by Kresley Cole
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.
Chapter 4
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 pa
le 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.
Chapter 5
As Sevastyan deposited me into one of several seats, I grappled for words, but stunned disbelief and a roiling anger rendered me mute. He'd forced me onto this plane against my will. Was kidnapping me.
I wanted to say, "You're not going to get away with this," or even "You're going to pay for this." But I suspected both would be lies.
"We leave directly," he told me, his voice inflectionless. "Put on your seat belt."
Despite how pissed I was, I wouldn't argue with him this time. In my mind, private jet was just another way of saying baby plane. And hadn't this crop-duster-esque runway seemed short? I knew sub-nothing about flying, but surely that wasn't normal?
As I strapped myself in with shaking hands, I surveyed the luxurious interior. There were twelve seats, along with a plush sofa, a big-screen TV, a stocked media console, and an extended dining table. Polished wood accented all the amenities.
Nothing but the best for the mob.
Sevastyan didn't sit. He peered out the windows, still vigilant.
I wondered what he would look like relaxed. "I'm in immediate danger, aren't I?"
Gazing out into the night, he gave me an unconcerned shrug. As good as a yes. Before I could ask more, the engines grew louder. I clenched the armrests of my seat, nails sinking into the buttery soft leather. When we started easing forward, I found myself telling Sevastyan, "I've never flown before."
Our speed increased so rapidly, I was thrown back into the seat. The jet thundered down the runway. Outside the window, the cornfield zoomed by. Even Sevastyan took a seat on the sofa across from me.
"I-I've been on a train."
He spread an arm over the back of the sofa. "It's just like that."
"Was that a joke?"
Face grim, he said, "Unlikely, pet."
"You really need to stop calling me th--"
The nose of the plane was rising! I squeezed my eyes shut. But taking off was surprisingly smooth. When the pressure eased and I realized we were in the air, I cracked open my eyes and popped my ears. Gradually, I released my death grip.
Several things competed for my attention. I couldn't decide whether I wanted to watch the fading lights of Lincoln, the full moon glimmering off the right-side wing, or Sevastyan trying to relax.
My mysterious companion won out. He stretched his long legs in front of him, then rolled his head on his neck. At some point, he'd refastened the buttons of his shirt. Clearly, whatever temporary insanity had occurred in the field had passed.
When we leveled off, the lights of the cabin dimmed, reminding me that I was sequestered with a larger-than-life type of man--one who had pinned me to the ground and felt me up only minutes ago.
Just as I opened my mouth to ask him what that was all about, he said, "As promised, I'll answer your questions. But you need to wash yourself first."
I followed his pointed gaze with my fingers, found a leaf in my hair. I peered down at my dirty legs and bare feet. I didn't embarrass easily, but now my cheeks flushed with heat.
"There are showers in both of the suites."
Chin raised, I unfaste
ned my seat belt, rose with an indifferent air, then started toward the back. Over my shoulder, I said, "When I return, prepare for an interrogation."
In a dry tone, he replied, "I'm not going anywhere, Natalie."
Fifteen minutes later, I emerged into the main cabin--clean, sober, and dressed in one of Sevastyan's button-down shirts.
After a shower in a large marble enclosure stocked with high-end toiletries, I'd padded back to the suite's bed and stared down at my abused robe. The back had looked like modern art, in a pallet of greens, yellows, and blacks. And it had reeked of corn, a treacly sweet smell. No way I could wear it again.
I'd surveyed the suite, lighting on an expensive piece of luggage. Sevastyan's. He'd helped himself to kidnapping me, so I'd felt justified borrowing a shirt. Slipping on the starched button-down, I'd shivered, enveloped by his crisp scent, covered from my neck to almost my knees.
With nothing between my skin and the material, I hadn't even been surprised when arousal swept over me again; in the shower my skin had been hypersensitive. . . .
Now Sevastyan raked his gaze over me, head to toe, giving me an are-you-fucking-kidding-me? look.
I frowned in turn. Everything was covered. "I'm just borrowing it until I get my promised new clothes, okay?" When I sat at the opposite end of the sofa, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Tension headache?"
Without looking at me, he answered, "You could say that."
"I can't imagine the pressure you must be feeling," I said in all truthfulness. "Do you do this kidnapping stuff a lot?"
Scowl from the Russian.
"It's a fair question, considering that you and my father are involved in organized crime."
Without missing a beat, he asked, "Why do you persist in thinking that?"
"Your tattoos. The pilot's. I've researched your country enough to know about the Russkaya Mafiya and their love of ink. Plus, that would be the absolute worst outcome to my years-long quest." I tapped my chin, musing, "And yet totally in keeping with my fortunes over the last few weeks--"
"A worse outcome than never knowing Kovalev?" Sevastyan asked, irritation scoring his tone. "You speak about things you don't yet understand, little girl. But you will. . . ."
Chapter 6
"Things I don't understand? Like crime?"
Stony gaze.
"Oh, God, he is mafiya." I grew queasy at the idea. Why had I ever hired that investigator? My biological father was a thug. "What have you gotten me into?"