CLOSE WINDOW
By Kresley Cole
"If you run, I will catch you. It's what I do."
—Aleksandr "The Siberian" Sevastyan, Bratva enforcer, former prizefighter
"Heading off to a Russian gangsterland. With a twisted enforcer who's hotter than the sun.
What could possibly go wrong?"
—Natalie Marie Porter, grad student
From: NataliePorter@huskers.unl.edu
Sent: Saturday 2:51 PM
To: caseworker03@russian-ancestry-DNA.com
Subject: Don't keep me in suspense. . . .
Dear Mr. Zironoff,
Sorry to e-mail you yet again, but I was so excited to learn of the potential DNA match you discovered last month. After six years of searching for my biological parents, I'd love to hear back from you, even if the lead didn't pan out. I've tried calling, but your voice mailbox is full. I don't have enough money to start over with a new investigator, so could you please respond?
Sincerely,
Natalie Porter
____________________
From: NataliePorter@huskers.unl.edu
Sent: Thursday 1:14 AM
To: caseworker03@russian-ancestry-DNA.com
Subject: Response needed!
Dear Mr. Zironoff,
I'm starting to get worried, so please write me back. You gave me such hope that I would soon find my mother and father. I can wire the last of my savings to you. Anything.
But I need you to respond.
Sincerely,
Natalie
____________________
Sent: Thursday 1:15 AM
To: NataliePorter@huskers.unl.edu
Subject: Mail delivery failed
The following address(es) failed: caseworker03@russian-ancestry-DNA.com
Mailbox is FULL
"Mommy issues. Serial cheater. Humor void. Two-pump chump." With each guy who entered the campus bar, I ticked off my initial impression to my drunken friends.
I had an uncanny knack for sizing up males—I was a regular "manalyst." My secret? I always went negative, and the guys, well, they always accommodated.
The girls at the table—several of my roommate's friends and a couple of mine—looked at me like I was a fun sideshow act, their carny pal. Drinks were perpetually free.
After the week I'd had, my dinner of salt, tequila, and lime was hitting the spot.
My best friend Jessica murmured at my ear, "You better be careful, you picky prude, or else you'll take your hymen to your grave. Like a skin tag."
She alone knew that I'd never given it up—and why. "Low blow, Jess," I said without any heat. Like her, it took a lot to get me ruffled, which was one of the reasons we made such great roommates.
Other than that, we were as different as we could be. Whereas she was leggy and tan with twinkling blue eyes and cropped black hair, I was short and top-heavy, with long red hair and pale-as-a-porcelain-sink skin.
I was a workaholic studyaholic, pursuing my history PhD. After years' worth of incompletes, Jess had finally dipped a toe into the core courses of her major—leisure studies—and decided college was "a racket" for "wretched fucks." Though it was midsemester, she was heading out tomorrow for a tour of the Greek Isles with her wealthy family.
Another round of tequila shooters arrived, sent by a trio of frat boys a few tables away. We raised our glasses, then dutifully licked, pounded, and sucked. The tequila, not the boys.
Where other women might look at these superficially attractive guys and see potential mates or even fun one-night stands, I saw impending headaches. Other girls got hot and bothered by their lines and pickups; I just got bothered.
But I hadn't always been that way.
"Do the frat boys, Nat!" our friend Polly cried. She was a sturdy Omaha corn-fed girl—her family's farm was just a few miles away from ours. Well, not ours anymore, since Mom had sold out last year.
"Too easy," I said, having already sized up the trio. The first guy had been constantly checking sports scores on TV while his leg jogged. The second was a bleary mess whose own friends rolled their eyes at his drunkenness. The third one's grooming and clothing were fanatically perfect, and he kept checking his appearance in the mirror behind the bar.
"From left to right, then?" I said. "Inveterate gambler, habitual drunk, and—how should I put this?—the third is ill-equipped."
I sighed. Yep, those guys were too easy to read. Where was the excitement? Here I was at the same Lincoln bar I always went to, with the same crowd I always hung around. I had an early work shift tomorrow at one restaurant, a late one at the other, and classes to take and to teach on Monday. I'd been averaging five hours of sleep a night for the last few weeks. What was I even doing here?
I guessed I could sleep when I was dead.
"I've chosen my quarry for the evening," beautiful Jess said. "Ill-equipped is mine." As per her usual, she would pick up another conquest and take him back to his place—so she could leave when finished with him. "His type," she continued blithely, "usually make up for any shortcomings with their mouths. True story."
I told her, "And you better be careful, Jessebel, or else you'll collect another admirer who clings like lichen."
"I can't help it that this is the Bermuda Triangle"—she pointed at her crotch—"when guys venture there, they tend to stay."
I tapped my chin. "Oh, I thought you called it that because it's sucked in lots of seamen."
Between guffaws, she said, "That's a completely fair statement!"
We could laugh about it now, but I'd lived with the aftermath of her affairs: the desperate gifts, the late-night phone calls, the stalking.
What was the point of all the drama? Of all that angst? Dating, love, and sex were all overrated—as I'd repeatedly tried to explain to Jess. She would get this secretive smile and say, "You're gonna get blindsided one day. I only hope I'm there to see it. . . ."
When the laughter died down, Polly said, "Do him," with a wave at the door.
"Fine." Exhaling with boredom—earn your booze, carny—I turned toward the entrance. And saw the baddest-looking man I'd ever encountered.
His eyes were a vivid gold, stark against his thick black hair. He wore it longish, the ends brushing his collar. He had a roman nose that had likely been broken and a razor-thin scar that sliced down across both lips. A fighter?
Yet that didn't fit with his expensive clothing: a tailored black coat and dress shirt, dark gray slacks, black leather shoes and belt. Through Jess, I'd learned enough about fashion to recognize fine threads. His outfit probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
When he stood at the bar and ordered a drink, I saw that he had three rings on one hand, a ring on his other thumb, and a wicked-looking tattoo peeking out from his starch-stiff collar. His style was a mix of privileged and street.
He was tall, with a lean, muscular build, and looked maybe twenty-nine or thirty, but his face was weary, as an older man's would be. With those rough-hewn features, he was ruggedly handsome, yet not classically so.
There was an aura of ennui about him, but he also seemed hyper-alert. What the hell? My internal manalyzer whirred with confusion. Does not compute!
I could feel my friends staring at me, but I was at a loss. "I . . . I got nothing." Was he a brawler or a rich playboy or both? I was also sensing top notes of European—along with strong undertones of dangerous!
He was like a history book written in a script I'd never seen. Fascinating.
Jess pinched my side, drawing my attention to her smug grin. "You can close your mouth now, hooker." In a patronizing tone, she said, "Welcome to my world—where first meetings are always in slo-mo and the song 'At Last' repeats on a loop."
No, no, her world was angsty and overwrought. So why had my gaze darted back to the man?
"That's one hot piece of tackle—in a cage-fighter/GQ model mash-up kind of way." Jess wasn't going to let this go. "Probably gets more ass than a toilet seat. But he got you to look twice, which makes him a rare and wondrous creature, this bar's very own unicorn. Requires closer investigation, don't you think?"
I could question him, type him, then discard all thoughts of him. I was just tipsy enough to consider it. "I should go up and introduce myself?"
She nodded. "Unless you're a twat. Now, go forth with confidence, for you look cute-iful tonight."
Jess's style was SEXY GLAM! Mine? See-me-love-me, motherfleckers. Yet tonight, I was wearing a hip-hugging short suede skirt and a slinky red top—one of Jess's fashion-forward, low-cut numbers. For once, my bra wasn't a minimizer.
This outfit had come about because the clothes I'd normally wear—jeans and a turtleneck—were all in an overflowing laundry hamper. I'd worn the black knee-high boots Jess had bought me, to show appreciation in front of her.
I rose, smoothed my wavy hair over my shoulder, then tugged down my skirt, prompting Jess to give me a loud slap on the ass for encouragement. As I passed their table, Ill-Equipped and Habitual Drunk raised their glasses to me, which didn't hurt my confidence.
Once I was halfway over to Badass, his eyes locked on me. His gaze grew heated, and immediately the area felt smaller, warmer. I squelched the urge to fan myself. For the first time in my life, I was a little . . . giddy.
When I sidled up to him at the bar, he turned fully to me. Up close, he was even more intimidating, even more attractive. Taller than I'd thought.
His spellbinding eyes were the color of amber, irises ringed with black.
As I noted additional details—scarred knuckles; tattoos on his fingers under those rings; chiseled jawline clean-shaven—I perceived the heat coming off his big body. Then I got my first mind-numbing hit of his scent.
Crisp, masculine, intoxicating.
Blindsiding.
Speak, Nat. I had to look up to face him. "Uh, hi, I'm Natalie." I offered him my hand to shake. He didn't take it. Okay . . . I swallowed. "Can I buy you a drink?" Was that a vodka rocks he'd ordered? He didn't look like a 7&7 type of guy.
He canted his head, studying my face—the same way I studied men's expressions. Still he said nothing. Maybe he didn't speak the language. UNL had a lot of overseas students. "Drink?" I pointed to his untouched glass and mimed a shot.
His expression gave away so little, it was like I was talking to a wall.
As my cheeks flushed, I muttered, "Sooo, this went well. Good talk, buddy." With a mortified smile, I turned around—
A callused palm closed around my elbow, his rings cool compared to his skin. The contact was so electric, I shivered.
"Wait," he said. Had there been a subtle v sound to that w?
"Are you from Russia?" I added, "Zdrav-stvooi-tee." Hello.
He still cupped my elbow. How could his hand be so hot? I stifled imaginings of him cupping other parts of me, those hands spreading heat in their wake. . . .
"You speak my language, then?"
Bingo, a Russian! "A bit," I said with delight. I could grill him about the country, learning more about my birthplace! "I took a class or two." Or four. My master's had required fluency in a second language, and I'd chosen Russian.
He swept his glance around, his stance alert, as if someone might throw a punch at any second. Then he met my gaze once more. "Of all the men in this bar, you choose me to approach?" His English was very good, though heavily accented. "Are you looking for trouble?"
With a confidence I didn't feel, I teasingly said, "Maybe I am." I sounded breathy—I still hadn't caught my breath since he'd first touched me. "Have I found it?"
He glanced down, seeming surprised that he was still holding my arm. He abruptly released me, growing angrier by the second. "No, little girl. You have not." With a disgusted look, he turned away and stalked out.
I stared at the door, battling my bewilderment. What just happened? I'd seen interest in his gaze, hadn't I?
Yet then he'd acted like a vampire who'd discovered I was a fucking sunbeam.
"What the hell, did you bite him?" "Did you insult his manhood?" "Let me smell your breath."
I'd stayed at the bar long enough to take my ribbing, because it was deserved and because I was a good goddamned sport. In general, I tried not to take myself too seriously—I called myself "the manalyst," after all. My life's motto: Joke 'em if they can't take a fuck.
A few shots later, I'd made my farewells and drunkenly set out for home, the pad I shared with Jess about five blocks away.
Tons of students were out, blowing off steam before midterms. It was a chilly fall night, with a full moon overhead. I pulled my jacket tighter. This close to harvest, the smell of ripe corn carried on the air—always a time of excitement for me since I was a farm girl at heart.
Yet another hand-holding couple passed me, and I gazed after them with a little wistfulness. Even if I had zero tolerance for men and their drama, I wouldn't mind having someone to snuggle up with this winter.
Someone to notice that my hands were cold and to hold them between his own.
Don't think of the Russian, don't think of . . .
Too late. I didn't exactly see myself strolling around campus all fa la la with a guy like that. But there'd been something about him—
A sudden sense that I was being watched hit me. Running a palm over my nape, I swept a glance around me. I only saw students meandering the streets, crowding into and out of various bars.
Probably just the tequila getting to me. Or stress from this week's insane work schedule. Safety-wise, the only scary thing about this campus was its deadly dullness.
Shaking off my unease, I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked e-mail. Nothing from Zironoff. I was beginning to think I'd gotten scammed by my investigator. It wouldn't be the first time one of them had ripped me off. Had I blown a year of tips on that DNA dickwad?
There was an e-mail from Mom, wondering why I was working so much, worrying. If she ever found out about my quest, she'd take it personally, and we didn't need any more friction between us.
Finally home, I meandered up the long walk that wound through our big yard. Our place was a cute mid-century bungalow, owned by Jess's parents. She called it the Bunghole, a perfect indication of her maturity level.
Inside, I shed my coat on the way to the kitchen. Chilled Gatorade, my secret hangover preventative, awaited me.
Hearing a sound from the front of the house, I called from the fridge, "Jess, that you?" I sounded tanked. "Whatcha doing back?" Maybe she'd struck out for once? We could commiserate.
No answer. I shrugged—the Bunghole emitted more banging and moans than a porn set.
I closed the fridge. Half of the door was covered with glossy pics from Jess's pervasive fashion magazines. My half was covered with postcards. She sent them from all the exciting locales she visited each break. Though I had an open invitation from her family and yearned to travel, I was constantly working. I'd never even been outside of the Midwest.
I'd never seen a seashore, much less the Eiffel Tower.
If I had a dollar for every time I'd gazed at these cards while promising myself, One day . . . well, I wouldn't need to work three jobs.
After downing my Gatorade dose, I swerved to my room, knotting my hair atop my head for a bath. Minutes later, when I eased back into the steaming water, another wave of drunken disappointment settled over me.
Now that I'd crashed and burned on my first pickup, I had to wonder how guys kept hitting on women, forever risking rejection. I mused over all the men I'd turned down—had I torpedoed their mojo?
I just couldn't figure out why that Russian had been so angry. And what the hell had been so off-putting about me? I wasn't a beauty like Jess, but I'd had male interest ever since I'd sprouted mammaries.
Curious, I ran my palms down my legs. They were fit from standing for hours on end while waiting tables, just as my arms were lean from hefting trays.
My hands ascended to my hips. Admittedly, they were wide, but my waist was narrow. And my breasts? They were fairly big, bobbing now in the water, coral-colored nipples puckering just above the surface. My rack had been on display tonight; that Russian hadn't given it a second glance.
But what if I hadn't repelled him? What would those hot, rough palms of his have felt like kneading my chest? At the thought, I experienced a surge of arousal so strong it startled me. My nipples stiffened even more. When the bathwater lapped at them, my breath hitched.
I'd talked to him for less than two minutes, seen him for less than ten, and his effect on me was this strong?
To hell with it—he could spurn me all he wanted to, but he couldn't keep me from fantasizing about him. With a mental Screw you, Russian, I reached between my legs to stroke, picturing his broad shoulders, his square jawline, his mouth. Those hooded golden eyes.
Even in the water, I could tell how slick my pussy had grown, my forefinger gliding along my lips, parting them. When I reached my clitoris, I found it swollen and supersensitive.
Sighing with need, I began to rub the bud in slow circles. My lids slid shut, and my knees fell wide against the sides of the tub. With my free hand, I petted my breasts, thumbing my nipples till they strained. . . .
I debated fetching one of my trusty vibrators from under the bed. But then I pictured the Russian kissing down my torso with that scorching expression, and realized B.O.B. could sit this one out.
Though I'd never had a guy go down on me, I could all but see the Russian's dark head between my thighs as he began to lick. Another stroke had me undulating in the water, gasping. His lips would be firm against my weeping flesh as he hungrily tongued me. He'd want me wetter and wetter, and I'd oblige.
In this fantasy, my aching clit wasn't throbbing against my finger, but against his greedy tongue.
As my body tensed for my orgasm, every inch of me seemed to gather in on itself, like a star about to explode. I rubbed my palm over my taut nipples, another shot of stimulation. So close, only a couple more strokes . . . I cracked open my eyes to watch myself writhing in the throes. Corner of my vision, strangest thing . . . through the steam, I thought I saw the Russian.
In my doorway, gazing down at me with smoldering eyes.
Broad chest heaving as he gnashed his teeth.
Muscles tensed as if he was about to fall upon me.
I squinted through the haze. Surely my muddled mind was imagining this? Was I that drunk? I was right at the razor's edge of coming, my toes already curling. As I met his mesmerizing imaginary gaze, my sneaky finger decided to give my clit one more shudder-inducing flick.
He exhaled sharply, big hands opening and closing. His expression said that he was about to seize my body and eat me up, bit by little bit.
So close . . . Then it registered that he was actually standing in the doorway of my bathroom.
The Russian had broken into my house and was spying on me, like some psycho!
I shot upright, drawing a breath to scream, but he cut me off: "Cover yourself, Natalie." His voice was rough, his brows drawn tight. "We need to talk." With a vile curse in Russian, he strode off.
Cover myself? Talk?
Night-stalker-serial-killers didn't say shit like that!
I was so confounded, I couldn't manage a scream. My mouth moved, but no words came out. I scrambled from the tub, reaching for a towel, and secured it around me. Even in the midst of this turmoil, I hissed in a breath as the terry cloth rubbed my nipples.
Casting around for a weapon, I plucked off the cover of the toilet tank, hefting it over my shoulder in a batter's pose. From the safety of the bathroom, I called, "I don't know what you're doing in my house. But you need to leave now. Or I'll call the cops!"
"I was sent here by your father," he replied from my bedroom.
I swayed, and my makeshift weapon faltered. Considering his Russian accent—and the timing—I knew he had to be talking about my biological father. Still I said, "My dad died six years ago."
"You know that's not the one I'm referring to."
In a rush, I demanded, "What do you know about him? Who are you? Why did you break into my house?"
"Break in?" Scoffing sound. "Your key was under a plastic rock. For anyone to find," he added in a chiding tone. "Your father is a very important—and wealthy—man. He's assigned me to be your new bodyguard."
"Bodyguard! Why would I need one?"
"Anyone in a family with a ten-figure net worth"—I gasped at that—"needs protection."
"You're saying he's a . . . billionaire?" Was I getting punked? Maybe that was in rubles or something.
"Correct. His name is Pavel Kovalev. He just learned of your existence a short while ago, through the investigator you hired."
I now knew my father's name.
I'd initially wanted to learn about my birth parents because I possessed an overdeveloped sense of curiosity. Then it had occurred to me that I might have gotten my sense of curiosity from my parents.
After that, I'd imagined a man and a woman in their forties, mired in endless wondering about the child they'd given up to a Russian orphanage twenty-four years ago. The thought had pushed me to take on yet another job, to keep digging relentlessly. I'd searched not just for my sake, but for theirs.
But he'd never known I existed? Then I frowned. "My investigator? Zironoff? He hasn't returned my e-mails or calls."
"He was made aware that we would be handling this internally going forward."
"Oh." Thanks for the heads-up, dickwad. At least I hadn't gotten ripped off again. No, I'd . . . succeeded.
After six years of searching.
I tottered from shock—and residual tequila. I returned the tank cover to its spot before it dropped on my head like a cartoon anvil. "If you're my bodyguard, then why were you spying on me in the bath?" I snagged my pink robe, hastily swapping it for the towel. "Huh?"
Silence. When I didn't hear anything, I had a weird surge of panic that this man—a new source of answers, an alleviator of curiosity—had vanished as quickly as he'd appeared. "Are you there?"
Trying not to think of how short my silk robe was—and what he'd just caught me doing—I poked my head out of the bathroom; no sign of him. So I cautiously padded toward my room. "You didn't answer my question. Hey, why are you in my closet?"
He emerged from the walk-in. "Where is your luggage?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" I didn't have real luggage. I'd packed for school in laundry baskets and boxes.
He raked his eyes over me in my robe, lingering on choice parts of me. Seeming to shake himself, he snagged my sizable book bag, dumping library books on the floor. The History of Sexuality, The Boundaries of Eros, A Thorn in the Flesh.
"What the hell, Russian?!" If he'd noticed the titles—my general field was the history of women and gender—they didn't faze him.
When he tossed the empty bag to me, I barely caught it. "Pack necessities only. Everything else will be provided for you."
I gaped down at the bag then back up. "I'm not doing anything, not until you tell me where you think I'm going. And why this can't wait until tomorrow. For all I know, you could be a human trafficker!"
"And this would be my m.o.?" He exhaled with a kind of surprised impatience, as if no one had ever argued with him before—as if he'd done this to a hundred other girls, and every one of them had started packing with a Yes, sir. "My name is Aleksandr Sevastyan. Call me Sevastyan." Like a Russian sounding Sebastian. "I've worked for your father for decades. Kovalev is keen to meet you." He added almost to himself, "I've never seen him so eager."
"How can he be sure I'm his daughter? Zironoff could've made a mistake."
"Nyet." Nyet was a harsh no; net a soft no. "You offered up your DNA. Kovalev already had his on file. There is no mistake."
"If he's so eager to meet me, why didn't he come himself? Why not just call me?"
"As I said, he is a very important man in Russia, and at present, he's caught up with work concerns that can't be handled by anyone but himself. He trusts me implicitly." Sevastyan moved to my bedroom window, peering out between the blind slats with the same wariness I'd noticed in the bar. "If you pack a bag and get on a plane with me, he will meet you at his estate outside Moscow in less than fourteen hours. This is your father's wish—one I will be carrying out."
My manalyzer might be cocked up, but my bullshit detector was still pinging clear; against all odds, I was starting to believe this guy.
Reality began to set in. "But I've got shifts tomorrow." Which I wouldn't need if my search could end. "And my classes!" As soon as the words left my lips, I felt silly. What would this towering, tattooed Russian understand about a Husker's advanced degree? What would he care?
Surprisingly, he said, "Your schooling is important to you. We understand this. But your father wants you in Russia now. Not next month or next week. You leave tonight."
"Does he always get what he wants?"
"Without fail." Sevastyan checked his expensive-looking watch. "Our flight leaves in an hour. I'll explain more on the way to the airport."
Airport? Flight? I'd never been on a plane. Yet I could be in Russia in less than a day. Don't think of the postcards, don't think . . .
Even Jess had never been to Russia!
Then I straightened. "Again, what's the rush? And news flash—I don't have a passport! How am I going to get into Moscow without one?"
"I'll work that out. It's not a problem." Sevastyan shut off the lamp beside my bed, dimming the room.
"How can that not be a problem?" I glanced at the tattoos on his scarred fingers and had a sinking suspicion, but tried to ignore it. Nope, not possible . . .
"I understand that all of this is a lot to take in. But things are different for you now, Natalie. Some rules . . . no longer apply."
I squared my shoulders. "Not good en—"
"Let me make this simple for you," he interrupted. "I'm walking out of this house in five minutes. You can either walk out with me, packed and dressed, or leave in that little robe"—his piercing eyes swept over me, over my nipples pressing against the silk—"thrown over my shoulder. Your choice."
My lips parted. His tone and bearing left no doubt that he was dead serious about kidnapping me. This ruble-billionaire's bodyguard was going to finish his job—period. Still, I dared another question. "Why haven't you said anything about my mother?"
When his eyes narrowed, I again got the impression that not many people challenged this man.
"Four minutes."
I folded my arms over my chest. "I can't just sign on for this, Sevastyan. Not without more answers."
"Which I promise you will get when we are under way."
Worst case scenario: if I didn't like what he had to say, I could run from him at the airport, straight into the arms of security guards.
Sevastyan crossed to stand in front of me. The soft light caressed his hard features. They were almost too masculine. His rugged jaw was wide, the bridge of his aquiline nose slightly askew, giving him a roguish look. But on the whole, he was devastatingly attractive, with that dangerous aura about him.
"You must trust me, pet," he said as he reached forward to gently grasp my chin. At his touch, that dizzying heat filled me once more. It was just the liquor at work, I assured myself, or exhaustion catching up with me. Or my unsuccessful bath time.
"You know my intent isn't to harm you," he murmured. "Otherwise, I could have led you from that bar earlier, taking you somewhere for us to be alone." My breaths went shallow at that. "Would you not have left with me?"
In—a—heartbeat.
He leaned down to say at my ear, "That's right, Natalya. You would have followed where I led."
"Um . . . uh . . ." I was still recovering from the sound of my name in his raspy accent when I felt his warm breaths. Oh, God, had his lips ghosted over my ear? If his scent and heat had affected me, this grazing contact made my legs weak.
He drew back, expression inscrutable. "So why don't you stop acting like you haven't already made up your mind to come with me."
"P-pardon?"
"You were decided as soon as you heard the words Russia, father, and go." His firm lips thinned, making that razor-slice scar whiten.
"That's not necessarily true—"
"Time's up, pet." He bent down to loop an arm around my ass, hoisting me over his shoulder.
"PUT ME DOWN!" I screeched, wriggling over the Neanderthal's shoulder as he strode out the front door. Cold air swept up my robe, chilling me in unfamiliar places. "You can't do this!"
He tightened his grip on my ass. "Doing it." His tone was casual; he wasn't even out of breath.
Another futile round of squirming. "Please put me down. We'll go back inside"—I'll run away—"and then I can pack, just like you said."
Three passersby ambled down the sidewalk, huge no-neck guys in letterman jackets. Husker football players! They stopped and gawked.
Hanging upside down, blood rushing to my head, I opened my mouth to scream for their help—then hesitated. Did I believe what Sevastyan had told me? Was I beset by an overbearing asshole of a bodyguard—or being abducted? If I screamed, the jocks would kick Sevastyan's ass, which wouldn't help me get to Russia—
This decision, just like the previous one, was yanked out of my hands. Sevastyan turned to face them, slowly shaking his head. Whatever look he gave them made three massive football players hotfoot the other way.
As they vanished, I pounded on Sevastyan's back in frustration, stunned to feel a holster. He was carrying a gun! I didn't have time to register my shock before he was shoving me into the front passenger seat of a luxe Mercedes.
As soon as he shut the door, I lunged for the handle, but he'd already clicked the lock, holding it down with the remote.
At his door, he gave me a look of warning through the window. He knew he'd have to release the lock button to get in, giving me a chance to escape. The unlock game. I would time it perfectly, reflexes like lightning—
Shit! He'd opened his door, then jammed the lock button back down before I could open my side!
He slid his big body into the car. "Better luck with that next time."
"This is kidnapping!"
"I told you my intentions. Gave you a countdown." He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. "Understand me, Natalie, I do exactly what I say I'll do. Always." He smoothly executed turn after turn, as if he knew this town as well as I did. "And right now I'm telling you that I will get you safely to your father in Russia."
"How do you think you'll get me through airport security like this?" I waved my hands to indicate my robe. "I don't even have my purse!"
"We're going to a private airport. And by the time we land in Moscow, you'll have all new clothes brought to the jet."
New clothes? Jet? Was he serious?
His gaze landed on my legs, on my half-bared thighs. And with that one dark glance, my skin flushed. I couldn't help recalling the way he'd looked down on me in the bath.
Like a hungry predator eyeing tender prey.
Like I was already a caught thing, his to enjoy. I shivered.
"Are you cold?" he asked. "You look . . . chilled."
Chilled? Oh. Because my nipples were still jutting. Yes, I was cold, but my body was also suffering the aftereffects of my foiled masturbation attempt. To be so close, drawing in on myself . . .
In some ways, I felt the same now. Tense, drawn, my skin prickling with awareness each time he looked at me.
When I didn't answer him, Sevastyan turned on the heater, and hot air blasted against my chest, over the hypersensitive tips of my breasts. I nearly yelped when I felt the seat warmer toasting the cleft of my ass. In the close confines of the car, I got another hit of his mind-numbing scent.
So much stimulation. Could he see me trembling?
Once we were on the main highway heading out of town, the car purring along at eighty miles per hour, he commanded, "Put on your seatbelt."
I didn't like this tone at all, heard it constantly at my server jobs. "Or what?" I narrowed my eyes. "And did you really call me pet earlier?"
"When I tell you to do something, it's in your best interest to do it, pet." Without warning, he reached over to yank my seatbelt into place, roughly grazing my breasts with his forearm, filling my head with his scent. I squirmed on the hot seat, feeling dazed by this arrogant man.
I remembered one time when I'd been written up for public intoxication after a football game; I'd been mentally yelling at myself to sober up, willingmyself to recover my wits so I could talk the cop out of the expensive citation. Stop chuckling, Nat, and answer the nice officer! Not OSSIFER, dumbass! Do NOT touch his shiny, shiny badge, do not—DAMN IT, NAT!
I felt like that now: under the influence.
Sevastyan affected me in a way I couldn't shake. I was experiencing a bewildering attraction to him, some inexplicable connection.
And no matter how bad an idea it was, I kept wanting—metaphorically—to touch his badge.
No, no, no—I needed to concentrate on getting information out of him. "Do you keep your promises, Sevastyan?"
"To you and your father alone."
"You promised me answers."
His hands tightened on the wheel, those sexy rings of his digging into the leather. "Once we are on the plane."
"Why not now? I need to know more about my parents."
He didn't deign to respond, just monitored the rearview mirror with that wary alertness.
I remembered his earlier demeanor, checking the street through my bedroom blinds. "What's up with this paranoia? We're in Lincoln, Nebraska; the most dangerous thing that's ever happened here was when this Russian asshole kidnapped an unwitting co-ed—in her robe."
The speedometer hit triple digits.
"Are we . . . are we being followed?"
Another glance into the rearview. "Not at present."
"Which indicates we might have been in the past—or perhaps could be in the future?" This was too bizarre. "Am I in some kind of danger?" Questions about my parents and past faded as dread about my immediate future surfaced.
With reluctance, he said, "Kidnapping for ransom is always a fear."
I narrowed my eyes. "I don't buy that. What you just described sounds like a chronic problem, or a theoretical one. Yet you broke into my house and demanded that we leave in five minutes, which sounds like an acute problem. So what happened between the time I saw you in the bar and the time you entered my home?"
Sidelong glance. "I think you have your father's cunning."
"Answer me. What happened?"
"Kovalev called and gave me the order to get you on a plane. Which means it's as good as done."
A sudden thought struck me. "How long have you been my bodyguard, Sevastyan?"
"Not long," he hedged.
"How—long?"
He hiked his broad shoulders. "A little over a month."
And I'd never known. "Have you been following me around? Watching me all this time?"
A muscle ticked in his wide jaw. "I've been watching over you."
Then he would know me better than I could even imagine. So what would a man like him think of me?
When he turned off the highway at an obscure exit, I cried, "Wait! Where are we going? There's no airport out this way. Not even an executive one."
"I had to arrange an alternative departure point."
Alternative? I'd promised myself that if I didn't like his answers, I'd flee into the arms of a security guard. I'd gotten few answers, and now had serious doubts about running into any guards.
After a few miles, he turned onto a dirt road that bisected a cornfield. We drove and drove until a clearing appeared ahead, what looked like a crop-duster airstrip. At one end, a jet awaited, beacon lights flashing, engines radiating heat in the night air.
To take me to Russia. This was all . . . real.
Sevastyan parked near the jet, but didn't open his door. "I understand you have questions," he said in a milder tone. "I'll answer any I can when we're in the air. But you must believe me, Natalie, you won't regret taking this step. You'll enjoy your new life very much."
"New life?" I sputtered. "What are you talking about? I happen to enjoy my current life."
"Do you, pet? You sought him," Sevastyan said. "Relentlessly. Something was driving you."
I glanced away, unable to argue with that.
"And now you'll never have to work again, can buy anything you like. You can travel the world, see all the places on those postcards on your refrigerator."
My dream. "This is a lot to take in, and I don't like making big decisions under pressure."
"Will it suffice for you to know that Kovalev is a good man, and he wants to make up for all the years he's missed with you?"
"If our situations were reversed, could you take this step?"
He nodded easily. "When I first started working for Kovalev's organization, I trusted that my life would be better with him in it. I've never regretted my decision." He must've seen I was still unconvinced. Exhaling with frustration, he ordered, "Just stay here."
He climbed out of the car and crossed to the jet with long-legged strides. The pilot—a tall, muscular blond in a uniform—met him at the bottom of the stairs, gesturing and speaking heatedly. I caught the cadences of Russian, but couldn't make out the words over the humming engines.
Out of habit, I surveyed the man, noting that his well-worn belt was cinched tighter than its regular notch and his shoes were meticulously polished. Recent illness? Lots of downtime? Then I saw his hands, saw the same kinds of tattoos that marked Sevastyan's fingers.
At that, my niggling suspicion couldn't be stifled. I'd studied all aspects of the land of my birth enough to know about the Russkaya Mafiya—and how they favored tattoos like that.
And really, what were the odds that a billionaire over there wasn't tied to organized crime in some way? Not to mention that Sevastyan had kidnapped me, with the intention to smuggle me—passportless—into the country.
Had I scrimped and toiled and searched, only to connect myself to a mobster?
The pilot continued to vent. My thoughts continued to race.
Then silent, menacing Sevastyan took one ominous step forward; the pilot backed down, hands raised.
A single step had cowed that big pilot. Maybe Sevastyan could've taken those three jocks. Because he was dangerous.
And he wanted to drag me into his world.
Follow the chain of logic, Nat. If Kovalev was mafiya, then no good could come of this hasty midnight jaunt to the motherland.
Did I believe I was in some kind of danger? Maybe. Did I trust Sevastyan to protect me? Not more than I trusted myself.
At that moment, I decided to decline the "new life" that some strange man on the other side of the world envisioned for me. If Kovalev wanted to talk to me, he could pick up the phone!
And Sevastyan? I still felt that bewildering attraction to him, that weird sense of connection. I forced myself to ignore it.
With him occupied, I cracked open my door and slipped outside. I drew my robe tight, stealing closer to the cornfield. Naturally the one night I needed to escape the mob, the moon was a bright ball in the sky. At least the field would provide cover. This close to harvest, the stalks were tall and dense, the leaves lush.
Almost there. My breaths smoked. Almost—
"Natalie," Sevastyan bellowed, "do not run!"
I took off in a sprint, charging into the rows.
Corn leaves slapped my face, raking my hair. My bare feet kicked up loose soil.
How much of a head start had I managed? Was he already crashing behind me?
"Stop this, Natalie!"
I gave a cry. My God, he was fast! I'd felt like prey before; now I literally was. This man was running me down, bent on capturing me! I dug deeper, sprinting even faster—
One second I was fleeing at full speed, the next I was flying. He'd lunged for me, snagging me around the waist. At the last instant, he twisted and took the impact on his back, crushing stalks beneath us.
"Damn you! Let go of me!" I struggled against him. Like fighting a steel vise.
Before I could blink, he'd flipped me to my back onto a mat of leaves.
"Get off me!" I battered his chest with the bottoms of my fists.
Huge and furious above me, he wedged his hips between my legs, snagging my wrists in one big hand. "Do not ever run from me again." The moon shone down on him, highlighting the tight lines of his face. He seemed to be grappling with his fury, drawing on some inner iron control.
"Let me go!"
Over the familiar scents of rich soil, fragrant crops, and cold night, I detected his scent: aggression and raw masculinity. His shirt had gaped open, and I could see more of his skin, with the edge of another tattoo just visible past the material.
"Sevastyan, release me. Please."
At that word, his grip on my wrists loosened a degree. "I don't want to hurt you," he said in a gravelly voice. "Only to protect you." Behind that inscrutable mask, so much was going on, but I could read so little.
Under the moonlight, his prominent cheekbones shaded his lean cheeks. His collar-length black hair gleamed like a raven's feather, the ends tripping across his jawline. Wavering almost hypnotically.
"You must remain with me," he grated, his gaze on my lips, his brows drawn tight. He looked like he was struggling not to kiss me.
Kiss? What was happening here? Confusion began to drown out my panic; I had nothing to draw on as a reference for my predicament—because I'd never been in a situation like this.
A sexual situation I didn't control.
I was embroiled in dangerous circumstances with a mysterious stranger, but I felt no fear. I felt . . . anticipation. And I suspected the lack of control was fueling it.
Was danger turning me on? The tension between us seemed to shift; as smoothly as a machine switching gears, my confusion morphed into hazy heat. I hadn't known I had this in me! Who am I??
When my gaze dropped, I spied the shadowy bulge in his pants. He wasn't indifferent to me! He might've disdained me in the bar, but he couldn't disguise his erection straining to be freed.
At the sight of it, arousal muddled my thoughts like a fog rolling into my mind. I'd heard the expression stupid with lust. I was getting there.
"Sevastyan?" That feeling of connection surged within me. Desire, need, and something more. "What do you want from me?"
No answer. All I could hear was our breaths.
In this position, he could unzip his fly and be inside me in a heartbeat's time, covering me on the ground. Like animals in the dirt.
Him. Inside me. Here.
The mere thought made my body vibrate with a need so strong, I suspected I might allow him to do anything he wanted to me. My staggering level of arousal began to unnerve me more than this entire situation. I had no control with him, needed to get away!
I shook my head hard. "You let me go now." I squirmed in his grip, digging my bare heels into the ground to propel myself back. Managed maybe a foot.
He looked at me like I was insane to defy him. So why wasn't I terrified of him? No, I was furious—at him, at my out-of-control body. Another heel-digging lunge back.
With his free hand, he gripped my waist and yanked me back against him, forcing my thighs wider.
His gaze descended, his eyes going wide before narrowing intently.
I felt cold air between my legs, just as I saw that my robe had come open at the belted waist. Everything below was exposed. My pale skin glowed in the moonlight, the trimmed thatch of red curls stark in comparison.
I was too stunned to react, pinned by his gaze. His lids grew heavy, his nostrils flaring. His broad chest seemed to struggle for breath. I was naked from the waist down but had no way to cover myself. I twisted my arms to free my wrists—until I saw that look of his.
Dark, hungry, molten. Dangerous. As before, I felt like his captured prey, his to enjoy.
My fury dwindled. When my body decided to soften beneath his, he gave a curt nod, as if I'd pleased him, and his free hand landed on my bare hip. Skin to skin. He groaned at the contact; I shivered from the electric heat of his rough palm. Hadn't I imagined those hands kneading me everywhere?
Shaking, I watched as he straightened his ringed thumb from my hip until it reached my mons. He brushed the tip of his finger along the edge of my curls. It was so slow and unexpected, so tender, I couldn't bite back a moan.
He touched me as if with . . . reverence.
I no longer saw signs of that iron control; instead he looked lost.
Like I probably looked in that moment.
His cock pulsed in his pants, drawing my attention. At the sight of that long, heavy length, my pussy clenched for it. I murmured, "Sevastyan?" as my hips rolled. "What are you doing to me?" He'd somehow spellbound me, making me feel empty and desperate.
For the second time tonight, I was heading toward an orgasm.
Still riveted to my sex, he grated words in Russian, something about how he couldn't be expected to deny himself in the face of this. How no one should expect him to.
I'd never been more confused in my life. "Are you . . . are you going to kiss me?"
With his accent thicker than I'd heard it, he rasped, "Would you want a man like me to take your mouth?" His thumb ring glinted when he gave another slow stroke.
Good question. I answered myself when words spilled from my lips: "Try it and see."
"You think I'd stop with a kiss?"
"You assume I'd want you to?"
My reply seemed to wake him from a daze. As if burned, he jerked his hands away, his expression transforming from lost to disgusted. Again, he told me, "Cover yourself." Now he was as furious as I'd been before, but I had no idea what I'd done.
I swatted the ends of my robe down as he levered himself to his feet.
When he seized my hand, yanking me up, sanity resumed—as if the Natalie I'd known all my life had decided to rejoin us.
What kind of madness had just possessed me? I clutched my robe with a shaking hand. I'd just let this man touch me, this stranger, and had been rolling my hips for more.
If he'd made a move to fuck me on the ground, I thought . . . I thought I might have let him.
Fist clenched around my upper arm, he dragged me along. "If you run from me again, I will catch you. It's what I do." He locked his gaze on mine. "And then I'll spread you facedown over my knees and whip your plump ass until you know better."
I stumbled at that, but he hauled me back up. Striding on, he scowled down at my bouncing breasts.
Braless in silk. Nothing left to the imagination. "I won't run if you don't force my hand! I don't want to go with you. I know what you are. You're mafiya. Which means my father is too." Deny it, deny it. Laugh in my face.
Sevastyan set his jaw, dragging me along faster.
No denial. My father, this man, that pilot were all mafiya.
"You can't force me to go to him—ow!" Sudden sharp pain dug into my bare feet; I'd stepped on a strand of briars.
Without even slowing his stride, Sevastyan swooped me up as if I were weightless.
I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck. "Just wait—I don't want to get caught up in anything like that!" My mouth was inches from his throat, from his bobbing Adam's apple. His heat seeped into me, and I could feel his heartbeat; though he was no longer running, it sped up sharply when I murmured, "Sevastyan, please."
"You're already caught up," he said, the words like a sentencing.
We emerged from the field. Desperate, I whispered, "Pozhaluista, net." Please, no.
"Natalya," he rasped, "I won't let you go. I can't. Resign yourself."
As we neared the plane, the pilot raised his brows at me. I could only imagine what he was thinking. I was in Sevastyan's arms, my hair a tangle, my nipples protruding.
When the blond gave a smirking leer, Sevastyan grated in Russian, "You leer at his daughter? I should give him your eyes for that."
The pilot swallowed; I gaped. With crystal clarity, I understood that Sevastyan was capable of such brutality.
Then he was carrying me up the steps. Shit, shit, shit! Oh, God, this was happening!
The pilot followed us up, pressing a button to close the outer door. By the time he'd closeted himself in the cockpit, the door had sealed closed with a hiss.
Trapped.
