“Don’t you even want to know why she needs you?”
“She does not need me. And I have a busy schedule this morning.”
“Her old man isn’t just rich, he’s richer than Midas. And he’s powerful. Meaning—”
“Meaning, there’s always the possibility of kidnappers, thieves and all-purpose bad guys. I get the picture.”
Zach rolled his eyes, waved his hand as if to brush all that away. “She’s Sardovian.”
“So you said.”
“Well, so are you. Your father was Sardovian. And you have some interesting connections over there.”
“I run Sardovia’s investment fund,” Kaz said, a little sharply.
“Savitch. Don’t play dumb with me. You’re one important Sardovian dude.”
Kaz’s jaw tightened. Nobody in his unit, nobody anywhere in the States had ever been aware of his “connections.” Why would they be? His grandfather certainly hadn’t boasted about their relationship, and neither had he.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Kaz. My man.” Zach looked straight at him. “I know everything. You spent summers there when you were a kid. You know their customs. Their rules. Hell, your grandfather is the king.”
“Goddammit, Castelianos, what’d you do? Research my life?”
“Hey.” Zach winked. “I’m a trained investigator, remember?”
“OK, so you’re good. It changes nothing. The lady doesn’t need me and I want no part of her. Aside from anything else, I have zero desire to go to Sardovia. Plus, this isn’t, this wasn’t ever my kind of job.”
Zach sighed. “You’re right. The thing is, I need someone she can relate to.”
“Trust me. I’m not that guy.”
“She needs someone she can talk to without worrying that what she says will hit a dozen blogs, someone who can make sure nobody gives her any grief. She needs someone who understands her background. Her culture.” Zach paused. “I suspect she needs that most of all.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“She’s heading home for a betrothal ceremony.”
“A betrothal ceremony?”
“Yeah. It’s like an engagement thing—”
“I know what it is. She’s going to be formally pledged to some dude. Once it’s over, she’s his forever.” Kaz’s mouth twisted. “You sure? Because it’s old school. It’s kind of like handing over property.”
“Different strokes,” Zach said. “And he isn’t just some dude. He’s very rich, says daddy, and very powerful.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Daddy plays things close to the vest. All I know is that the ceremony is on Christmas Day. And she’s a little nervous about it, her father says.”
“She’s some Mr. Big’s Christmas gift?”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it—although why he’d want her is beyond me. I mean, she’s something to look at, all right, but the rest—”
“The rest, what?”
“She’s a little hard to handle. She’s accustomed to barking out orders, she doesn’t like to listen to reason, that kind of thing.”
Kaz sighed. “Better and better. Look, man, I’m not trying to minimize this. You wouldn’t be involved if it weren’t important— I know that. And I’d love to help you, but, you know, I have a fund to run.”
“If I asked you to set everything aside for a couple of days and take on a job that might mean risking your life, you’d do it without a second’s hesitation.”
“If you mean would I rather handle an M16 than a spoiled, stuck-up piece of work—”
The intercom buzzed. Kaz slapped it to life.
“Susan. Whatever it is…”
“It’s the minister, sir. The Sardovian minister. He says he must speak with you.”
“I’ll call him back.”
“Yessir. And there’s something else—”
“Hold all my calls, Susan.”
“But, sir—”
“I said, hold all my—”
The door to Kaz’s office swung open. A woman he’d never seen before marched inside, with his PA right on her heels.
“Mr. Savitch. Sir. I tried to tell you, but—”
“But,” the woman said coldly, “I am weary of wasting my time trying to talk sense to your secretary!”
“I’m Mr. Savitch’s assistant. And—”
Kaz rose to his feet.
“Excuse me,” he said, just as coldly, “but who in blazes are you?”
The woman drew herself up, straight and tall. Tall, indeed, Kaz’s brain registered.
And stunning.
Platinum hair. Violet eyes. Long legs visible under a bright red wool coat. Knee-high black leather boots that were part of the reason for her height because the heels were the kind that gave men nosebleeds just to dream about them.
“Are you done?”
Kaz dragged his eyes up to meet hers. She was looking at him the way he figured Catherine the Great might have looked at a peasant.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, are you done with your assessment, Mr. Savitch—I assume that you are Kazimir Savitch?”
Kaz cleared his throat.
“Yes. I am. And you are…”
“I am Ekaterina Rostov.” She turned her chilly gaze on Zach, who had gotten to his feet and was watching her with an expression halfway between amusement and irritation. “And I am weary of waiting, Mr. Castelianos. You said this would only take minutes.”
“Yeah. Well, it took longer than I’d expected.”
That piercing violet gaze returned to Kaz. No, he thought, not Catherine the Great. The Queen of Mean.
“This,” she said, “is the man you thought would make a suitable addition to my staff?”
Her tone dripped acid. Kaz felt a muscle knot in his jaw. He flashed a look at his PA.
“Please leave us, Susan,” he said, far more calmly than he felt.
His PA nodded, stepped out and closed the door. Kaz looked at the woman. She was not looking at him. All her attention was on Zach.
“Mr. Castelianos. I asked you a question. Is this the man you said you had hand-chosen?”
“That’s what I said, yes.”
Now she turned her attention to Kaz. Her eyes raked him up and down. Kaz wasn’t a man much taken to thinking about his looks, but he wasn’t dead, either. He knew damn well that women generally admired what they saw.
Admired?
Most times, they wanted what they saw.
Not this woman.
As far as she was concerned, on a scale of one to ten he’d owe points.
“I am not impressed.” One last dismissive look and she focused on Zach again. “Not at all. This man doesn’t give any indication of being up to the job.”
“Well,” Zach said, “it doesn’t matter. He’s your only hope—and he’s not interested.”
“At least he knows his limitations.”
Kaz took a couple of steps out from behind his desk.
“I am standing right here,” he said in a carefully controlled voice. “There’s no need to talk as if I’m not.”
She turned to him, her expression one of boredom.
“Are you speaking to me?”
“I am, indeed.” His lips curved in a thin smile that never reached his eyes. “What’s the problem, Ms. Rostov? Don’t the servants generally speak directly to you?”
“I don’t like your tone.”
“Good.” He folded his arms. “Because I sure as hell don’t like yours.”
She stared at him for a long minute. Then she looked at Zach.
“You told me that this man was Sardovian.”
Zach shrugged. “I told you that he held Sardovian citizenship.”
“He has no manners. A Sardovian gentleman would not speak to me this way.”
“And you would know all about manners,” Kaz said.
The woman ignored him.
“And you said he would be able t
o do double duty as a bodyguard, should I need one.” Her chin rose; the simple motion conveyed endless disdain. “He looks more like a pampered poodle to me.”
“A what?” Kaz said, silencing Zach with a slash of his hand.
The blonde’s gaze swept past him.
“Let us leave here, Mr. Castelianos. I am not interested in wasting any more time.”
Kaz moved fast, stopped not more than six inches from her.
“You,” he said coldly, “are an impolite, arrogant, spoiled brat.”
Her mouth dropped open. It was wonderful to see.
“What did you call me?”
“Impolite,” he said. “And arrogant. And spoiled. But I take all that back.” He took another step toward her. This time, to his great satisfaction, she stumbled back until she was almost pinned to the wall. Even better, despite those spike heels, she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. For some reason, that pleased him, too. “What you really are,” he said with precision, “is a nasty, vile, mean-tempered witch.”
“How dare you? Mr. Castelianos! Are you going to permit this—this person to speak this way to me?”
Zach looked up from examining his neatly clipped fingernails. “Don’t speak to her that way,” he said mildly, and went back to studying his nails again.
“I can see why you need a bodyguard,” Kaz said. “There’s probably a line of people a mile long just waiting for the chance to slug you.”
Her face flamed. “You—you—you—”
“Just make sure you get this straight, your ladyship. I’d sooner spend a long summer in hell than spend a single day with you.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Savitch, because I would never—”
“But you need lessons in how to treat people. And considering what Zach just said, that I am your best hope, I’ve decided to be the man who gives you those lessons.”
She was breathing hard, damn near panting. There was fire in her eyes, crimson in her cheeks. She was impossibly beautiful, more than when she’d first stepped through the door, and even as Kaz spoke those words, a tiny, rational part of him was saying, Dude, what in hell do you think you’re doing? He frowned. Listened to that tiny voice. Started to say Wait a minute, I take that back…
“There isn’t a way in the world I would ever permit you to—to so much as breathe the same air I breathe,” Ekaterina Rostov said.
Kaz swung toward Zach. “Seven hundred bucks an hour.”
Zach grinned. “I was prepared to offer eight.”
“A thousand,” Kaz said. “Paid to a charity of my choosing.”
“Mr. Castelianos! Do you hear me? You cannot do this! I will call my father and—”
Zach stuck out his hand.
“Deal.”
Kaz nodded. “Deal.”
Katie Rostov stared at the two men as they men shook hands. No, she thought, no, this could not be happening…
And then Zacharias Castelianos strode toward her, paused just long enough to give her a little pat on the shoulder as if she were—as if she were a pet, goddammit…
The door opened. Swung shut.
She was alone with Kazimir Savitch.
CHAPTER THREE
Kazimir Savitch turned his back to her, walked to his desk and began taking papers from a black leather briefcase.
He pulled out his chair, sat down, picked up a pen and started reading.
He might as well have been alone in the enormous glass-walled room.
Ekaterina Rostov, known as Katie to her handful of American friends, stood rigid beside the closed door, watching him.
There were a dozen different ways he could have indicated his power over her, but this—ignoring her as completely as if she weren’t there—was probably the most effective.
It said that she was nobody, that she was insignificant, that he had now assumed control of her life.
He was right.
He was big. Broad shouldered. Except for the fact that he was despicable, he was an excellent example of male virility.
She was physically powerless against him.
And even if she got to the door before he did, where would she go? There was no way out for her.
She was trapped.
They all knew it. She. Kazimir Savitch. And Zacharias Castelianos.
But she was the only one of them who knew the reason.
Last night, she’d paced the bedroom in her suite, hating her father, hating the man she was doomed to marry, hating Castelianos.
Her captor, outside her door in the sitting room.
She’d sunk down on the edge of the bed, folded her hands and tried, once again, to think of a way out.
But there was none.
Her father had been clever, painting a picture of her as a spoiled brat with a hot temper and a propensity for trouble, annoyed at the prospect of having a bodyguard to ensure her safety en route to Sardovia.
“My Ekaterina is a such a free spirit,” Gregor Rostov had said. “Given the opportunity, she will surely catch the interest of the media.” He’d looked at her, smiled, and Katie had wondered how it was possible that only she could see the coldness in that smile. “I do not want you to run the risk of being harmed, darling. Mr. Castelianos will see to your care.”
The lie hadn’t even been necessary. Had her father believed that she would run? That only proved how little he understood her. He had trapped her, and she was well and truly caught.
She could hear the television playing in the next room, though the sound was very faint. Basketball. Football. Some sports thing. Castelianos was watching it; she wondered what he’d be doing if he weren’t stuck with her. He was a nice-looking guy; he wore a wedding ring. He’d probably be home with his wife. Maybe with his kids. Instead, he was here, just doing his job, and she’d been going out of her way to treat him like dirt.
Katie had sighed, risen to her feet, combed her hands through her hair. Then she’d opened the bedroom door and stepped inside the sitting room.
“Mr. Castelianos?”
He’d stood up.
“No, don’t get up. It isn’t necessary.” She’d paused. Cleared her throat. “I, ah, I know I’ve given you a hard time.”
His expression was impassive. She’d forced a smile and cleared her throat again.
“I understand that you’re just doing your job.”
“Did you want something, Ms. Rostov?”
His words had been polite. Still, she’d felt her temper start to rise.
“No. Not really. I’m simply trying to tell you that—that I don’t hold you responsible for any of this.” She’d waited. And waited. When he didn’t say anything, she’d run the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. “I know that my father has told you things about me—”
“Ms. Rostov. What your father may or may not have told me is immaterial. You are my responsibility. I take my responsibilities seriously.” His eyes had narrowed. “And if you think a spoonful of sweet-talk will change that, you’re wrong. Until tomorrow, you are stuck with me.”
She’d wanted to storm across the room and punch him.
She hadn’t.
She’d called him a name that had surprised both of them, returned to her room and slammed the door hard enough to make it shudder.
And then she’d realized exactly what he’d said.
She’d pulled the door open, marched to where he sat, put her hands on her hips and said, “What does that mean? Until tomorrow?”
“It means that tomorrow I’ll turn you over to someone who’ll get you to your engagement ceremony without any problems.”
Her engagement ceremony. Her betrothal ceremony.
Her future, as mapped by her father.
How her world had changed, and in such a short time.
Her mother had fallen ill. A cold, she’d insisted. An infection, the doctor had said a week later, and when it persisted, grew worse, a second doctor had been called in and then a third, and what had been a cold had been diagnosed as a swift-moving cancer.
Her mother was dying.
Her father had grieved for five minutes and then used her impending death to his advantage.
Sardovia was quickly moving into the twenty-first century, but there was still a faction that saw life there as a power game. Her father was one of its most significant players. Within days, he had arranged to marry Katie to a Sardovian of wealth. Of power.
He had arranged her marriage to the heir to the Sardovian throne.
Her mother had been thrilled.
Katie had been appalled.
An arranged marriage, to a man she’d never met? She’d done some checking, and things went from bad to worse.
The heir to the throne was a man twice her age with a reputation for women, whiskey, and cruelty. Even the photos she found of him online made her shudder.
She’d gone to her father, asked him to reconsider. He’d told her that this was not about her, it was about family.
What he’d meant was that it was about him.
So she’d gone to her mother, made an attempt to tell her what she’d learned, but Mama, floating on drugs to ease the pain, had clutched her hand and whispered, “My Ekaterina, marrying a prince.”
Katie had leaned close to her mother. “He is an evil man,” she’d whispered.
“He is a wonderful man,” she’d heard her father say, from directly behind her. His voice had been soft but the look he’d given her had been cold and terrifying. “Say anything like that again,” he’d told her when they were alone, “and I will inform your mother’s nurses that you are forbidden to have any contact with her. Do you understand me, Ekaterina?”
She understood, all right.
The next day, he’d handed her over to Zach Castelianos.
Castelianos had been an unknown quantity. This man, this Kazimir Stavitch, was not.
Katie had lied when she’d said he could not be Sardovian. She was an experienced chess player. The fewer good moves you had, the more you avoided signaling them.
She had lived virtually her entire life in the States, but she knew Savitch by reputation.
He was a topic of conversation among the men in her father’s circle.
He was smart. He was emotionless. He had inherited a fortune and he supplemented it with what he stole from the investment fund—a fund he had convinced the king to create for him after he’d used subterfuge to work himself into the king’s inner circle. Before that, he’d gotten his kicks serving as a mercenary in the tribal wars in Afghanistan.
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