down. He rubbed his hands together. “Hot damn, Becca, I think I’ve got the answer.”
She was laughing, stroking her hands over his arms, so excited she couldn’t hold still. “Come on, Adam. What is it? Spill the beans.”
“Krimakov went to England six times. His trips to England stopped about five years ago.”
“And?”
“I never stopped to wonder why the hell he went to England all those times, until now. Becca, think about it. Why did he go? To see a former colleague, to see a friend from the good old days? Not a woman, he’d remarried, so no, I don’t think so.”
She said slowly, “When he moved to Crete, he was alone. No relatives with him. Nobody.”
“Yeah, but his files had been purged. Remember, there wasn’t even anything about his first wife. It was like she never existed, but she did. So why did the KGB purge her?”
Becca said slowly, “Because she was important, because—” Suddenly, her eyes gleamed. “Oh my God. Sherlock is right. It isn’t Krimakov, but neither is it a friend or a former colleague. It’s someone a whole lot closer to him.”