“Oh.” Roman’s voice fell flat. The clicking sound in the hangar was getting louder. “And I suppose she’s running late?” he asked.
“I haven’t heard anything, but she must be.”
Roman shook his head at the annoyance all this was turning out to be, bracing his forearm against his plane and leaning in, speaking quietly and hoping he could convince Viktor to tell him whatever truth he was still keeping from him. “Viktor, I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t I have accepted the mission if you told me the cargo was a woman?”
“Because she’s not just any woman…” Viktor’s voice trailed off.
Suspicion and anticipation twisted in Roman’s stomach, but he waited for the rest of Viktor’s response. The clicking was right behind him now. Then, he heard someone clearing their throat. Roman turned around, phone pressed to his ear, only to see her.
“It’s Elena Popov,” Viktor said just as Roman’s eyes focused on the figure who’d come up right behind him. It was Elena Popov—there was no mistaking that model physique, those plump lips, or the disdain on her face.
When Roman had been assigned as Alexandra’s chaperone, keeping an eye on Viktor’s wife, he had met Elena twice: once at a café, and once at her apartment. Both times, she had proven to be almost unbearably outspoken, and if Roman had made a list of his least favorite people, Elena would have been toward the top of it. She was an insufferable brat whose sole redeeming feature was, for some reason, that she could count Alexandra as a friend.
He turned back to face the plane, holding in a curse. “I have to let you go,” Roman answered simply. “She’s here. And, yes, you were right. I wouldn’t have accepted the job if you’d told me. Good night.” He jabbed the ‘end call’ button before Viktor could answer and turned to face Elena.
“You’re late.” Roman looked her over. His eyes started at her face, then swept down her lithe body to her stiletto heels. The clicking he’d heard had been her ridiculously high heels against the concrete floor of the hangar.
“Oh, am I?” Elena asked, almost innocently, but with the faintest trace of venom, and then she spun a length of silken light brown hair around her finger. Roman noticed for the first time just how long her hair was—it fell all the way to her waist, with honey-colored highlights that reflected even the hangar’s dim fluorescent lighting. Despite the frost outside, underneath her pale pink coat she was wearing a revealing dress that accentuated long, graceful legs. The whole outfit was impractical.
She took a few steps closer to him, moving with breath-taking elegance. She would have been beautiful, Roman thought, if not for her personality. He remembered her as being both stubborn and rude. Tonight, she was true to memory, and Roman already felt prickles of irritation.
“Two hours late,” Roman added.
Elena rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I got here as fast as I could.” She squinted at him in recognition. “Oh my God, you’re the chaperone. The chauffeur. The chauff-erone.” One corner of her mouth twisted up at him in a smirk. She had a cruel sort of beauty, Roman noted, like a wildflower with plenty of thorns, and Roman wasn’t keen on getting jabbed. He’d stay back from this one.
“My name, in case you forgot, is Roman. But that is not the point. Your father killed Boris Sokolov.” Roman’s frown deepened. “And yet, I am supposed to take you straight to the Sokolov mansion. Why is that?”
“Aren’t you just a driver? You ask an awful lot of questions for being the help.” She held the handle of her rolling suitcase out toward him. “Why don’t you just be a dear and load this onto the plane for me?”
Roman stared. He could practically feel his blood pressure rising. The gall of this woman. Had he not called Viktor and heard it straight from his friend’s lips, he wouldn’t have believed this was the ‘cargo’ he had been sent to pick up.
“You can carry your own luggage,” he said flatly, reminding himself to at least stay outwardly cool and polite, no matter how much he loathed her. “But that’s only if I decide to allow you onto the plane.”
“What do you mean, if?” she demanded, taking another step toward him. “You flew all this way here. It’s your job.” Elena pouted and held the suitcase handle toward him again. Her arm faltered visibly for a moment, and she made an exaggerated show of how heavy the bag was. Roman didn’t care.
“My job is to keep Viktor Sokolov safe.” Roman crossed his arms over his chest, his posture just as military-straight as always. “Your father is a sworn enemy of the family, and I do not trust you.”
“Well, what do you want me to say?” Elena shrugged and finally stood the suitcase on the ground, albeit at Roman’s feet. He pretended not to notice.
“Let’s start with why I should trust you enough to take you with me,” Roman said sternly.
“Well, uh, duh.” Elena continued to spin her hair around her finger. “Because Viktor told you to, and Viktor’s your boss.”
“Not good enough,” Roman answered flatly. “Try again.”
“Really? I mean… really?” Elena’s pout turned into a sour glare. “It’s freezing here, we’re already running late, and you’re going to start interrogating me right now instead of just flying the plane like you’re supposed to?”
“You are freezing, Elena, because we are in Russia and you are wearing a short, impractical dress. We are running late because you arrived two hours late. And, I am interrogating you because your father is an enemy. Instead of wasting time by arguing and pushing your poor choices off on me, it would be much easier for you to just answer my question.”
Elena blinked a few times. Color rose to her cheeks and her eyes burned at him as he forced the stand-off, but Roman didn’t care. His priority was keeping Viktor safe, and he didn’t trust Elena. He wasn’t sure what she could say right now to change that, but his gut told him that she was no good, and that she’d have to say something.
“Just shut up and fly!” she finally snapped at him.
Roman didn’t move.
Elena stalked past him, approaching the plane and inspecting the door. “How does this thing open?” she asked.
“It opens when I say it opens. I’ll open it. But, now, Elena, tell me why I am flying you back to the Sokolov mansion when your father killed Boris Sokolov.” Roman repeated.
“Because…” Elena sighed and turned to face him. “Because my family is fucked, and whatever my dad’s involved in, I don’t want any part of it. And you know what doesn’t help? Some uppity shitfuck of a driver-pilot-chauffeurone asking a million questions when all he’s supposed to do is… you know, his job!”
Roman studied her expression, but couldn’t tell if the anger lacing her voice was because he was unwilling to tolerate her attitude, or because she was upset over fleeing from her family. Assuming that was even the truth.
“So, are you going to carry my bag and let me into the plane so we can get the hell out of here or not?” Elena asked. “All this cloak and dagger stuff is great and all, but my dad probably has people out looking for me. He has to have noticed I’m gone by now.”
“I do not trust your father, but I also do not trust you. As I have stated before, until I am certain Viktor will be safe when we land, I am not moving. If I do not move, the plane will not move.”
“What the hell else do you want from me, chaufferone?!” Elena all but shrieked, her voice filling the hangar and stinging Roman’s ear drums.
It was going to be a long night.
2
Elena
Why wasn’t this man budging? Elena could usually bat her eyes at someone and play nice to get whatever she wanted, but the tactic hadn’t worked on Roman in the past anymore than it had today, and her patience had already worn paper-thin. She hadn’t been prepared for this, and knew he had thrown her off of her game already with his suspicions. Alexandra had been the easiest to win over, followed by Viktor, and Elena had thought her job in that department done; she hadn’t been counting on the driver to give her the third degree in questions.
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br /> Smart man, she thought to herself spitefully as she glared at him and waited for his response. Smart, and not bad-looking either, but a real pain in the ass. But while Elena considered herself to be an outstanding actress—when she felt like it, of course—the more information she gave Roman, and the more questions she answered, the more potential ammunition he had against her.
The truth was, she loved her father more than anything else in the world, especially since her mother had died. So, when Daddy had asked her to infiltrate the Sokolov mansion and assassinate Viktor, Elena had planned to do exactly that. For just a moment, she’d worried over her friend, but her father was right—Alexandra would be far better off without Viktor controlling her life. Her mission would help both her father and her friend in one single move. But she obviously wasn’t about to let that puzzle piece spill from her lips.
“As I said before,” Roman reminded her, “I would like some answers. Straight answers instead of you throwing a temper tantrum and rolling your eyes at me.”
Roman’s eyes had narrowed slightly as he spoke, as if to convince her of his seriousness, but it didn’t change anything.
Elena rolled her eyes at him in retaliation and inwardly felt a bit of pleasure when she saw Roman’s frustration begin to shine through. His mouth pursed and his arms crossed more tightly; his nostrils even flared. At first, she’d wondered if he was a robot, cool and collected as he’d always seemed, but now she knew there was a real person under that well-tailored black suit.
“Fine. Ask away,” she sneered at him.
“You’re a defector?” Roman asked slowly.
Elena nodded, then scowled. “When I called Alexandra and apologized for missing her wedding, she asked me how I was doing and… I broke down,” Elena said, softening her voice. She suspected that crying would be too much, but kept her eyes down toward the ground in hopes that she could bring out a little bit of pity, at least. “I told her, my dad essentially kidnapped me and forced me to go to Russia with him, even though I didn’t want to. He said it was to keep me safe, but I think he’s just being a dick. Controlling me.” She looked up suddenly, as if catching herself, and tossed her hands in the air in a show of frustration. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to me just because I don’t want to go along with my dad’s schemes, and I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she finished, catching his eye as if to suggest she had nothing to hide. As if to suggest he could trust her.
“So, to clarify, you told Alexandra you were being detained against your will, and she offered you refuge?” Roman asked.
“Yes, that pretty much sums it up. And you’re making a difficult situation worse. So, can we please go now?”
“It’s been a while—a few weeks, if I remember correctly. Why now?” Roman’s dark eyes studied her face.
Elena decided to put on a show of her annoyance—perhaps he’d get so frustrated with her that he’d simply give in. She hadn’t ever met a man like him and she was genuinely agitated, but the more she pushed him the less likely he was to push her back. She crossed her arms in a mirror of his posture and shifted her weight, pushing her hips to the side dramatically. She hadn’t ever met a man like him, and she was genuinely agitated, but the more she pushed him, the less likely he was to push her back. At least, she hoped that would be the case.
Past encounters had taught her that it was easy to make people underestimate her; most people took one look at her perfect figure and penchant for pink and assumed she was an air-headed bimbo. More often than not, she played it up.
“Pssft,” she finally hissed in dismissal, when it seemed clear he’d wait as long as it took for an answer. Roman, have you ever tried to make a personal phone call under surveillance? Seriously? It took a while before my father’s men stopped sticking to me like glue and I had the chance to call Alexa without worrying about some bonehead listening in while I spilled my guts. That’s why you’re here to pick me up and I didn’t just catch a flight, by the way. My dad would have found out about the plane tickets in a heartbeat and then I’d never have been able to get away from him.”
Elena had rehearsed her story over and over again until it had become second-nature. The words flowed as easily as the truth would have, and she couldn’t help being pleased with herself. When she tilted her head and studied Roman’s face, however, his reaction was impossible to gauge.
“Your father’s men… where are they now? How did you get away from them if you were under surveillance?” Roman asked slowly.
Elena gritted her teeth and glared at him. More questions? They weren’t even good questions, either. What did it matter? “Wow, you really aren’t the brightest crayon in the box, are you?” she spit out. “That’s why I want to just get on the plane and go. I slipped away from them and met one of Viktor’s contacts—check with your beloved boss if you don’t believe me—and he got me here. But I don’t know how long we have until they find me, and so, yeah. We. Need. To. Get. Going.” Elena huffed an irritated sigh and glanced behind her for affect, letting her eyes move around the hangar before she swung back to look at Roman. It was all a lie, and she knew she wasn’t being followed, but adding pressure to the situation might persuade Roman to let up on the questions.
Obviously, there was no choice but to get over this hurdle as the first stepping stone to the rest of her mission. Somehow, she needed to win his trust, get back to the Sokolov mansion, and complete her mission. The faster they got to Boston, the faster this whole ordeal would be over with, and then she could go back to her luxury apartment with the perfect view that she’d had to leave behind because of stupid Boris’s stupid death. Russia was okay, but damn did she miss that apartment and the mall next to it. It would be just like old times, but her father would be thrilled with her, and her best friend would have her life back—perhaps they could even take a trip together as soon as the dust settled, and make up for lost time.
“What is your relationship like your father like?” Roman asked.
Elena shook her head, frustration building. “I don’t know… fatherly? We were okay until he went off the rails. But, really, are you fucking kidding me? When are the questions going to stop? When is enough actually enough for you, huh, chaufferone? You can ask me three hours’ worth of questions—birthday, social security number, what I ate for breakfast, whatever—but no matter what I say, you aren’t going to trust me, are you?” Elena’s hands had balled into fists, and she trembled slightly as her irritation festered into rage with each second that passed.
When he didn’t answer, she walked over to him, glared at him, and picked up her suitcase from where it still sat at his feet—a not-so-subtle cue to get going.
“I’m not here because I want to be, you know,” she told him quietly. “It’s not my fault my own dad practically kidnapped me because of whatever issues he has. I’d rather be at home—my real home, that I had to leave behind in Boston, not bumfuck Russia—drinking a mocha and flipping through social media. But I’m here, and you’re here, and you don’t trust me—that’s okay, I get it, daughter of the family’s sworn enemy or whatever—but the more time you spend asking stupid questions, the more time you aren’t spending doing your job and just flying me back. Not to mention the fact that my father’s goons could show up at any time and break up both of our plans.”
This, finally, seemed to placate Roman, if only a little. He studied her with dark eyes, their depths seemingly endless. Elena found herself looking him over, taking in his broad shoulders and high cheekbones, momentarily captivated by him. His unyielding manner seemed to hide a touch of darkness… but one he had under control. Elena would have loved to unravel him and see what mysteries lurked beneath—if she hadn’t also wanted to strangle him.
Roman exhaled slowly. “I still don’t trust you—”
“I know,” Elena interrupted. Roman held up a single index finger, and she tilted her head back with a throaty sound of exasperation.
“I still don’t trust you. But I will permit you to
board the plane, and I will warn you that, should you try anything, anything at all, which hinders or threatens those I work for, I will not hesitate to take you out.”
Roman nodded toward the airplane, and Elena breathed out in relief.
He picked up her suitcase, gesturing to the pilot’s door he’d just opened, and together they boarded the plane. While Roman sat down and settled in to run through a series of equipment checks and warm-ups that Elena couldn’t even pretend to understand, she moved behind the front seats to enter the cabin of the craft. And found the door locked.
“Uh-uh. No, Ms. Popov. One consequence of my distrust is that you’ll need to stay where I can see you. As much as it pains me to subject myself to more of your arguing, eye-rolling, and hair twirling, I must insist.” Roman lifted his chin toward the co-pilot’s seat.
Elena stared at him as though he’d just eaten a live squirrel. “Sorry—what?” She blinked at him.
“Sit right here, where I can see you, and don’t touch anything.” Roman hadn’t even looked at her as he’d spoken this time. Elena wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to like a child, though, and she definitely wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. Her luggage banged against the cabin door and she sulked back into the cockpit to slip down into the seat next to his.
Looking out the large front window, over the nose of the plane, she scanned the horizon.
“Uh… it’s gotten dark outside,” she said.
“It would still be light out if you’d showed up on time,” Roman replied as he leaned over a small screen and scrolled his eyes across a series of gauges that all looked like something from a science fiction movie—circles and lines with tiny numbers and letters that made no sense to her.
All they needed was a computerized voice talking about a self-destruct sequence and the illusion would be complete, Elena thought.
“No, it would still be light outside if you hadn’t decided to give me a huge interrogation when you should have just started the plane and gotten us flying to begin with,” she snapped back.
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