Slipping the small holster off her ankle, his six feet of tense muscle towered over her small frame and forced her to step back. He had no faith she’d told the truth. Clearly, she’d been biding her time, lowering his defenses with her smiles and compliance until she’d found the opportunity to slice his throat and leave him bleeding. He should have taken a harder stand instead of showing a weakness for the pretty brown eyes that danced with a sparkly light even when darkened with fear.
He raised his hand to slap her, establishing his dominance once and for all by leaving a bruise to accompany his warnings, but she stared at him without blinking. Her eyes betrayed her fear, but also a resilience he hadn’t anticipated, and he paused, waiting for his temper to subside. “It’s a high quality weapon,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps I should teach you how to use it so you can protect yourself against men like me in the future?”
“Sure,” she said with a weak laugh. “I bet I could take down a linebacker with a four-inch knife. Honestly, I don’t know why I carry it. I’m sorry. You don’t have to worry about me. I can use ten grand more than you can imagine.”
With a silent nod, he sent her to the bathroom and pulled the knife out of its sheath, running his finger along the razor-sharp edge to admire the antique craftsmanship. It was almost a shock and probably the single stupidest decision in his life, but he believed she was telling the truth. In retrospect, she’d had ample opportunity and fear to use that knife, and she’d never even hinted at any sign of aggression after he’d subdued her on the street. He slipped the weapon into his pocket and turned away from the bathroom door to focus on Anton.
* * *
His hands had been as solid as rock while he’d searched her, but Mia had been mortified by the wet reaction settling between her thighs. Surely there was no way he could tell she’d been aroused, but he’d spent a second too long palming her pussy and breasts.
Her sensitivity wasn’t a huge surprise. It had been a few years since anybody had touched her beyond a professional handshake. She’d missed the personal connection, but the cost of an expensive purple vibrator was the best money she’d ever spent. All of the joy and none of the commitment, and she’d spent the last five years bound and determined to keep it that way.
Not mentioning the knife earlier had been a stupid mistake. She’d felt like a chastised ten-year-old when he’d discovered it, but she almost never thought about it and couldn’t imagine using it on a human being. Under the circumstances, she couldn’t blame him for being angry, but she made a mental note to ask for it back. She hadn’t seen her dad in years, but it was the only thing he’d left behind and for some reason, it made her feel complete.
It took a long ten minutes to clean up, brushing out her hair with her fingertips before redoing her plain ponytail, but, thankfully, nobody was rushing her. She eventually returned to the bedroom but his piercing looks hadn’t abated, so she sidestepped him, walking the long way around the bed to reach her patient. When she removed the bloodstained covers, the young man woke more fully and tried to sit up.
“Relax,” she said, looking through the medical supplies for a pair of gloves to examine the gaping bullet wounds in his thigh and right shoulder. “I’m just checking to see how much damage we have. What’s your name?”
“Anton,” said Luka, not waiting for the patient to respond. “Anton Andreyev. He is our cousin. There are more supplies, blood pressure cuff, stethoscope. We can get you anything else within a few hours.”
“Okay, Anton,” she said, turning her back to the big Russian. “My name is Dr. Anderson. Are you experiencing much pain?”
“He’s got morphine,” interrupted Luka a second time. “Slavic has been giving it to him every—”
“Look,” Mia interrupted with a sigh. “You’re being very helpful, but talking to a patient and interpreting how he responds is part of the examination. I’m sure it isn’t easy for you, but if you could just sit down and be quiet, I could do the job you’re paying me for.” Luka arched an eyebrow, but her patient’s very life depended on her focus. When he didn’t move, she pointed toward a black leather chair in the corner of the room, slightly surprised when he moved in that direction with his look of death.
Anton mumbled with a grin, “I’ve never seen Luka take a scolding like that.”
“What?” Luka demanded, twirling around angrily. “What did he say?”
Anton’s grin grew even bigger. “I said I’d like to know how she does that, scolds you like a little boy.”
She sent Anton a conspiratorial wink. “It’s a course we take in medical school. Even the most difficult patient needs to be still and listen to the doctor’s orders. Now let’s see what we have.”
His pulse, oxygen levels, and blood pressure were all normal for somebody in his condition, and his lungs were clear, but his grimace showcased his pain level. He swore softly when she put pressure on one of his wounds. He looked away and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Doctor. It isn’t that bad.”
“Of course it hurts like fuck, Anton,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I appreciate your reverence, but if swearing like a sailor helps you through this, I’m not insulted.”
All things considered, he was in decent shape. Neither wound appeared to be life-threatening, but this was far from an ideal situation. Turning to Luka, she asked, “I don’t suppose you’d consider taking him to the hospital?”
“That is out of the question,” said Luka firmly. “If that had been an option, I would not have invited you in the first place.”
“Invited,” she mocked, rolling her eyes and adding a fake pair of quotation marks. “That’s a funny word under the circumstances. You never told me he had gunshot wounds. From everything I’ve seen so far, I am assuming you’ve done something illegal?”
“We are not paying you to ask questions,” chastised Luka. “We are paying you for your silence and your skills.”
“Yeah,” she said, crossing her arms. “I know, and I agreed. But I don’t want to be Dr. Mudd all over again. There’s a moral and a legal battle going on in my head here, and I don’t want to go to jail.”
Anton chuckled, but Luka looked confused. “Dr. Who? I don’t understand your reference.”
“Samuel Mudd,” clarified Anton. “The physician who unwittingly helped John Wilkes Booth after the Lincoln assassination. They tried him for conspiracy and sentenced him to life in prison.” Luka still looked confused, and Anton added, “Lincoln was a president of the United States around the time of our Civil War. I keep forgetting you aren’t an American.”
“While I appreciate your combined knowledge of American history,” said Luka, rising from his chair, “she needs to worry about her oath to treat the sick because I assure you the police will never be involved in this. We just need you to clear him for travel to New York, preferably tomorrow or the next day.”
“It doesn’t really work like that,” she said, “but his shoulder will be fine until you get him there, and I’ll take the bullet out of his thigh. It’s not very deep, but I’ll need anesthesia and a nerve block, and I want to start him on some IV antibiotics, pain meds, and fluids. I don’t suppose you can get any of that?”
“I told you,” said Luka. “I can get anything you want. Write it down, and Yuri will have it here tomorrow.”
“Where do you think you’re going to get that kind of med—” She looked at his unblinking face and sighed, waving her hands for dramatic effect. “I know. I know. Don’t ask questions. Fine. Get them here tomorrow, but I’m afraid it’s been a long shift, and you’ve made my day even longer. I’m sure someplace in this monster house, you have an extra bedroom where I can crash for a few hours.”
“I do. But under the circumstances, I can only allow two options. You can sleep with me in your room, or you can sleep in a room by yourself with the door locked. I will, of course, keep your bag and your phone, no matter which option you pick.”
Are you thinking my room or in my bed, she thought
to herself, before she realized that neither option had a chance in hell of relaxing her enough to sleep. This guy had too much power nestled in a single, sculpted package and a little space was her only hope to ease some of her confusion. “This is getting ridiculous. I don’t need a babysitter or a locked room. I won’t betray any secrets you guys might be keeping, and I don’t give up my phone for anybody. What if I need to let somebody know where I am? People worry about me, you know.”
“Do you?” he asked darkly. “Because at the hospital, you told your colleague you had no plans for several days. You just wanted to sleep and not be bothered by anyone.”
Mia chewed nervously on her bottom lip before muttering, “Remind me never to talk to anybody in public ever again. I’ll take the locked room.”
Anton had fallen asleep during their negotiations, and Luka pointed to the doorway and led her across the second floor of the massive entrance hall to enter a different wing of the house. He opened the door to a pretty bedroom with hints of dusty pinks and browns and more closets than one room should have. The space was elegant and inviting, but, just like the bedroom down the hall, Mia hesitated before entering.
“Go, koshka,” he demanded. “Don’t test my patience.”
The idea of the locked door had left her rattled, but she’d always embraced time on her own as a necessary part of her day and had no true fear over the confinement. She was inexplicably dreading the separation from this angry, frightening man. Obvious criminal activities aside, he was everything she’d ever avoided in a single package; domineering, controlling, and impatient were some of his better qualities, but there was something else, too. Something she needed to avoid, but he was the only familiar face in a world of uncertainty.
“Why do you have to lock the door?” she asked, stalling for time. “I said I’d do this. I’m not going to run away or anything.”
“There are scarier things in this house than guns and knives, little one,” he said, nudging her into the room at the small of her back. “This way, I will know you are safe.”
A jangle of keys preceded the lock clicking with a loud snap, leaving her alone in a swirl of confusion. A keyed lock should have kept her from sleeping, but with the adrenaline rush that had sustained her through the whole crazy experience subsiding in waves, Mia dropped on top of the covers without even taking off her boots. She’d planned on closing her eyes for just a second or two to collect the energy she’d need to move forward. Instead, she fell into a deep sleep, the physical, emotional, and mental turmoil of the last few days effectively crushing her.
Chapter Four
The next morning, it took Mia a few seconds to remember where she was, and the stark sliver of sunshine peeking around the edges of the curtains confused her sense of time. A warm down comforter had been snuggled over her during the night, and her boots were gone. Irritated by the lack of privacy, she started to sit up.
“Good morning,” said Luka, sitting in an oversized chair. He held a cup of something steaming and a half of a cake resting on a nearby table drew attention to her empty stomach. Dressed in worn jeans with a button-down black dress shirt, his sleeves were rolled up to reveal a hint of muscled forearms covered in intricate tattoos to match the one that lazily wound through his shirt collar toward his neck. His hair was freed from the ponytail, still damp in a mass of curls as though he’d just come from the shower, and he’d trimmed his beard to showcase those damned dark eyes even further.
She wasn’t an idiot nor was she raised in a sheltered world. Even without brandishing a weapon, the dangers surrounding this man were apparent in every facet of his being. The accent, the gunshots, and secrecy all pointed to illegal activities far beyond anything she’d ever experienced in her trailer park background, and she should be running away from all of it with as much energy as she’d run away from her childhood.
Instead, her clit shuddered, and she looked away, angry with herself for giving in so quickly. “Damn,” Mia snapped. “Couldn’t you knock or something?”
“It didn’t occur to me to seek permission to enter a room in my home,” he dismissed. “Would you like something to eat before you rise?”
“No,” she grumbled, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “And I guess I shouldn’t complain since you left ‘creepy, stalker-like’ behind a few hours ago. And where did you put my boots?”
“My English often leaves something to be desired, but boots is a poor term to describe that footwear. They were wet all the way through, and I moved them to a heater to dry. You should invest in a more expensive pair if you are going to walk the streets filled with snow and ice.”
“Thanks for the advice,” she said sarcastically. Her discount store boots were a few years old, but she’d bought them with her own damned money, and she didn’t need any Russian hoodlum pointing out her inadequacies. “But as soon as I take care of that kid down the hall, I’m not looking for anything from you except my money and a ride back to the city.”
Setting his mug on the table, Luka crossed his arms and delivered his nonverbal message of annoyance that was becoming way too routine, but she was bound and determined to stand her ground. At some point, she needed to take control and a fresh start to a new day was just the place to begin. They stared for a long few seconds, her blood pressure rising along with the red blush across her cheeks before she stood to stomp her foot.
“You’ve got stop doing that,” she insisted, pointing her finger in his direction. “It’s unsettling.”
“Doing what?” he asked innocently. “Expecting a level of respect from my houseguest? Demanding you not raise your voice or deliver your message with such arrogance? Perhaps you should sit down and restart your day, and I strongly suggest you don’t ever point that finger at me again.”
The slightly veiled threat took some of the wind out of her stubborn stand. “I’m still struggling with the houseguest label, big guy,” she responded, slipping her hand behind her back. “You brought me here at gunpoint, remember? And locked me in a room for the last few hours. That pretty much sounds like a prisoner to me.”
“Let’s get this cleared up once and for all,” said Luka, standing to move closer and forcing her to sit back on the bed and stare up at his unsmiling face. “I treat my prisoners with a much different level of comfort, so make no mistake, you are a guest. I expect we will end this conversation, or it will make me angry. And you would not like me when I’m angry. Do you understand?”
“So,” Mia drawled, failing to find any sign of joking at the slightly clichéd movie reference. “If you get angry, I would be unhappy? That’s a strangely symbiotic relationship.”
He ran his hand along her cheek, leaving in his wake an invisible spark of electricity as though he’d transferred some of those damned tattoos onto her overheated skin. “Yes. I am glad we understand each other. There are clean clothes for you in the bathroom and a variety of soaps and shampoos if you’d like to shower. The medical supplies you’ve requested will be here within the hour. Anton is resting peacefully and Slavic will call us if he wakens. And eat something. I won’t ask you again.”
Her stomach took that moment to grumble, and she couldn’t find a snarky comment that would have had a chance of shutting him down. Her last meal had been a stale bagel and a cold cup of coffee almost twelve hours earlier, so she convinced herself it was her idea and took a piece of the cake. The tender pastry had a surprising apple cinnamon filling that melted in her mouth, satisfying both her hunger and her sweet tooth.
“This is amazing,” she mumbled with her mouth full. “Where did you get this?”
Luka shrugged. “It’s called a sharlotka. It’s my aunt’s recipe, but I found it easy to prepare.”
“Didn’t see that coming,” she said with a little laugh, cutting a bigger piece for herself and eyeing his cup to see if it was something she’d like to drink.
“Are you laughing at me?” he asked dangerously. “Because in my world, that w
ould be an error in your judgement.”
But she’d seen this side of him before and was quickly learning his triggers. “I guess I am. Sorry, but I wasn’t expecting a man who carries guns and knives hidden under his shirt to be a pastry chef, too. It was meant to be a compliment. It’s very good.”
That deflated some of his anger, but he ran his hand uncomfortably through his hair. “Compliments have no purpose in this world. Actions and measurable progress are important, so keep your thoughts to yourself and do what you’re told.”
“I disagree,” she said, enjoying the man’s obvious discomfort. “Everybody should understand how to give and receive a compliment. Feeling good about yourself releases dopamine to stimulate the reward portion of your brain and increase your motivation and your focus. So, I’ll do what you say if you admit the food was delicious and agree to share the recipe with me.”
For a few uncomfortable seconds, he stared in disbelief and tapped his finger against his leg. She grew nervous, wondering if she’d pushed him too far. Just as she was ready to bolt to the bathroom, he mumbled, “The true compliment belongs to my aunt Zoya, and I will be sure to give it to her. All I did was follow the directions on a piece of paper, and I thank you for telling me I did it well. I will make a copy of it before you leave. Now, do what you are told before I lose my patience.”
It was a small victory, but a welcome one. She skipped a step or two toward the bathroom door, but a subtle pain in her knee slowed her down. She stopped to rub at the sore spot, but he was by her side too quickly for such a big man, sliding the pants leg past her calf as though he had the right to examine her. “What’s wrong with your knee?” he growled in his usual angry tone. “You need to be more careful.”
The Russian Page 3