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  Tell your boyfriend if he keeps feeding the filthy dogs, next time you die.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Half an hour later Chelsea was walking briskly along the most brightly lit street in the neighborhood, having slipped out the back of the apartment building through a narrow door that had once been used for deliveries. Every time she passed someone on the sidewalk, she flinched; somewhere in the night, the person who’d threatened her was out there. She took slim comfort in the cars that passed, even though the heavy traffic was the reason she’d chosen this route: if she was attacked, maybe someone would stop—or maybe, as had happened all too often in this part of town, they would look the other way and keep going, reluctant to get involved or risk their own safety.

  When she got to the alley, her thudding heart slowed just a little. For some reason she felt safe here, even if she barely knew the owners of the little café, even if one was elderly and the other was portly and looked like he wouldn’t survive a tug-of-war without suffering a heart attack.

  She made her way down the alley to the outdoor patio, her hope fading as she reached the closed door, the hand-painted “Closed” sign hung from a nail. She hadn’t considered the possibility that the café wouldn’t be open, but it was nearly ten o’clock on a weeknight. A few blocks away, the bars and bodegas and nightclubs of the changing neighborhood buzzed with energy all night long; but not, apparently, the little Russian café.

  Still, light seeped out from underneath the door, and she could make out the faint strains of music coming from within. She knocked, tentatively at first, and then pounding with her fist.

  Moments later the door swung open. The man who stood in the doorway drying a rustic glass with a cotton towel was flushed pink, his thinning hair plastered to his scalp. An apron was tied around his generous middle. Behind him, a woman called out something in Russian.

  His look of curiosity quickly changed to a wide smile. “Chelsea! What a nice surprise! You have come to join us for little zakuska?”

  Without waiting for a response he threw the door all the way open and stepped aside for her to enter, letting loose a string of Russian. Inside, the old man who’d waited on Chelsea only that afternoon was seated at a table playing cards with an equally elderly woman in a flowered dress. Ricardo had introduced Chelsea to Alexander, the man who’d opened the door, and his father Boris. But she’d never met the woman before.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to barge in here and—but—”

  “What is matter?” the old man said, lurching out of the chair as quickly as he could, given his age. He came over and grabbed her hands; his fingers were warm and surprisingly strong.

  “I just—someone came to my door tonight—they left this.” Chelsea dug the folded note from her pocket and held it out. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Boris took the note and held it so both men could read it. Alexander looked up in alarm.

  “Tonight you received this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you told Ricardo?”

  “That’s just it—I don’t know how to contact him. I thought…”

  What had she thought, exactly? That the owners of a café where Ricardo was known to drink tea would for some reason know how to find him? How did she know they would even care? She wouldn’t blame them for being angry that she had interrupted their evening.

  But as the two men conferred in Russian, the woman approached Chelsea and took her hand between hers. “You are Ricardo’s podruga?” she asked in even more heavily accented English than her husband.

  “No—I mean yes—” Chelsea wasn’t even sure what the word meant, but she wasn’t sure she was Ricardo’s anything. “I mean, it’s complicated.”

  “Ah. Complicated.” The woman drew the word out, pronouncing each syllable carefully. “Love is always complicated, yes? Come, I bring drink.”

  “No, no, Darya,” her husband interrupted gently. “We must to contact Ricardo.”

  “You contact. I take care of her,” the woman said, pulling on Chelsea’s arm. She allowed herself to be led, almost weak with relief that the three of them were willing to help.

  Though what good would they be against someone for whom locks meant nothing?

  Alexander was already on the phone, pacing with it pressed to his ear. “Ricardo! Where are you?” he demanded, then a brief pause, and then he stopped in the middle of the floor and looked at Chelsea while he spoke. “Chelsea is here. Someone was at her apartment. They left a note—yes—no, worse.” He signaled to Boris, who handed over the sheet of paper. “‘Tell your boyfriend if he keeps feeding the filthy dogs, next time you die.’”

  Hearing the words out loud made Chelsea cold with terror all over again, but the elderly woman pressed a glass into her hand and pointed to a chair. “I am Darya,” she said. “Now you drink that.”

  “Yes,” Alexander was saying. “Yes. I think that is best. Don’t worry. We will take care of her until you arrive.”

  Then he hung up.

  “What did he say?” Chelsea said anxiously.

  “He is very angry with himself. He will be here soon, the plane is landing in one hour.”

  “The plane?”

  “Yes, he is returning from his trip tonight.” Alexander looked at her quizzically, and Chelsea knew he was curious about why she didn’t know her boyfriend’s schedule. And she couldn’t blame him for thinking that, since she’d been with Ricardo when she first came to the café—and since the note used the word.

  There didn’t seem to be much point in correcting him now, especially since Ricardo was coming here.

  He was coming here. Chelsea looked down at her outfit, new emotions suddenly competing with her terror and the relief of having found someone to help. She was dressed in the first clothes she could grab, an old pair of jeans and a shabby T-shirt she liked to sleep in; she’d done nothing to her face or hair since getting out of the shower and discovering the note. Her hair was drying into a mass of waves around her shoulders, and if the Fairy Godfathers were here, they would be horrified that she had skipped a blow-dry—death threat or not.

  “I should just go,” Chelsea said. “Ricardo can come to my place.”

  Immediately all three of her hosts started speaking. Boris’s rose above the competing voices. “It is not possible! If we let you to leave, Ricardo he will kill us.” Seeing her look of horror, he frowned, placing his hand over his heart. “Is just expression. Ricardo is good friend to us. But he trusts us take care of you. Now. What I can make for you? Nice okroshka? Little pelmeni?”

  #

  An hour later Chelsea had drunk a glass of sweet, honey-laced tea and nibbled at a savory meat pastry to make her hosts happy. She had done what she could with her appearance, given the paltry supplies in the makeup bag she kept in her purse. There was nothing to be done about the T-shirt, unfortunately, or the torn jeans or beat-up sneakers.

  She was looking at an old photo album with Darya, admiring photos of little Alexander riding a bicycle, when there was a sharp knock at the door. Chelsea froze, her heart beating a staccato rhythm.

  When Boris opened the door, Ricardo shoved past him into the room, stopping cold when his eyes met hers. His expression was thunderous, but when she gave him a wobbly smile, he relaxed fractionally and turned to greet Boris, accepting the old man’s hearty hug. He shook hands with Alexander and kissed Darya’s papery cheek.

  Then he was standing in front of her. Should she get up? She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, and she didn’t trust her body not to betray the complex tangle of emotions she was feeling. Because seeing Ricardo again hadn’t been what she expected. Yes, he was every bit as gorgeous as she remembered him—the flight from wherever he’d been hadn’t mussed his beautiful linen jacket or his thick, black hair; only a hint of beard indicated that he’d been traveling. And her body jerked to awareness, desire beating in her blood like her own heartbeat.

  What she hadn’t been prepared for was the f
eeling of safety. That now that he was here, she was protected. Cared for.

  Owned.

  The word, uttered by Ricardo during the last night they’d spent together, came unbidden to her mind, along with a stream of images that she’d done her best to bury, and the memory of sensations that had no place in her current frame of mind. The pressure of silken scarves being tied around her wrists…the teasing touch of the fringed suede flogger. Hot wax and cold steel…

  “Hello,” she burst out, feeling her face flame with mortification.

  “Chelsea. Querida.” He took her hand in his and the awkwardness slipped off of her like a satin cape falling to the floor as he pulled her upright. And then his mouth was on hers, a mere brush of his lips that set off a chain reaction of need.

  Abruptly he released her.

  She sat back down, hard, staring at the table, unable to meet her hosts’ eyes. What must they think of her? Had he brought other women here…how did she compare to them? She’d seen the way women looked at him at an elegant party they’d attended together, their admiration and hunger barely concealed. She knew they all wished they could trade places with her, but it was her that he had taken to the little bungalow hidden high in the Hollywood hills…before abandoning her.

  Maybe he was acting now, embarrassed to have broken his promise to be in touch. Except he hadn’t really promised that. When he left, he’d said only that he would return as soon as possible. Chelsea had screwed up her courage and asked if he would call. His response was burned into her memory. He apologized and added, “It simply isn’t possible.”

  But she hadn’t let herself believe he meant it. Some part of her hoped every day for word from him. Because if he felt even a fraction of what she felt for him, how could he not?

  “Ricardo. You must be hungry,” Darya said, bustling among the pots on the stove.”

  “No, no, Darya, please. I already ate.”

  Darya nodded and smiled; apparently Ricardo’s protests carried more weight than Chelsea’s.

  “Right now I need to take Chelsea somewhere she will be safe.”

  All three Russians murmured their assent, and Chelsea allowed herself to be helped up once more. “I didn’t bring anything—”

  “There is no need,” Ricardo said, sharing a look with her. He didn’t need to elaborate: the last time Chelsea had stayed the night, his driver had brought her an entire set of clothes that fit perfectly. At the thought that she might be spending another night with Ricardo—even under circumstances such as these—Chelsea’s blood quickened.

  But she tried to keep her emotions under control. “All right,” she said. She drew a shaky breath, then spoke to the entire assembled group. “Thank you, all of you. I—I don’t know how I can repay your kindness.”

  “It is nothing,” Alexander said kindly, but his father drew himself up to his full height, and his dark eyes flashed with fury.

  “We do not let these pigs to scare us,” he fumed. “You are with Ricardo, and that makes you one of us.”

  Even Darya was nodding, her eyes troubled as she touched Chelsea’s arm. “You come back any time. Maybe if Ricardo must travel, you stay with us.”

  This might be the time to ask the questions that had been in the back of Chelsea’s mind during this entire evening: what exactly was it that brought these people together? Who was the threat—and why did they all seem to know without even asking the details of what had happened?

  How had a family of immigrant café owners come to be so intimately involved with an art authenticator—and how could their worlds possibly intersect with dangerous men who thought nothing of threatening an innocent woman with murder?

  “I…am so grateful for your help,” she said haltingly, wondering if it was wise to ask questions or whether it would be better simply to accept their kindness without looking too deeply at their motives. “I came here tonight because—well, because you have been so kind to me already. And because you know Ricardo, and, well—”

  She knew so little about her lover, but she didn’t want to admit that. It was clear that Ricardo trusted the Soloniks, and so she had blindly trusted them as well.

  “But I don’t understand how you all got mixed up in this,” she blurted, unable to find another way to ask.

  Looks were exchanged; Ricardo nodded fractionally.

  “Chelsea, we are lovers of art,” Boris said, and a little of the fierce pride left him and he looked like an old man again. “We come here from Russia when Alexander, he is just little boy. With us we bring few treasures, but we have some things we rescued when the Nazis came to destroying our village. They are worth some money, we think, but we never sell, is priceless to us.” He placed his hand over his heart as Darya dabbed at her eyes with a snowy embroidered handkerchief.

  “Few years ago, men come. They too are Russian but they are criminals, bratva living in United States. They know we have paintings, they have spent great deal of time trying to find us. Two of them come one night to our house. They make a lot of noise, break our things…terrify my beautiful wife, threaten us with unspeakable acts.” He placed his hand on his wife’s shoulder and Chelsea was left with little doubt that the old man would die protecting her if necessary. “They demand we give the paintings. They say they belong to them, their family was owner before the war, but we know this is not true. No one owns this art and everyone in our village does, is two sides of coin. But we will not give them to these monstr.”

  “I was away,” Alexander said angrily. “I had a business in San Diego at that time. Importing. But when they threatened my family…I had met Ricardo, you see, in the course of business.”

  “I was able to trace the provenance of the works back to the original owners,” Ricardo said gruffly. “That proved a blood connection to Boris. Then I was able to help him make a legal gift of the works.”

  “Now they hang in State Tretyakov Gallery!” Darya said proudly, her eyes shining. “Ricardo, he pay all expense for us to travel to Moscow and see! I think I will never see my village again before I die, but Ricardo made it possible.”

  Ricardo looked increasingly uncomfortable, but whether it was from the effusiveness of the old woman’s gratitude or because of the obvious gaps in the story, Chelsea couldn’t tell.

  “And now you have nice gallery,” Boris said. “Who would think it! Beautiful girl like you with such good eye for art. You are helping the artists, just like my family did all those many years ago.”

  “We need to go,” Ricardo said curtly. He shook hands with both men and stooped to kiss Darya. Chelsea accepted embraces from all three and did her best to thank them, promising to return soon for dinner as she was deluged with good wishes and compliments and blessings.

  And then Ricardo practically dragged her out the door and into the night.

  “Tonight it’s a good thing that you left your finery in the closet,” he said, leading her to a motorcycle parked at the curb.

  “You expect me to get on that thing?” Chelsea said, balking. She did her best to ignore the dig about her clothes, despite wishing she had worn something else, anything else.

  “It is fast, and it will get us where we are going.”

  “To the apartment? Or the house?” These were the two locations he had taken her before, not counting a party in a luxurious old downtown building. The apartment was sleek, modern, and luxurious; the house was small and humble and hidden in a lush garden like a little gem in the hills above Hollywood.

  “The house. But we are taking a different route. I don’t think I was followed from the airport, but…I want to be sure.”

  He handed her a helmet from the metal storage box bolted to the back of the motorcycle and took her purse from her and stowed it away. The bike was sleek in design, luxuriously appointed with a comfortable seat.

  And yet she hesitated. “I hate motorcycles,” she mumbled.

  Ricardo paused in the process of strapping his own helmet on. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the streetlights re
flecting off the eye shield. When he spoke his voice was slightly muffled.

  “Have you ever ridden one?”

  She shook her head. “My…the man who married my mother after my father’s death.” Her stepfather, Ray, but she wouldn’t say the name aloud. “He rode one. I could always hear him pulling into the drive and there was never time to get away fast enough. It…I can’t forget that sound.”

  “This motorcycle is very quiet,” Ricardo said, taking her hand. Without warning, he pressed her palm flat to his chest, covering his heart. “And the ride is very smooth. I promise you that I will be cautious. And you are with me, querida. With me, you are safe. Do you trust me?”

  “I—I guess so,” she faltered. The truth was that she did. In fact, she had trusted him with her life already once this night. How much did she really have to lose?

  He climbed onto the bike and turned the key, and true to his word, it purred to life with no more noise than a hybrid automobile. Chelsea tugged the helmet on, put one hand on his shoulder and stepped up on the footrest, swinging her other leg over. She could feel the vibration traveling through her body as she settled herself. Her chest pressed against Ricardo’s back, and her legs encircled him. She could feel his warmth through their clothes. He turned his head slightly and spoke over the sound of the engine. “Hold on to me. It is perfectly safe, but that will help your fears.”

  As soon as she wrapped her arms around him, they were off.

  If someone had told Chelsea a month ago that she would be riding through Los Angeles on the back of a motorcycle, she would have thought they were out of their mind. Despite the fact that a pair of worn and scuffed motorcycle boots were among her most cherished possessions, and she’d even attended an exhibition of early motorcycle design as part of an exploration of outsider art, she thought she had closed herself off from that world forever, just as she had tried to protect herself from everything that reminded her of the past, after her father’s death.