by Nic Saint
Yury stared thoughtfully at the fire flickering at his feet. He’d inched his couch closer, had poured himself a vodka and was now sipping at the liquor, enjoying the burning sensation in his throat and gullet.
His thoughts kept returning to Vitaly, his trusty lieutenant, and that wench he’d brought into his home. Instinctively, he knew she was trouble from the moment Vitaly had mentioned her to him on the phone. When he laid eyes on her, he saw all his fears coming true.
She had to go, he decided. No matter how Vitaly felt about her, he couldn’t allow her to remain here. He needed the man, and this Joanna person could only cause him to slip up, make mistakes, divert his attention from the tasks before him. Women, he knew, were every good man’s downfall. A quick lay, granted, everybody needed that. But a marriage? A relationship? No, in their line of business it would only cause trouble and disturb allegiances.
He reached for his phone and pressed redial. The moment the other man picked up, he merely explained the state of affairs, no introductions or other inanities necessary.
Stressing that it was imperative this look like an accident, he disconnected before he changed his mind. This would sting a little, he knew. Vitaly wouldn’t like it, having become attached to the female. But after a brief period of mourning, things would fall into the old groove again and return to normal.
He sat back with a contented smile and steepled his fingers. Yes, normalcy was what every business venture needed, and once the enemy of the status quo had been taken out of the equation, Vitaly would be able to return his full attention to his extensive tasks, and business would continue as usual.
He gazed up at the painting hung above the fireplace. It depicted a matronly woman of plump aspect, staring at the viewer with a steely glint in her gimlet eyes. Yury’s mother had been the only woman in his life, and she had died years ago, leaving a void that no other could ever hope to fill. And if he could live the life of a single man, so could his trusty second-in-command.
Vitaly Loganov would never marry. Not Joanna Royale. Not any woman. They’d come too far to let anyone ruin the biggest plan he’d ever set up. Crush all of his competitors and become Lincoln’s sole ruler.
CHAPTER 11
Joanna awoke when the bedsprings creaked and the mattress rolled like a ship on a choppy ocean, the result of a large body sitting upright, then getting up. In a flash, the events of the previous night came back to her. Vitaly. Her… betrothed. The moment she stirred, a soft yelp sounded next to the bed, and the next moment, Ram had jumped up and was eagerly licking her face. She smiled and cuddled the doggie close.
Slowly, she turned her head and watched Vitaly amble off toward the bathroom. He was a sight for sore eyes, so large and muscular yet lean and tall that he quite literally took her breath away. It couldn’t be, she thought, that she would have slept in the same bed with this man—this man she hardly knew.
She lay back against the soft pillow, the comforter providing a snug warmth and sleep still lending her that fuzzy feeling that did much to dispel the sense of dread that last night’s events had brought.
The shower was turned on, and she felt her stomach tighten. What would be expected of her, as the wife of Vitaly Loganov? What would be her tasks? By profession, she was an English teacher, though the last few years she hadn’t taken up a position, Jonathan wanting a wife who took care of the domestic tasks while he took care of providing for her.
So she’d turned to writing books, with little to show for it so far.
She rose from the bed, reluctantly pushing back the comforter and an eagerly scrabbling Ram, and swung her legs to the floor. Only now did she notice that she was still dressed in the clothes she’d arrived in. Vitaly had carried her upstairs, she surmised, and had removed her shoes and tucked her in. The thought of his strong hands touching her sent unexpected shivers running down her spine.
As she stretched and padded barefoot over to the window, her feet enjoyed the luxuriating sensation of the thick rug. Gazing out the window, she was surprised to find herself looking out into a garden stretching as far as the eye could see. Perfectly landscaped, it rose and fell with the lay of the land, and was dotted with nooks providing rest for the visitor, small fountains with stone benches placed alongside them, sending out an invitation of peace and calm.
When she heard movement behind her, she turned, her eyes sparkling with anticipatory glee. She couldn’t wait to go out and experience the sounds and smells of Vitaly’s garden.
As her eyes met his naked torso, drops of water standing out on the tanned skin, her breath momentarily caught. He was… huge.
She swallowed away a lump in her throat and tore her eyes away from his chiseled chest, massive shoulders and bulging arms.
“Quite a place you’ve got here,” she squeaked, then coughed. “Your garden is lovely.”
He’d joined her by the window, and she was surprised both his demeanor and voice were gruff. “Not my place. Not my garden.”
Her gay mood instantly evaporated. “Whose is it then?” Even before she’d finished the sentence, she knew the answer, and when he turned those dark eyes on her, she muttered, “Oh. Yury.”
“That’s right. Everything you see is Yury’s. To the last blade of grass or Oriental rug.” His eyes, somber and dark, flicked to the window, and as he gazed out, he muttered, “Even I belong to Yury. And so do you now.”
His moodiness was catching, and she felt the blanket of sorrow that had briefly lifted crush down on her once more. “You… work for this man?” When he merely nodded, she continued. “What is it that you do, then? What is it that Yury does?”
He eyed her for the longest time before answering. “Yury Abraskamov runs this town, and if anyone objects, I run him into the ground.”
“You’re… Yury’s… enforcer?”
He lifted his shoulders dismissively, the topic clearly not one on which he wished to elaborate. “I’m the one who gets things done.”
“Like kidnapping the wives of men indebted to Yury.” She hadn’t meant to criticize him, but his behavior was so infuriating, the words were spoken before she could stop herself.
He turned on her, his eyes flickering with anger. “That’s right,” he growled. “And you’d do well to remember that.” Quite unexpectedly, he reached out a hand, and curled his fingers around her neck in a gesture that was both intimate and gentle. “As I explained to you before, both our lives depend on it.”
And before she could pull back, he’d captured her mouth and drawn her in for a searing kiss, his lips crashing down on hers with an urgency and passion she hadn’t thought him capable of, and as her knees grew weak, and her body trembled under the onslaught, all protest was wiped from her mind, and she clung to him, the fury of his touch burning through her soul.
Then, just as abruptly as he had captured her, he let go and walked away from her without another word.
She stood swaying for a moment, like a tree that has been felled but is still resisting the forces of gravity. Then her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, her arms clutching at her own form, and the terrifying truth of her situation came home to her. He was to be her husband and would expect her to behave like a wife to him, with all that entailed.
Soon, he would expect more from her than merely sharing his bed. He would expect her to share her body as well. She didn’t know if she would be capable of doing that.
But she also knew she would be incapable of denying him either. Anything Vitaly Loganov wanted, he would take, whether she liked it or not—whether she agreed to it or not.
She was his now, and there was nothing she could do about it.
And, strangely enough, somehow the prospect exhilarated her.
CHAPTER 12
“Who are you?”
The voice had sounded behind her, and Joanna whirled around at the hint of suspicion that accompanied the question.
She’d been walking the garden, trying to find in nature at least an ally, a prop for her quickly dw
indling sanity. She instantly recognized the young woman watching her from beneath long eyelashes, her dark hair falling down her oval face, the jawbones jutting and adding to the impact of her beauty.
“Yana,” she breathed. “You’re all right.” Her eyes dropped down to the woman’s chest, half expecting to see blood there, but all her eyes met were two folded arms and a curious stare.
The frown hadn’t dissipated, and she realized she must seem a lunatic. “You don’t know me,” she quickly explained, “but I was there when you were shot. Yesterday in the forest, remember?”
The frown faded, but only marginally so. “Shot? What do you mean? I haven’t been shot. I’ve never been shot.”
Now it was Joanna’s turn to draw her brows together in an expression of confusion. “But… I saw you. I prayed for you—the arrow. It was…” Her voice trailed off as her hand touched her own chest, finding the spot where she’d seen the arrow protrude.
The woman shook her head. “Look. I really haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about, honey. All I know is that I’ve never seen you here before. If you’re one of Yury’s friends, that’s fine. I just wish he would let me know in advance.” She turned on her heel and started to stride off, then seemed to remember something and turned back. “Oh, and for the record? I’m not Yana. I’m Tatyana.” As she stalked off, she muttered, “I hate it when they do that.”
Joanna stared after the young woman, confusion now holding her in its grip. Was she imagining things? Hadn’t she seen this woman mortally wounded only the day before?
Unable to restrain herself, and in an attempt to hold on to the last vestiges of sanity, she called out, “Aren’t you Spartak’s girlfriend?”
The woman turned and yelled back, walking backward now, “Spartak doesn’t have a girlfriend, lady. If you’re Yury’s friend you should know that!” Then she shook her head and disappeared around the house, mumbling something under her breath that Joanna couldn’t catch. It didn’t sound particularly friendly.
Joanna stood rooted to the spot for a moment, and when a window opened on the third floor, and Vitaly’s face appeared, she uttered a startled cry.
“Vitaly! Thank God!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked, and she was glad to find him more solicitous than upset.
She pointed at the girl who’d just disappeared around the corner. “I just saw Yana. Only she said her name was Tatyana, and she couldn’t remember anything about what happened yesterday.” She threw up her hands. “What’s going on here, Vitaly? Am I going crazy or what?”
He held out a soothing hand, then seemed to curse under his breath. “Keep your voice down. Please!”
“Not if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on!” she yelled, the tension of the past twenty-four hours suddenly becoming too much for her.
“I’ll be right down,” he called out, and abruptly closed the window before she could rejoin another retort.
Vitaly must have stormed down the stairs, for mere seconds later he was bearing down on her, his face a thunderstorm. She watched his approach with rising trepidation. So this was what errant payers saw when they reneged on Yury’s debt. Vitaly Loganov honing in on them with rage in his eyes and the intent of violence in his step.
Refusing to let herself be bullied by him, she planted her fists on her hips. “Tell me what I saw yesterday didn’t happen. That I dreamed the whole thing!”
The moment he was upon her, he took her arm in a viselike grip and propelled her forward, falling into step beside her.
“Let me go!” she cried, trying to wrench her arm free from his grasp. “You can’t keep doing this to me! I’m not a child!”
The moment they’d arrived at a small structure, he threw open the door and pushed her inside, then followed her in, slamming the door shut. A large garden house of some kind, her eyes had trouble adjusting to the relative darkness inside, a small window providing the only light. She could still discern the tools of the garden trade neatly suspended on hooks on the walls, bags of fertilizer in one corner, a stack of chopped wood in the other.
“I can do whatever the hell I want,” he growled, taking a wide stance in front of the door, cutting off her only route of escape.
“You cannot,” she returned fiercely. “I’m a free woman. You have no say over me whatsoever. And if I want to leave, I’ll leave, whether you like it or not.”
His head lowered, and he appeared poised for the attack.
“You can’t frighten me, Vitaly Loganov. And it’s about time you told me what is really going on here instead of bullying me into a decline.” She swung out an arm to gesture at the house. “Who was that woman if not Yana?”
He continued his sentry, face working and his lips a thin line. “None of your business. Now will you behave, or do I have to make you?”
She jutted out her chin at this outrageous statement. “You can’t make me do anything.”
He took one step closer, his enormous bulk towering over her. “Trust me. I can and I will. If Yury finds out we’re not really engaged, he will kill us both. And if he finds out what happened in the forest yesterday…”
She threw up her hands. “What happened in the forest yesterday? Are you going to tell me or do I have to drag it out of you?”
It appeared she had gone too far, for suddenly he was upon her, gripping her arm tightly and hurling her across the shed until she was flung down on top of a small cot covered with old gardening clothes. Then, before she could recover, he had pinned her down with his hulking frame, taking her wrists in one hand while he clasped the other over her mouth. “Shut up,” he hissed, and gestured with his head. She followed his eyes, and then she heard it. Right outside the window a man was whistling a tune.
“Yury,” whispered Vitaly, and released her mouth to press a finger to his own lips. “Shhhh.”
To her horror, she realized the brutal mobster was coming their way.
CHAPTER 13
As Vitaly pressed down on Joanna, he could feel her body stiffen with fear. There were so many things he hadn’t told her, and so many he knew he should, and yet it was easier to keep his tongue and allow her to live in total oblivion. It was easier that way—easier for him and definitely easier for her.
For one thing, she didn’t have to become privy to the kind of things he had done for Yury. The hurt he’d caused. He’d been brutal at times, and had always told himself violence was merely a means to an end, an inevitable part of doing business. But now that he felt her so close to him, her body molding to his, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her soft bosom pressed against his hard chest, he realized there were other things in life that were more important than to be a loyal lieutenant to a crazy mobster.
For that Yury had a streak of insanity running through his system, of that he was certain. He’d seen him act crazy too many times, and lately it had become worse. The problem with Yury was that there was no stabilizing factor in his life. He’d always refused to take a woman as his bride, claiming the only woman he’d ever loved was his mother, and since she was reluctant to return from the grave, that was it for Yury. And it seemed the man expected his underlings to toe the same line. And that’s what Vitaly had done, until he met Joanna.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he whispered in an attempt to ward off her rising panic. Her eyes were wide and her face had lost its color. “The girl you saw yesterday? She’s Tatyana’s twin. She and Yana are Yury’s daughters.”
“Tatyana doesn’t know what happened to her sister?”
“No, she doesn’t, and neither does Yury. And I would like to keep it that way.”
“But how can you? Won’t Yana tell them what happened?”
“No, she won’t, for she hates Yury almost as much as he hates her.”
“And Tatyana? She hates her too?”
“No. But she’s a blabbermouth. She’ll never be able to keep quiet.”
He listened intently for a moment. The danger had passed, he kne
w. Around this time, Yury always took a stroll in the garden. He liked to roam the grounds before breakfast, overseeing his domain, then return to the house to start his business for the day.
He rolled off Joanna, gratified to see some color return to her cheeks.
“I still don’t understand,” she said. “Why isn’t Yury supposed to know what happened to his daughter?”
He leveled a scrutinizing gaze at her, wondering how much he could tell her.
“You can tell me,” she urged. “I won’t betray your trust.”
He gave her a brief nod. “Yana and Spartak have been having an affair. They would like to get out of this place and get married, but Yury will never allow it. First of all, the thought of his little girl marrying one of his lieutenants revolts him. He wants her to get married to a good party, better than a mere underling. And then there’s the fact that once you enter into Yury’s employ, you can never leave unless it’s feet first.”
“Dead,” she intoned, quickly understanding his meaning. Then she realized he’d said a lot more than he’d meant, and her eyes widened. “Does that mean you can never leave either?”
“That’s correct. Yury won’t allow it.”
The way he’d spoken was so matter-of-fact that the horrifying truth didn’t hit home until after he’d thrown her a look of anger blended with sorrow that almost broke her heart. Before she could stop herself, she’d placed a hand on his cheek, wanting somehow to alleviate some of the burden he was carrying. Their eyes locked and held, and when he moved and took her lips, she felt the anticipation bubbling inside her before the warmth of his mouth on hers spread through her being.
His hands pressed her down, and then he was on top of her once again, only this time she didn’t fight him—on the contrary, she welcomed the feel of his large body pressing down on hers, his tongue mashing against hers, and when his hand snuck down and grasped her boob, she whimpered as a sudden heat struck her and held her in its grip, tingling all the way from her head to her toes. Then his hand snuck beneath her shirt and they were skin on skin, his fingers kneading the soft, warm flesh of her breast as his tongue explored her mouth with a passion and an abandon that erupted like a volcano between them.