Kiss Across Worlds (Kiss Across Time Book 7) Read online

  It was three in the afternoon and already the cooler air was settling in for the evening. The slight breeze would make the leaves stir as she walked. Now, though, London’s simple pleasure had been marred.

  She couldn’t help but worry about the home as she walked. They were always running so close to the line, despite being a high-end home in a select suburb that could charge exclusive pricing for their services.

  If her flight had not been booked months ago, she would have tried to find a way to help out tomorrow, even if it had been a day off. She didn’t have many full days off, although the home insisted she take some.

  The trip to Serbia, though, was non-negotiable. Kristijan would make sure she got on that plane, as he usually did, by sending Remi to escort her to Božidarko.

  She glanced at her watch. Remi may already be at the flat, sitting in the back of the private taxi, waiting with simmering impatience for her to be ready to leave. He never stepped into the flat. He just waited out the front, scaring her neighbors with his scowl and his sarcasm, if he spoke at all.

  With a sigh, London dug through her handbag and withdrew the little box she kept the hated ring in. She put the plain gold band on her left hand, so that Remi would see it there. He noticed everything and reported back to Kristijan. London had learned in one painful lesson that Kristijan did not appreciate her taking the ring off.

  She was no longer in the mood to linger and appreciate the trees and the crisp city air and the smell of damp earth. She quickened her pace, heading directly for the flat.

  As she turned on Astell Street, she saw the dark gray Mercedes-Benz sitting at the curb, the air in front of the exhaust pipe shimmering, telling her the car was idling. No large, dark shape waited in the back seat for her.

  She hurried forward and bent to tap on the driver’s window. The middle-aged man lowered it and smiled at her with crooked teeth. “Miss McCallum.”

  “Barney, where is Denis Sauvet?” she asked, using Remi’s public name. “Did he go inside?”

  Barney looked troubled. “’e didn’t show up at the airport, miss. So I came ‘ere, as you’ve got a plane to catch.”

  London glanced at her watch again. They would have to battle evening traffic to get to Heathrow. She couldn’t linger any more than she had already. “I’ll get my suitcase and be down directly,” she told him.

  “No worries. I can get that for yer.” He turned off the motor and got out.

  “No, really, I can see to it,” she assured him.

  “A pretty thing like you, ‘auling suitcases about? What sort of driver would I be?” He moved around the bonnet and stepped onto the footpath.

  “It’s on the top floor,” she told him flatly.

  He looked up at the sixth floor. “Oh.” He shrugged. “Well, it’s all good for the waist, isn’t it? Come on, then.”

  “Barney, you’ve never carried my luggage before,” she pointed out as she opened the front door of the building.

  “Never been ‘ere without the big one,” he said with a shrug.

  They climbed up to her level and London unlocked the front door and pointed to the small bench just inside. “Please wait. I won’t be a moment. I just have to gather some last minute things. You know.” She gave him a small smile.

  “Right you are, then.” He settled on the bench and looked around the flat curiously. Because it was on the top floor, it was airy and bright, for most of the front wall of the flat was made of glass, which bent to follow the line of the roof for another dozen feet. It was like living in a conservatory. She always missed her flat when she was forced to leave, as she did now.

  London hurried through to her bedroom. The suitcase was lying open on her bed, where she had left it this morning. She gathered her toiletries and other final items and was zipping up the suitcase when the thought stuck her, making her pause with the zip half-undone.

  Remi had not come from Serbia to collect her. He wasn’t here to make sure she got on the plane, as he usually was. Why should she go at all? She could pay Barney and tell him to go on his way. Kristijan could do nothing about it, sitting in Božidarko.

  Except he would do something about it. He had been clear about the terms and conditions under which he would allow her to return to England. These bi-monthly trips to Serbia were one of those conditions. In the six years they had been married, London had learned that Kristijan kept his word. On everything.

  She sighed and closed her suitcase and locked it, then picked up the cabin bag and wheeled the case out to the front where Barney was waiting.

  He got to his feet. “Beats me how a lady like yourself can fly off to another country and live out of a tiny little case like that. Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

  “Božidarko is not exactly the center of fashion,” London told him, “and I’m not there for a holiday.” It came out stiffer than she intended. It wasn’t Barney’s fault she was facing another horrible two weeks in Serbia.

  Barney’s expression altered and became polite and neutral. He took the handle of her case. “All set?”

  “I suppose, yes, thank you.”

  He took the case downstairs, while London finished locking up and walked down to the car. She settled in the back seat as normal and Barney got the car moving with the soft purr of a well-turned engine.

  The journey to Heathrow took nearly an hour at this time of the day. Normally, with Remi sitting next to her, the journey was a tense one. London had assumed that without him there, she would be able to relax, yet it wasn’t so.

  The closer they got to Heathrow, the more her heart worked. There was no way out of this. Even with Remi mysteriously missing, she was as locked into the arrangement as she had ever been.

  She realized she was working her fingers together nervously and tried to stop. Perhaps she should read, now that Barney was silent, subdued by her caustic response in the flat. Her book about the building of the pyramids was in her cabin bag, right next to her. Yet she had no interest in reading right now. She didn’t think she could summon enough concentration necessary to make sense of the dry prose.

  With no one to talk to and nothing to distract her, she found herself on familiar mental territory. Why, oh why, was she doing what Kristijan demanded of her? How had she got into this hateful situation? Would she ever be free of him? She couldn’t live any sort of a decent life while he was standing over her the way he did. All the way from Serbia, he was still directing her days.

  And yet…and yet, the question gnawed at her. Had something happened? Why was Remi not here to take her back to Serbia? What had gone wrong?

  As much as she hated Kristijan and the freak monster who was part of his life, she couldn’t help worrying. She had to go there now just to find out what had happened.

  Besides, Kristijan would make her life far, far more miserable, if she didn’t.

  * * * * *

  Neven told himself it was patience that made him come back here so often. Patience that was now being rewarded.

  He made his way carefully through the thick swathes of tourists and fair-goers, trying to keep an eye on the cluster of black-coated men just ahead of him. It was Božidarko’s two hundred and third annual cheese fair. The autumn day was perfectly sunny and mild, bringing more than the usual turnout, according to the gossip he heard from the stall owners.

  The streets of Božidarko were narrow to begin with. As the village clung to the side of a steep valley, the ancient cobbles had a habit of dropping down a step or two and sometimes whole flights of steps, in order to cling to the sloping land. As the men Neven was following were heading downhill, it was twice as difficult to follow them. Each time Neven found himself on the edge of one of the steps, he would pause to look ahead, over the shoulders and backs of people moving ahead of him, to spot the group.

  The smell of cheese and savory stews and preserves on crackers was overpowering, making his mouth water. The sharp, tart smell of cheese warming in the sun was irresistible, which made following
the men even harder.

  Every table lining Božidarko’s main street and all around the central square was covered in produce. Most of it was the round local cheeses, although the cheesemakers in the area tried their hands at all sorts of international varieties, hoping to win the approval of the judges. Gruyere, brie, mozzarella, parmesan, blue cheese, Edam, even simple cheddar, were on display. There were soft cheeses, goat cheeses and all the modern twists—cheese with peppers, flavored cheese, colored cheese.

  The cheeses were for sale, although there were more than enough trays of samples that one could eat their fill and not bother about lunch, as most of the tourists were doing. Neven ignored the trendy versions and freely sampled the traditional cheeses, which were good. He would pick a sample, then murmur his thanks and move on before the locals inveigled him in conversation and learned how dusty his Serbian was.

  Besides, he had to keep watch.

  The men ahead of him were moving through the fair with the slow amble of royalty inspecting their subjects. The one in the lead was the most imperious of the lot. His dark blonde hair stood out among the many black Serbian heads. It wasn’t just his hair and his pale coloring that drew the eye.

  Jovan’s dossier on Denis Remi De Sauveterre was thorough, although even the historian vampire admitted that much of what he compiled was educated speculation. If he was right, though, then the man that Neven was watching was French and possibly a nobleman who had survived the Revolution, which made him a rarity.

  The men that walked alongside Remi De Sauveterre were all Serbian-style thugs. They were tall, wide shouldered and tended to stare at the world through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Their coats were all tailored to hide the gun rigs beneath and they had a way of jerking their hands towards their coats whenever they were startled.

  They were the dukes of the village. In a thick crowd of people that forced everyone to step around each other, Kristijan Zoric’s men moved like stately ships, with zero deviation, while everyone else shifted out of their way with startled glances and drawn faces.

  If they were the dukes, then Remi De Sauveterre was the prince. While his men kept a weather eye upon anyone who got too close to them, brushing them away with raised elbows, or nudges with their hands and bodies, Remi moved freely among them. No one got in his way. Not even his own men.

  Neven had seen this group of men walking through the village before. Every time it was the same. Even Remi’s men would not look at Remi directly unless he spoke to them first. Even then, their gazes would skitter away quickly. They were uneasy, dealing with him, these thick-skinned and hardened men.

  They all carried guns, while Remi De Sauveterre did not.

  “He couldn’t hit a barn standing inside it,” Jovan had observed dryly. “He wasn’t raised to handle one. He was a gentleman. Although we’re only talking handguns, now. If he picked up a rifle, I’d get the fuck out of the way and quickly, too.”

  The lack of a gun rig and a distorting lump beneath his coat confirmed that Remi De Sauveterre did not carry a pistol. He was still a stone-cold killer, though. He didn’t need a gun for that. He had other ways.

  Jovan’s files had been comprehensive, yet Neven had learned much more just from watching the princely progression through the village. Remi and his men quartered the village every week or so, giving Neven an excellent opportunity to observe them from close enough to avoid being spotted.

  A hand grabbed Neven’s elbow and he whirled, his heart climbing out of his chest, bringing his hands up defensively.

  Aran Gallagher-Gerhardsson stepped back, raising his own hands, an impish grin on his face. “Peace, dude,” he said. His voice was just like his father’s—smooth and musical in cadence. Not quite a baritone, yet deep and resonant.

  Oddly, it was his twin sister who was the singer of the pair. Neven had heard Alannah sing. When she did, his scalp prickled and he would shiver in reaction. When he listened to Alannah he thought he could understand why singers had been celebrated throughout history.

  Aran liked music just as much as his sister and as much as every seventeen-year-old did, only his skill was with instruments. He could play anything and after a few minutes of experiment, he would produce viable music, no matter what the instrument. His real interest, though, was the piano, although he was still in denial about the draw of the instrument. Aran wanted to be cool, to be into heavy metal and rock bands like Brody.

  He spent a lot of time getting into mischief in areas that had nothing to do with music. Which was why he was here now.

  Neven relaxed. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “You know it’s not safe.”

  “I’m a lot safer here than you are. You know what those guys would do if they saw you, right? They’ll think you’re Kristijan Zoric…or someone pretending to be him.” He nodded towards Remi and his men, who were now climbing down the steps towards the market square, where the bulk of the festival was taking place.

  Neven pulled his brimmed hat down deeper. “I’m being careful.”

  “My dads would both freak if they knew how often you came here,” Aran added.

  “I have no plans to tell them,” Neven said coolly. “Do you?”

  “Shit, no,” Aran said. “They’ll get pissed at me for not telling them sooner.” He grabbed a small triangle of cheese off a table as they passed.

  “Say thank you,” Neven told him sternly.

  Aran thanked the stall owner in Serbian. The owner beamed at him, despite Aran’s horrible accent.

  Aran stepped up alongside Neven as they eased their way down the stairs to the market square. “Still no sign of Kristijan?” he asked.

  “Not today.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “He owns the village,” Neven said. “That doesn’t mean he has to show up all the time. He has people for that.” He jerked his chin towards the men. Remi De Sauveterre was circling the square, stopping to talk to stall owners, shaking hands and discussing whatever gang lieutenants did.

  Aran looked around. “You’d never know this whole town was one big crime scene.”

  They were speaking English, yet Neven glanced around anyway. “Use Greek,” he told him, using Greek himself. “There are too many people who know English, even here.” The Greek they were using was an ancient dialect they had picked up from jumping. They had both worked to preserve it for moments like this.

  Aran grimaced. “I like cheese well enough. It’s not why I jumped here, though.”

  Neven smiled. “What was her name? Dajana? I think her father’s stall is in the south corner of the square.”

  Aran’s cheeks reddened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly. Like Neven, his Greek was flawless, because he had learned it through time travelling, unlike his Serbian, which he was trying to learn the natural way. “It’s my folks, Neven. They’re looking for you. Wondering where you are. Well, Marit is, anyway. I think she’s looking for you because they told her to find you. You know what Marit is like.”

  “Relentless,” Neven said with a nod. “A few more minutes and we’ll head back,” he added. “I can get a lot closer today than I normally could.”

  “Why bother?” Aran asked as they climbed down a few more steps. Then they came to a halt because of the number of people in front of them. He looked around the square. “They’re bad people. What else do you need to know?”

  Neven didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he would be able to answer in a way that would satisfy Aran’s black and white attitude. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself. Why did he keep coming back here? What did he hope to learn? Kristijan Zoric, who was the version of himself that actually belonged to this timeline, instead of gate-crashing it as Neven had done, was rarely seen outside the well-patrolled borders of his estate just outside the village.

  How could Neven explain to Aran the morbid curiosity that drove him back here? He wanted to understand what had happened. He wanted to know why Kristijan Zoric, who was essentially him, h
ad turned into the man he was. Kristijan ran a crime empire that spread across most of Eastern Europe and he was good at it. How had the man they had both once been turned into a crime lord?

  “Hey, you said a couple more minutes,” Aran breathed, leaning closer to him as they stepped down to the last couple of steps before the cobbles evened out and the square opened up. From their position on the steps, they could see across the whole square and the sea of bodies moving between the stalls and tables. Music sounded—something folksy played on a guitar with a drum accompanying it. It was muffled beneath the noise of people talking, yet it was a cheerful note.

  “There’s Dajana,” Aran said, sounding happy. He was staring at the far corner. Neven had spotted Dajana’s father’s stall there earlier in the morning, when he had been wandering around the still-quiet square, waiting for someone from the estate to show up. Someone would turn up. Neven had been hoping it would be Kristijan himself, on such a significant day in Božidarko’s year.

  Instead, Remi had arrived in a long-nosed car with darkened windows. The king’s representative, rather than the king himself. Neven had stifled his disappointment and followed Remi and his men around anyway, to see what he could learn.

  The men were approaching Dajan’s stall now. The doe-eyed girl behind the table wasn’t looking at them. She was looking over their shoulders, with a sunny smile on her pretty face.

  Neven was startled to realize she was looking at Aran. “Have you two been meeting behind my back?” he demanded suspiciously.

  “Nope,” Aran said. “I promised I wouldn’t. Staying out of local affairs, right?”

  Neven frowned. “Then why is she smiling at you?’

  “Because I’m a cool American?” Aran shrugged, although he was smiling back at her.

  “How would she know that if you’ve never spoken to her?” Neven demanded. “Aran, we’ve talked about this…”

  “I told you, I haven’t. And I haven’t,” Aran shot back, a frown of his own appearing. Then his eyes widened. “Holy shit, did you see that? That guy just picked up the whole box of cheese on her table!”