8

Julien sat for a few minutes after Ilya had gone. He needed to sleep but his mind was racing. Ilya was…a contradictory mess. Scared under his cockiness, strong and weak, a mouthy bundle of nerves. He was much too thin. His body was all angles, sharp collarbones and elbows, along with slender, delicate fingers. He was clearly terrified and yet he could make Julien laugh. Julien hadn't been amused by anyone so much in a long time. Even with that bruise purpling his cheekbone and that cut on his lip, when Ilya smiled, it made something… Shit. I'm not gay, but…

But…

The awareness that Ilya was there for the taking if he wanted him, was more tempting than it should have been. Julien couldn't get his head around it. I am not gay.

What if…

But…

He shook himself out of the daydream. He needed to stick to practicalities. Having Ilya with him kept the team safer. Julien was the one who'd cocked up. He'd been too focussed on Svetlana to notice he was under observation. It was his responsibility to make things right. If he extended the offer of a night here to a week… But what difference would it make if Ilya was caught after one night or seven? If he allowed him to stay longer, found him a way out of the country, would that convince the kid to keep quiet? On the other hand, could Julien ever be sure Ilya would keep his mouth shut?

Ilya's father was dangerous. Julien had checked to see whether there was any news emanating from Sandridge and there wasn't. Nothing other than details about the wedding and pictures of a beaming bride and groom. So whether Bryant was alive or not, Morozov had decided to deal with the disappearance of Ilya and the necklace himself.

Ilya, for the moment at least, wasn't sought by the police, but likely was by his father, who might well wonder if his son was behind the theft. That put Julien, Denis, Ramzan and Cheng in some danger, as well as Ilya. Julien knew how little it could take to make someone talk, how, with the right stick, people could be persuaded to reveal any secret, and how quickly lies could unravel.

Neither Denis nor Cheng had messaged him, but Cheng might. Julien needed to sound confident, reassuring. They'd covered their tracks. There was no need to worry. Everything was fine. It was too early to call Lors, but he ought to text him. If Ramzan had already said there were four of them, Julien was in trouble. Maybe better to tell him before Ramzan did. Or Cheng. He sent a message.

I have the item. Slight hiccup. But issue resolved.

Though it wasn't. If the bulk of Lors' operation hadn't been in the south of France, Julien would have been more worried. Though he knew it was unwise to think distance made him any safer.

He pushed to his feet, put his and Ilya's clothes in the washing machine and set it running. The bloodied coat needed throwing away. Dry cleaning might bring difficult questions.

There was an uncomfortable yet undeniably thrilling lurch in his stomach at the thought of Ilya staying in his spare room. He wasn't a friend. They'd only just met, but Julien liked him. Ilya was a flirt, but maybe he was like that with everyone. He probably was. He'd been through a tough time since he'd been hauled back from Russia and now he was free of his father, he was finding his world again. In another life, maybe Julien could have been part of it, but Ilya wasn't going to find what he needed in Julien's bed.

So…Julien would give him the night he'd promised, then he had to leave. Safer for both of them. The sensible thing to do. He didn't even have to give him any money. Ilya had enough to look after himself. All Julien had to do was make it clear that if Ilya opened his mouth, he'd be in trouble. An empty threat, as long as Lors didn't find out. Julien groaned. His head was pounding.

A few hours' sleep might stop him thinking in circles. He went to clean his teeth and his phone beeped with a message. It was from Lors.

Take the item to Paris today. Flight booked. Details below.

He was relieved not to be asked about the hiccup, but then all Lors wanted was the job done. One more month until Julien was free of him. Although he clung to that, he knew he was probably deluding himself that he'd ever be free. He spat into the basin and rinsed his mouth.

Maybe his disturbed state of mind wasn't down to Ilya at all. He always felt a little off when he got back after a job, even a successful one. It took a while to shake off the concern that there was going to be a knock at the door from the police or in his case, a voice at the intercom. Even hearing a siren could make his pulse jump. This time, the anxiety was going to linger longer than it usually did, long after Ilya had gone, because Lors was going to find out what had happened and Julien had no idea how he'd react.

Or rather, he knew exactly how he'd react.

Once he was in bed, he pressed the remote to lower the blinds. Had Ilya thought to do that? Once the sun was fully up, the light would be intense. He got back out of bed and padded to the spare room. The door was ajar and the blinds were still up.

Ilya was asleep on his front, one hand clutching the corner of the duvet. He wasn't wearing the T-shirt and Julien could see the dark marks on his back. He felt a surge of anger. Ilya wasn't his type. But he was…something. Something that made heat curl in Julien's gut and his cock react in spite of his denials. He represented an awareness of a train of thought that Julien didn't want to have to deal with, things he'd set aside a long time ago. And he needed to set them aside again now.

He'd deliver the necklace, then call Veronique. Toe-curling sex with her was the best antidote to everything. Maybe he ought to stay in France for a while and visit his parents.

Or not.

Julien swallowed the lump in his throat, retrieved the remote from the drawer and lowered the blinds. He went back to bed before he climbed into the wrong one.

When Julien woke, it was almost noon. He'd slept longer than he'd thought he would. But his flight wasn't until just after four from City Airport.

He raised the blinds, showered, dressed and packed a small bag. All he needed was a carry-on. The necklace went into an old jewellery box he'd picked up in a charity shop. If he was asked, it was his mother's necklace and he was giving it to his French girlfriend.

Julien emerged from his room at the same time as Ilya stepped out of the other bedroom. He was holding his neck with his uninjured arm and twisting his head, the action enough to make his T-shirt ride up and expose a strip of flesh. Not deliberate this time, but Julien's gaze got stuck on his neat button of a navel, then followed the line of dark hair that disappeared under the sleep pants. One tug and they'd come down.

"Morning."

Ilya beamed at him. "Wow, you look good. I like your hair better not plastered down. Was that a disguise? And the glasses?" He glanced at the bag in his hand. "Are you going somewhere?" His smile faded.

"Paris."

"Robbing the Louvre?"

"Not on this trip."

Maybe leaving right now was the best idea.

"I hear they have some pretty nice paintings there. One of a sulky woman that's worth a fair bit. Disappointingly small. Unlike me. Have you ever noticed she has no eyebrows?"

Why did Julien think he could listen to Ilya all day?

"Want some breakfast? Lunch?"

Ilya asked. "Along with my ability to give outstanding, mind-blowing, world-shattering blow jobs… I don't exaggerate, I can cook. Some things anyway."

"No, I have to get going."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"You're leaving me here on my own? Not worried I'll throw a big party and wreck the place?"

"I trust you."

He shocked himself when he said it, but strangely enough, it was true. At least as far as taking care of the flat was concerned.

Ilya looked up at him, his eyes wide. "Thank you."

Then Julien ruined it. "You don't know anyone in London, so I think my stuff is safe. Though with your pickpocketing skills, I'm not sure about anyone else's."

Ilya gave a quiet sigh. "I'm not a thief. It was something I learnt to do in St Peterburg when me and my friends were… It doesn't matter."

"If you need to go out to buy some clothes before you leave, there's a key to the flat and key fob for the lift in the top drawer next to the fridge. Just put them back and pull the door closed behind you when you leave tomorrow. You don't need a fob to go down on the lift."

"Okay."

"Your jeans and boxers are in the washing machine. They need drying."

He was trying to make himself move towards the door. "You'll be all right, yeah? Try to make me not send Cheng after you."

He smiled to show it was a joke. Maybe not a good one because Ilya looked as though Julien had stepped on his hamster.

His shoulders were down, his face blank. "I told you I won't say anything."

Stop looking at him. "I believe you wouldn't want to, but everyone has a breaking point. Stay safe. Take care of yourself."

Julien headed for the door.

"You stay safe too,"

Ilya said quietly.

Julien told himself not to look back. It was harder than he'd thought to keep walking away.

There was no point in using his car. It was quicker on public transport. The Tube to Shadwell, then the DLR, the Docklands Light Railway, to the airport. He'd eat when he got there. Was there something in the fridge Ilya could eat? Stop thinking about him!

He called Veronique as he headed towards the underground.

"Julien! Are you coming to see me?"

she asked in French, the delight in her voice quite clear.

"If you're available?"

"Always for you."

"Make us a reservation for somewhere tonight. Not too smart. I won't have a suit. Seven-thirty. Text me the address. I'll meet you there."

"I can't wait. I've missed you, chéri."

Usually, Julien would have replied with similar words but they wouldn't come out of his mouth. "à bient?t,"

he muttered and ended the call.

Why was he still thinking about Ilya? It was ridiculous. How many years since he'd even thought about a guy in this way? Not since he was a teenager. And all that had been was experimentation. I'm not fucking gay.

Cheng called on Signal while Julien was eating in the airport. He put his fork down. He really hoped Cheng wasn't going to piss him off.

"Hi."

"Everything okay?"

Cheng asked.

"Yes."

"What have you done with Morozov's son?"

"Found a place where someone was laying a concrete patio."

"What!"

It was a moment before Cheng got that he wasn't serious, though maybe Julien should have said he was. It would have given Ilya a better chance. "Right. Huh. Funny. Have you thought any more about a ransom?"

"It's not a good idea."

"His father is loaded!"

"Yes, but he's not reported the kid missing. Unless you've seen something?"

"No. But we knew he could hardly make a fuss about the necklace."

"You're assuming he thinks Ilya took it. He might know that he didn't. Morozov has money and power. We need to be careful. Stay quiet. Not stir anything up."

"So what have you done with him?"

"He won't say anything."

Cheng scoffed. "To save his neck he would."

"So would you if it was to save your neck! He knows nothing."

"He knows our faces."

"He hardly saw you and it was dark."

"Does he know where you live? Where Denis lives? Hey, are you at the fucking airport?"

An announcement had just come over the PA system.

"Yes."

He could hardly deny it.

"So you've not left him at your place. Not a complete idiot then."

Julien bristled. "He's done. Just leave it. What we have is a good thing. Don't let's wreck it by being greedy. Did you get paid?"

"Yeah."

"So stay cool."

"Right."

Cheng ended the call.

Julien wasn't sure whether the guy was satisfied or not. It was hard to know whether Cheng believed him, but if Cheng knew where he lived, then maybe he'd put Ilya in danger. Fuck it. If Cheng didn't already know, he'd have no trouble finding out.