19

Ilya woke with a start, smiled when he remembered all they'd got up to last night, then cringed when he remembered what Julien had told him. Hugging would help make things better. Then registered Julien wasn't beside him and that the bed was cold. Shit. Ilya padded naked to the window and saw the car had gone. Not a surprise but definitely a disappointment. He showered, dressed and went into the main room. Julien's hoodie lay on the couch and he pulled it over his head. It was much too big but it smelled of him. When he spotted Julien's phone on the worksurface, his heart sank. Had he forgotten it, or left it so that he couldn't be called?

For a few distressing minutes, he wondered if Julien might not come back, that he'd bought him that wire and the tools so he had something to keep him occupied. How could he know whether Julien was all right? Ilya could feel his anxiety gathering speed and made himself take some deep breaths.

He didn't want breakfast but when he went to make himself a coffee, there was a note on the machine saying eat something. Ilya smiled and looked for a biscuit, where he found another note saying not a biscuit. That made him laugh. So he had toast with the Golden Shred marmalade Julien had bought for him.

Please let him come back in one piece. Chechens had a reputation for being very tough, quick to defend their community against attack by whatever means necessary. They often set fire to bodies to stop them being identified. He remembered his father telling him that because of their fearsome reputation, they didn't even have to be that violent, because no one dared mess with them knowing what they were prepared to do.

But Lors held Julien responsible for the death of his son. No way would Julien ever be out of danger even though he'd saved Borsha.

Ilya sat at the table, his phone at his side, just in case Julien called him from one of his other phones, and set to work making a little dog like the one he'd played with on the beach. Then he constructed an otter, followed by a series of little birds. He didn't eat lunch. Anxiety churned his stomach, though working helped him stay calm.

Julien wasn't back when the light started to fail and Ilya settled on the couch with his iPad. There was a router on the bookcase and he'd pulled out the little tab on the side that told him the network name and the password so he could get online.

When he managed to connect to the internet, he felt guilty, but he'd be careful. He didn't know Julien's surname but googling Julien, Sébastien, brothers, Abrek, violent deaths, Paris and the year, brought up the story of what had happened. Julien's surname was Descoteaux. He didn't discover anything Julien hadn't already told him. Googling Mikhail Morozov and Bryant didn't bring up anything he hadn't seen before either and although there were a number of men with the name Bryant McKenzie, none looked like his tormentor.

Was it risky to check his emails? Maybe not if he didn't open them.

He logged onto Mail.ru and entered his password. Since he'd last been online, the morning of the day he was snatched, he'd had almost four hundred emails, and one hundred in his spam. As he ran his eyes down the inbox, among the regular ones he got and rarely opened, were a number from his friends and a couple from Dimitri, plus one from his father dated a week ago. He wasn't going to open that though he was tempted to look at the ones from Anatoly, Karp and Vasily. None from Arkady, which surprised him, but he could read some of the emails from his friends, mark them as unread and then if by any chance his father had the ability to check, it wouldn't appear as though Ilya had logged into his account.

But he couldn't be sure.

He wasn't a hacker, but there were some brilliant Russian guys who could do far more than most people thought possible. It wasn't worth the risk. He logged out, worrying that they might even be able to tell he'd logged in, then looked up how to use Signal because he figured that was safe—safe-ish, and called Karp, the first number to come into his head.

"Privyet?"

"It's me."

"Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. Ilya! We thought you were dead. Or abducted by aliens. Where the fuck are you?"

"In the UK."

"What happened? You just disappeared. Your place was empty. All your stuff has gone. Your boss was told you weren't coming back, but we didn't know where you were."

"My father decided I needed to come back early for the wedding. He didn't bother asking, he just…had me transported."

"So where are you now?"

"I ran away."

"Shit! Do you need help? Money? What can I do? You want to come back to Russia? You can't fly direct from the UK but you could come via Turkey. I can get you a ticket. My cousin can do it."

"I don't think there's any point coming back. He'd just kidnap me again."

"To make you straight? That's so stupid. You could move to another city. I have a friend in Yekaterinburg. He has a two-room apartment. You could stay with him…"

Karp was jabbering on and on, maybe more than Ilya was used to hearing from him. He suspected Karp knew he'd slipped up. Ilya's heart had already leapt into his throat. "Why did you say my father wants me to be straight?"

"Well, he does, doesn't he? You said he had you transported back. You told us he didn't want a gay son."

Once. But never that his father was trying to make him straight. Ti durak, Karp! "He wanted me back for my sister's wedding."

"Where are you, Ilya? Tell me where you are. Are you safe?"

Ilya ended the call and removed Karp from his contacts. Fuck. It had felt good to talk to a friend until it hadn't. He shouldn't be surprised his father had got to him. He didn't even blame Karp for his treachery. But it made him sad.

For a long moment, he contemplated calling Lara and telling her everything, but he didn't want to burden her with something she could do nothing about. Anyway, she'd still be on honeymoon. He didn't like her still not knowing the truth, but maybe it was safer. He thought about calling his other friends, but he'd had enough disappointments for one day.

Julien left his car in Chelmsford and boarded a train to Liverpool Street station. Only after he'd caught the tube from there to Kings Cross, did he phone Lors. Maybe he was being paranoid thinking they'd track his location, but being close to Kings Cross increased the options of towns he might have come from, assuming Lors didn't think he was still in London.

"Julien. At last."

He flinched when he heard Lors' harsh voice.

"I been waiting for you to call. I don't like being ignored."

"Sorry. I was trying to stay under the radar for a few days in case Cheng had stirred up trouble. I turned off all my phones."

"You left Battersea apartment."

Should he act surprised that Lors knew? "Only temporarily."

"And left car."

"Temporarily."

"Where are you?"

"Near Kings Cross."

"I want to see you."

"You want me to fly to France?" Shit.

"I'm in UK. I had things to deal with. Come to hotel. Mandarin Oriental. Hyde Park."

"Okay."

"Now,"

Lors snapped.

"I'm on my way."

Julien shoved his phone into his pocket. Lors was pissed off. But pissed off enough to kill him in one of the most expensive hotels in London? He thought not. Though that didn't mean it wasn't going to happen in the not too distant future. He wished he could call Ilya and check on him, but he didn't want his number on this phone. He could call from one of the station phones but maybe he was better to wait. What could he do if Ilya wasn't all right?

He was collected at the hotel reception and taken up to Lors' suite by Keram, the guy's bodyguard, not someone Julien would want to upset. Keram was a solid block of a man, built like a tank, his neck as wide as his head. When they were outside the room, Julien was searched. Thoroughly. He said nothing, nor did Keram, though the guy could probably feel the way Julien's heart was pounding.

When Julien was allowed inside the room, the first person he saw was Borsha. He made sure he showed no reaction, but his heart sank. Lors' heavily-bearded eldest son was sitting on one of the couches, his legs spread. His father was in an easy chair opposite. Julien doubted he'd be asked to sit, so he just stood and waited.

"Any sign of Ilya Morozov?"

Lors asked.

Julien hadn't expected that to be the first question. "No. Why would I have seen him?"

"You should have let Cheng kill him,"

Borsha said.

"I said I wasn't prepared to be involved in violence or drugs. If Cheng had killed him, it would have been clear Ilya wasn't the one who took the necklace. Morozov would have looked at every guest, every member of the catering staff and his own staff. Denis had been working for the catering company for a while but that might not have been enough. Letting the son go meant the father suspected he was behind the theft."

Though not when Akhmadov's wife wore it a couple of days later, assuming the idiot had done what he'd said.

"Not when Morozov saw it around Akhmadov's wife's neck,"

Lors pointed out.

Shit. "Ilya could have made that happen. He's a jewellery expert. He'd know that a reward for the necklace's return was a much safer option than trying to sell it. He probably knew who his father had stolen it from."

"How you know he expert in jewellery?"

Borsha drawled.

"The research I did before I did the job. I'm thorough. The more information I have the better."

"You don't trust what my father tell you?"

"Of course I do, but I don't want to get caught. That's worth the extra effort. Morozov has no idea you had a hand in the taking of the necklace. Assuming Akhmadov keeps quiet."

"He will."

Lors said. "We have to hope Morozov son don't fall back into father's hands."

"Sure you don't know where he is?"

Borsha pushed to his feet.

"I have no idea."

Borsha came to stand at Julien's back. It was hard not to tense.

"Why you rush back to London after you deliver necklace?"

Borsha was at his side now. Scowling. Though his smiles were more worrying. "Veronique no longer to your taste?"

What the fuck? Julien didn't bother to hide his shock this time. Was she working for Lors? "Is that what she said?"

Borsha laughed. "She said you keen, then not keen."

"Only when she began talking about us. There never would be an us. I wasn't interested in anything more than fucking her."

"Then you weren't,"

said Lors.

"Then I wasn't. She was good. I hope you paid her well."

Lors huffed. "She one of our best."

Julien had to fight not to show how sick that made him feel. At least he'd never fucked her without protection nor shared anything about the business with her. And she had fucking asked. But he was confident there was no information she could have fed back to Lors that was damaging.

"Why not fuck her then dump her?"

Borsha asked.

Because that was what Borsha would do. "I'm not that much of a shit. I do have some scruples. There was no point staying in Paris. I arranged the first flight back that I could find."

"That you paid for rather than use flight few hours later paid for by us?"

Borsha asked.

How much do they know? "Why not? I have the money. No place like home."

Not that Battersea had ever felt like home.

"Which you left,"

Borsha snarled. "Where you staying?"

"Here and there."

"Where?"

Borsha's face was inches from his.

"What does it matter? I told you why I left. I'll be back in Battersea soon."

Borsha just kept staring at him until his father tsked.

"I have another job for you,"

Lors said. "Wallet of American. Thomas Ringbold. He keeps coin in it I want for my collection. I try to buy but he won't sell. He planning to visit family in Deal, Kent. I'll send you details."

Julien curled his toes in his shoes. Ask him! "Then is that it? My three years?"

Borsha started to say something and Lors held up his hand.

"Not yet."

"Three years was the agreement,"

Julien said. "I've done what you've asked."

"And where you think you find job that pay as well as this? One where you can support parents and live in expensive apartment, drive flash car, wear classy watch?"

Lors stared at him.

"You've been generous, but I want to do something different with my life."

"So did my brother!"

Borsha yelled.

Prickles of unease ghosted over Julien's skin. "There is nothing I can say or do that will make any difference to how you feel about me. I did my best to save them both. You lost someone dear to you and I did too. I can no longer practise medicine and it was my dream. Instead I've had to do things I'd never have done if it wasn't for the sake of my parents. I've kept to our agreement."

No one spoke, though Borsha looked as though he wanted to.

Lors sat up straighter. "One last job in addition to Ringbold."

"And then we're done?"

"Then we're done. You bring coin here when you have it."

Lors raised his hand in dismissal.

Julien wanted to believe it, but he didn't. It couldn't be that easy. He suspected he'd be followed, but if he was, when he lost them, because he had to, he also had to make it look as though it was the fault of whoever was pursuing him. Knightsbridge was the nearest Tube station. It was busy, as usual, which was both help and hindrance. Julien would have liked to know what the person or persons following him looked like but there was no way he could tell. Or even if they were really there.

He got off at Leicester Square, another busy station, changed lines but stepped out of the train before the doors closed, shaking his head as if he'd made a mistake, and headed through the connecting passage to the train heading in the opposite direction. A few more manoeuvres and he was as satisfied as he could be that no one was following. He ate lunch in a café, hoping Lors would at least send details of the wallet guy so he could leave London. When those details came, Julien memorised and deleted them.

After he'd eaten, he was still careful and took a roundabout route to Liverpool Street station. Once he had a ticket, he waited in a place where he could watch people and the departures screen but not be easily watched himself. No details came about the supposed final job, which was a pity, but he wanted to go back to Ilya.

Even when he arrived at Chelmsford, Julien was vigilant. He didn't go to his car but headed for the nearby shopping centre and, as well as dinner, he made several other purchases.

Back at the cottage, he found Ilya curled up asleep on the couch. Julien was envious. For the last three years, he rarely fell into a deep sleep. Anxiety kept his mind churning. What ifs invaded his dreams. He put the food in the fridge, clattered around a little, and still Ilya didn't wake. Julien made himself a cup of tea, then sat on the chair opposite the couch.

He wasn't sure he could explain either the attraction or the emotion he felt when he looked at Ilya. He wasn't blind to the possibility that Ilya was a substitute for Sébastien. Except for the sexual attraction. Julien hadn't been able to save his brother, but he had a chance to redeem himself by saving Ilya? Was that it? Except Ilya was in danger just being with him. But then the reverse was also true. Maybe it was the fascination of his heart beating fast because of a guy rather than a woman. Wonder at his capability to feel lust when he touched Ilya's face or arm or…

Then Ilya yawned, opened his eyes and blinked. He smiled with such open joy when he saw Julien that he knew all he could do was follow his instincts and see where they led him.

"You came back,"

Ilya said.

"Were you worried I wouldn't?"

"I worried someone might stop you."

Ilya pushed to his feet, crossed the space between them and sat on his lap. Julien slid his arm around him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You're wearing my hoodie."

"It smells of you."

The back of Ilya's thigh was pressing on Julien's cock, which had started to harden from the moment he'd pulled up outside the cottage. Now his jeans felt too tight.

Before he was tempted to push his hand down the front of Ilya's jeans, Julien urged him to his feet. "Let me take your stitches out."

"Are you going to tell me how things went with Lors?"

"Yes."

Julien sat Ilya on one of the barstools at the kitchen counter and took his medical kit out of a cupboard.

"What's in the carrier bags?"

Ilya asked.

"Things for you. If you sit still while I do the stitches, you can open them."

Ilya peeled off the hoodie. "You bought me something? Now I'm torn between wanting to know what happened with Lors and wanting to know what's in the bags."

"Lors gave me another job to do. Lifting the wallet of an American who's visiting Deal. There's a coin in it that Lors wants. He's mentioned before that he's a collector."

"Wallets are tricky outside in the winter because he'll be wearing a coat. We could work a distraction and dip? Ouch!"

"Hold still."

"Too much to hope that there'd be a sign saying Beware of Pickpockets that we could be sure he'd pass because then he'd check his wallet and we'd know exactly which pocket it was in. Ouch! Gangs put up those signs sometimes."

"So I've heard."

"I could pretend to steal your wallet and then bump hard into the man as you chase me. Then you can take his. I could dye my hair or wear a wig. A wig would be better because I can get rid of it quickly. You can pretend to be outraged when I get away. Maybe you don't need to do it in Deal. The airport when he arrives? Though there'd be a lot of cameras so maybe not."

"How often did you do this in St Petersburg?"

"More often than I should have done. Not just me. My friends too and only to people who pissed us off. A couple of times I took the wallet back and said I'd found it. Poor people can be pricks too."

"Right. You're done. All the stitches are out."

Ilya twisted his arm to look at it. "Thank you. It was itching. That's a good sign, right? Sadly, it's too neat to say it was a shark bite."

Julien laughed. "That's your fault. You were the one who sliced into your arm."

Ilya took hold of his hand. "What else did Lors say?"

"One more job after this one. Then that's it."

"But you don't believe him."

"No. I don't think Lors has any intention of letting me go."

"If you cut off all contact, he couldn't get in touch with you."

"And when I have my mother on the phone telling me they're going to hurt my father unless I do as they say? Or the other way around?"

"Then you have to go to the police and tell them about this last job. Or tell Lors that you've set something in place that will bring him down if he doesn't let you leave in one piece and he doesn't touch your parents."

Julien half-smiled. "And would that work with your father?"

Ilya winced. "No."

Though Julien had thought about those options. "If I told the police, I'd have to make sure I was caught so Lors wouldn't think it was my fault."

"He still might and you'd have to hope that witness protection worked. Lors likely has the power to give orders from prison and have you killed. Hmm, I need to think about this. There must be other ways."

"Let's wait and see what the so-called last job is, then decide what to do. Open your presents."

He went to sit on the couch while Ilya brought over the bags.

"This is like Christmas,"

Ilya said. "Better than Christmas because I haven't had Christmas presents for years. Not that I—"

The first item he took out, silenced him. It was a pale blue jacket that looked like formal wear from the front but there was a large cutaway section at the back edged with black lace. For a moment, Julien wondered if he'd made a mistake, then he saw Ilya's eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Oh my God. You bought this for me? It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. I'm going to model everything. I'll pretend I'm on a catwalk. You sit and applaud."

He grabbed all the bags and raced out of the room.

Now Julien was hard again. Maybe it was always going to be the case around Ilya.

"Music!"

Ilya shouted.

Julien put on RuPaul's Supermodel and heard Ilya laugh.

All Ilya was wearing when he came back was the jacket and a pair of short, low-rise, fitted black boxers. He sashayed into the room, just like a catwalk model, though he walked around the furniture rather than in a straight line, and twirled. He looks so hot. When he was within reach, Julien pounced and pulled him onto his lap. This time, Ilya sat facing him, his knees either side of Julien's hips. Julien slid his hands up Ilya's back under the lace.

Ilya moaned. "Don't rip the jacket!"

"Then take it off."

Once the jacket was out of danger, Julien put one hand on Ilya's backside and squeezed, then slipped the fingers of the other into the waistband of the boxers.

"Sex on legs,"

Julien whispered. "Now I see what that means."

Ilya's eyes fluttered closed as Julien rolled the material down to expose the top of his cock, then gently brushed his thumb over the wetness at the tip. Ilya groaned, then curled his fingers around Julien's, holding his hand in place around his dick.

"Are you always hard?"

Julien asked.

Ilya opened his eyes and laughed. "Are you?"

"Apparently I am around you."

"I'm going to be hard every time I put on that jacket. Though I don't know where I can wear it."

"Wherever you want."

Ilya's breathing sped up as Julien dragged his hand up and down his cock.

"You need lube?"

Julien asked.

"Lick your fingers."

Julien spat on them, and Ilya added his hand on top again. He was setting the pace, guiding the action and Julien let him.

"Stop!"

Ilya gasped.

"What?"

"Wait. I'm not going to mess up every new thing you've bought me. And the things you've bought me are fabulous. Thank you!"

He wriggled off Julien's lap, shucked off the boxers and climbed back on. But he sat closer to Julien's knees so he had room to unbutton Julien's shirt, then unfasten his jeans. He carefully freed his cock, then brought both cocks together and Julien swallowed hard.

"It's hot that I'm naked and you're not. This is called frotting."

"From the French frotter, which means to rub. Il se frotte la bite. He rubs his dick."

"Do you know everything? Dogging, piking, fisting, figging, sounding, felching, edging… I'm stuck now. And I've only done the last one of those. And I'm not that good at it."

"Everything I don't know, I want you to teach me. If you don't know it, then I probably don't want to know either."

Ilya's hand was back on Julien's, which was around them both, and Ilya kissed him as they rutted together. And it felt so perfect, Julien almost forgot the hell he was in and let himself believe for a moment, this could be his life.