Chains of Ice Read online

  Reality brought her up short. “B-but the job at CFG?” Father’s mouth grew pinched. “I still have some pull. CFG is holding your position until September.”

  Still she stared at the itinerary until he said, “Don’t you want to do it?”

  Mountains.

  Wilderness.

  A deep, peaceful, soulful quiet.

  The chill wind in her face . . .

  “Don’t I want to do it!” For the first time in years, since that day when he’d come home in disgrace, spontaneous pleasure ignited in her and brought her to her feet, moving her around the table to fling her arms around his neck. “Father, you’ve made me so happy!”

  He stiffened, pushed her away. “Remember where we are.”

  “Right.” Kevin Valente was a stickler for proper behavior. Even now, when people were beaming at them, father and daughter celebrating together, he thought about appearances. She straightened, returned to her seat, sat down. But no reprimand could stop her from grinning at him. “Thank you so much. I’ll never forget this as long as I live.”

  “Good.” He watched as the waiter brought a clean white linen napkin, flipped it open and placed it in her lap. “There is one condition.”

  “Anything!” She looked again at the itinerary, then leaned it against the pepper mill where she could gaze at it with wonder.

  “There’s a man living in the area.”

  She didn’t understand what he meant. But she knew she didn’t like his tone. “A man? In what area?”

  “In the Ural Mountains.” Father pulled a snapshot out of his jacket and pushed it across the table toward her.

  She glanced at it. The guy had been caught in profile. He was young, tall, with rugged features, broad shoulders, and a military haircut. He was laughing at someone off camera, and his amusement made her smile. Whoever he was, the man seemed likable—the kind who lived big and embraced life.

  “They want you to talk to him,” Father said.

  Her smile faded. “They?”

  “If you can convince him to come to New York City and talk to them about taking a position, they’ll forgive your student loans.”

  The excitement, the joy, the chill wind in her face faded as if they had never been. In a slow, deadly tone, she asked, “Father, is this the favor I crossed off the loan papers?”

  “You don’t cross anything off their loan papers. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Legally—”

  “Legally means nothing to those guys. They use legally to get their own way.”

  “I would never have signed if I had known that!”

  He got that look on his face, the one that sneered at her idealism. “For God’s sake, Genny. You’re not the same girl you were six years ago. You’ve interned for two summers. You know how business works now. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

  “I can pay back the loan.”

  “Be practical. It’ll take you as long to pay it back as it took you to accumulate it.”

  “The price of doing business,” she reminded him, the fire of her elation cooling in the pit of her belly.

  He slashed the air with his hand.

  She flinched back.

  “I promised them you’d handle this,” he said.

  She gripped the table edge so hard her knuckles ached. “You shouldn’t have promised what you can’t deliver.”

  “Then you don’t want to go?” He reached across and took the itinerary.

  She grabbed it and held on. “So it’s not really a present?”

  “It’s a present!”

  “With strings attached!”

  “I’m a goddamn UPS man. How do you think I can pay for a trip like this?”

  Steal the money? She was breathing hard. Sell your daughter?

  He’d done it again. Father had disappointed her again. He’d used her . . . Again. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe save up?”

  “I’m a goddamn UPS man,” he repeated.

  Like that made this less of a betrayal.

  Still she clutched the corner of the itinerary.

  She wanted this so badly.

  For the last six years of college and business school, she had seen her dreams fade.

  No, she had seen herself kill them. She ignored her ideals, her natural talents, her own desires. She had become a business major. She had turned her face away from the wilderness, from mountains and forests.

  From freedom.

  She had accepted the fact she would spend her life trapped in a steel-and-glass building, doing things she despised, being someone she hated.

  With one gesture, her father had ripped away her resignation. In one moment she remembered who she was meant to be, and she couldn’t bear to lose the . . . the mountains, the wildness, the good she could do in the world.

  “Well?” Her father raised his thin, dark eyebrows. She sat, breathing hard, wanting to keep to her principles, but . . . she could almost smell her destiny. “I have to convince him to come to New York City?” she asked slowly.

  “To return so they can talk to him.” Father carefully didn’t show triumph.

  “Is he a criminal?”

  “Not at all.” Father seemed to be choosing his words.

  “He had a few problems with his gift.”

  “His gift? Is this about the legend?” Her voice rose.

  “Sh!” Father looked around.

  “Am I still supposed to believe in the legend?”

  Father leaned forward, and spoke rapidly and softly. “We don’t talk about the legend in public. You know that. And what does it matter whether you believe in the legend or not? You can still do this favor.”

  “This guy is supposed to be Chosen?” She was still too loud, and probably she shouldn’t be. She didn’t want the people from the funny farm to come and take her away.

  “He is Chosen, and he needs help,” Father said persuasively. “You’d be doing him a favor.”

  In business school, they’d trained the students to be logical, to look at the issues. So which concern should she bring up first?

  That on her father’s urging, she’d minored in the Russian language in her undergrad studies—so obviously he, or someone, had been planning this for a long time?

  That he’d promised the Gypsy Travel Agency she would “handle” this matter?

  That he believed in the legend he’d taught her so many years ago, and apparently expected her to believe it, too?

  But if she pinned him down, wouldn’t he grow angry or evasive like he always did when she tried to talk about their relationship?

  She was such a coward. Her throat closed up every time she thought about confronting her father, and all because she was haunted by the sight of her mother’s back as she walked away.

  Genny didn’t want to be alone.

  So, hoarse with frustration, she said, “This . . . place, Rasputye, is a long way from Moscow. My Russian probably isn’t going to be appropriate for the area. He won’t understand me.”

  Father’s eyes sparkled the way they did when he knew he was winning. “He’s American.”

  “Is he violent?”

  “Of course not. I wouldn’t expose you to violence!”

  She didn’t believe her father. Not anymore. She didn’t believe him about a lot of things. She wished she could, but she didn’t.

  She hated it, but with the past six years of schooling, logic had made her turn a cool eye on her father’s legal problems and helped her realize . . . no one prosecuted his kind of white-collar crime unless they were sure of their facts.

  He was guilty. He had stolen the artifacts, sold them for an obscene profit, and even now he couldn’t admit that justice had been done.

  Her father was an unrepentant criminal.

  Even now, a few artifacts—the ones that had been appraised for nothing, she supposed—rattled around their house.

  “If this Chosen doesn’t want to come, what do I do then?” She knew Father would have an answer. He had an answer f
or everything.

  “All they ask is a good try on your part.” His dark eyes gleamed. “But, Genny, you aced Negotiations.”

  “I’ve got nothing to offer him, nothing to negotiate with.”

  “You don’t know that until you meet him.”

  Father wasn’t suggesting she sleep with this guy, was he? Even he wouldn’t prostitute his only child.

  But he would offer her an irresistible gift to get her to do what he wanted.

  He leaned forward, his tense posture matching hers. “If you do this, if they forgive your loan, I can move out of your grandparents’ home. With my help, you’ll get to the top fast. We could buy a condo in the city, live the way we used to, entertain, be important again.”

  “You’re going to sell Grandma and Grandpa’s house?” Her grandparents had lived there as long as she remembered. They had lived there until four years ago when they’d died within six months of each other. The house had been his childhood home.

  “It’s in the Bronx.” The way he said Bronx, he made it sound like a leper colony.

  Then he saw her revulsion, and changed tack. “If you go to Russia, you’ll spend a whole summer with your lynxes. You’ll get to observe them in their natural habitat. They’re an endangered species, and you’ll help save them.”

  Mountains.

  Wilderness.

  A deep, peaceful, soulful quiet.

  The chill wind in her face . . .

  She didn’t want to do this. It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. But . . .

  Freedom.

  “What else do you know about this gifted guy?” It was a surrender. She knew it. So did Father.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Start with his name.”

  He pushed the itinerary back across the table. “John Powell. His name . . . is John Powell.”

  Chapter 4

  Apasnee Airport

  Ural Mountains, Russia

  “That man will make you believe he’s the yeti.”

  Genny pulled her wheeled travel duffel off the airport luggage cart and wished the guy in the group by the door wasn’t so obviously projecting his voice so she could hear.“He’s got hair down to his shoulders and a beard to the middle of his chest, and his clothes look like a sheepskin factory exploded all over him. He’s the Abominable Snowman, but not as cute and furry.”

  The guy sported that short-guy cockiness. Personally, she would bet he whimpered when he got that tattoo around one wrist. He probably went in for both wrists and chickened out before the artist finished.

  Or maybe he was marked because he was Chosen.

  One corner of her mouth quirked in a smile, then drooped again.

  Chosen. She didn’t want to think about them, about her father and the deal he’d made, and John Powell. She wanted to—needed to—concentrate on the Ural lynx and what she was doing here.

  “The yeti’s got nothing on this head case.” Mr. Loud-mouth was American, obviously; a couple of years older than she, with a G.I.-surplus khaki shirt and reddish sandy hair cut into a long buzz that made his head look like a burr. His beard was exactly the same length and covered his jaw and chin, surrounding his freckled, pale-skinned face to create a monotone of color. In that overblown, dramatic tone, he said, “They say the yeti catches rats with his bare hands and eats them raw. They say he picks out a woman, watches her obsessively, then drags her away and when he’s done with her, she’s never interested in a man again.”

  “For God’s sake, Brandon, do we have to listen to that claptrap again this year?” There were two women and four men in the group, and the woman who spoke was young, attractive, East Indian, with black hair cut neatly around her shoulders and dark eyes with sweeping eyelashes. Her English was precise, faintly British, with only the faintest Hindi accent—and perhaps, the fact that she towered over Brandon by a good five inches may have had something to do with her open impatience.

  “Yes, and telling stories to frighten children is not why we are here.” The other woman had a heavy Russian accent and a heavier frown, which she bent on Brandon. “We are here to study the Ural lynx.”

  “I know, but look. The last member of our group has arrived, and she needs to be warned.” Brandon grinned at Genny. “You would hate to be abducted by a big hairy beast, wouldn’t you?”

  “Better than a short hairy beast,” muttered the East Indian woman.

  With a pugilist’s quick reflexes, Brandon turned on her. “Are you trying to pick a fight, Avni? Already?”

  “Shut up, children. I’m not listening to you fight all summer.” The Russian woman stuck out her hand. “Genesis Valente?”

  “Genny.” Genny shook hands. “You’re Lubochka Koslov. I’m a big admirer of yours.”

  Lubochka was middle-aged and attractive with pale skin, short dark hair, and dark eyes; six feet tall and big boned with swimmer’s shoulders and man hands. “Genesis, this is Misha Sokolov, my assistant.” She indicated a squat, middle-aged man with wire-rimmed glasses and dark, thinning hair. “He’ll work out your schedule and give you direction.”

  “I’m honored to be accepted on your team.” Genny shook his hand.

  Genny had used Russian language software day and night to prepare for this trip, but she didn’t need a translation for Misha’s grunt of response. She knew what that meant: someone paid us well for the privilege.

  Yes, someone had, the Gypsy Travel Agency.

  And she . . . she would pay, too, when she found the Chosen and tried to persuade him to return to New York City.

  But she shied away from that thought, ashamed that she’d so desperately wanted this adventure she’d been willing to agree to the terms. More than that, she was embarrassed because for those few minutes after her father had presented her with the itinerary, she had believed . . . believed her father wanted her to be happy. Buried so deep, she didn’t dare admit she felt the old, familiar hurt of knowing he didn’t care at all.

  But although she suppressed a jumble of feelings, one floated along the top of her consciousness. No matter why her father had given her this present, no matter why she accepted it—this was three months of freedom before she began work to repair Father’s reputation and their finances. And nothing and nobody, not even Brandon the Short, was going to ruin it for her.

  Lubochka continued the introductions. “Reggie Caverlock, English, first year here, but he’s a respected wildlife expert with many years in the field.” Lubochka’s brown eyes twinkled with anticipation.

  “I’m Scottish, actually. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Valente.” Reggie had the accent and voice of Gerard Butler. Unfortunately, the face didn’t match up. It was a lived-in face, a face that had seen a lot in his forty years, the face of a sun-worshiper, a drinker, a smoker, and. . . . And then he smiled.

  Genny caught her breath.

  Oh, yes, he was a womanizer, too. His hazel eyes crinkled in the corners, his generous lips quirked cynically, and his lived-in face reminded her of . . . of George Clooney. Reggie Caverlock was a charmer who had seduced many a girl out of her panties.

  “Good to meet you.” She tried to shake his hand. He kissed her knuckles.

  Avni bumped her shoulder. “Don’t pay attention to Reggie. He’s a piece of work.” But she sounded affectionate, as if he’d already kissed her knuckles. “I’m Avni Patel, this is my third year here, and I guess my last. I graduated from Oxford this year and I’m going back to India to work in wildlife studies there.”

  “We’ll miss her. Avni has been the best at catching and photographing lynx in daylight. They are seldom seen then, but she is able to remain so motionless, they don’t realize she is around.” Lubochka whipped around and glared once more at Brandon. “Unlike some people who fidget so much, we have only photos of the great cats’ hindquarters as they run away!”

  “I have bad luck,” Brandon muttered.

  Genny lifted her eyebrows at Avni.

  Avni pointed at Brandon and rubbed her fingertips together sugge
stively.

  He’d paid for the right to be here. So Genny wasn’t the only one.

  Lubochka introduced him abruptly. “Brandon Lam.”

  As Genny shook his hand, he squeezed it meaningfully. “I’ve been doing this two years. If you have any problems, you let me know and I’ll help you out.”

  “Thank you.” Genny already knew she wouldn’t go to him if she was being attacked by ten yetis.

  “Thorsen Rasmussen, an amateur observer so talented we invited him to drop in at any time.” Lubochka smiled at the tall, pale, thin Dane with obvious affection.

  Avni stood behind them and rubbed her fingers together again.

  Okay. So Genny needed to get together with Avni, because Avni was the one who had the goods on the team. “I need to use the restroom before we leave,” Genny said.

  “Me too.” Avni picked up her battered suitcase and headed toward the sign.

  Genny followed.

  “Hurry up. We’re late already,” Lubochka shouted.

  “I’ve got to go, too,” Brandon said.

  “No, you don’t.” Lubochka snapped her fingers at him like he was a dog. “You help Misha carry the bags.”

  In a loud, sullen voice, Brandon asked, “What is it with women having to go to the bathroom together?”

  “It’s so I can tell her what a snot you are, you little pipsqueak.” Avni projected her voice, too; then she and Genny hustled into the chipped, bare, utilitarian restroom.

  Genny looked around and grimaced.

  Avni laughed. “Europeans aren’t as fussy as Americans about their creature comforts, and the Russians are particularly hearty. Wait until you get to Rasputye. We’re at the inn, built before the 1917 Russian Revolution. It makes this look like luxury. Did you bring toilet paper?”

  “Camper’s TP.” Genny took one open stall.

  Avni took the other. “Guard it with your life.” She lowered her voice and talked fast. “The walls are thin everywhere in Russia, so always figure someone’s listening.”

  Genny looked around uneasily. “Got it.”

  “Here’s the deal. Lubochka will accept anyone on the team if they pay for the privilege. She’d make a pact with the devil himself to save even one of her lynxes. But she is absolutely uninterested in the team except as employees and fact-gatherers. She’ll throw your ass out if you don’t perform. Brandon had to pay more this year than last to come back because he’s such a loser.”