The Professional

by Kresley Cole

  I cringed to think of all the things he'd seen when living on the streets.

  "Then one night, a man came to her, touching her in ways I'd never seen before--exacting, even cruel ways. He made her put her hands against the wall as he whipped her. I couldn't believe he was striking her. I was ready to kill him for hitting someone so much smaller. I started for the man, but then I looked at her face--really looked. Her eyes were glassy, and she couldn't catch her breath." Sevastyan's gaze flicked to me--to see if I was still with him?--then away. "She was . . . she was in heaven."

  "Go on."

  "Once the man finally fucked her, this jaded woman melted for him. In those moments, she would've done anything for more. She belonged to him absolutely." Sevastyan faced me, holding my gaze, as if he needed me to fully understand him. "He had something to offer her--something that other men didn't. I realized if I could learn how to do the things he'd done, I could master a woman like that. I could make her melt. I didn't crave the acts as much as I did the result."

  I'd suspected that kink for this man had more to do with a woman's pleasure than his own. Now I was learning that he'd imprinted the day he'd seen a woman taken to heights he'd never before witnessed. "And then later?"

  "As I told you, it always felt like practice. After I met you, I understood why. But then when my needs grew fiercer with you, I feared I was interested in pain for the wrong reasons. Maybe because I'd received so much of it. Maybe because I wanted to control it like alcohol, meting doses of it. I was terrified that I would scare you away--or lose control and harm you."

  And all I'd done was push him. Regret weighed on me. "Then I've pressured you into things you're not comfortable with."

  He shook his head forcefully. "When someone like you had those needs . . . what I did to you didn't feel sordid. You made it . . . clean. I went to a place like that club, and I felt hope too."

  I must have looked unconvinced, because he added, "I was right all those years ago. That night of the club, you looked like you were in heaven--and I knew you were mine."

  I recalled how his eyes had glinted, how he'd rested his forehead against my shoulder. He'd told me I was made for him.

  "On the ride home, you curled your little fingers into my hair and shivered against me. You sighed like you loved me." His gaze bored into mine. "I will do anything for that reaction."

  He'd seen how tastes of pain could affect a woman, and he'd internalized that want. This man only yearned to madden me, to take me to new heights. Which meant I wasn't hurting him!

  And he was actually communicating with me.

  Right when I was growing convinced that we could make this work, his eyes turned bleak. "But you weren't mine, were you?"

  "I was. I am!" I made a sound of exasperation. "Do you know how frustrating it's been to fall in love with every facet you let me see--even when I believed you'd never let me see more?"

  "Love?" His Adam's apple bobbed.

  "Yes, Sevastyan. I'm willing to work on us, if you are too. If you'll just keep talking to me, I believe we can handle anything."

  He eyed me suspiciously, as if he couldn't fathom this turn of events. "You're giving me another chance?"

  "If you'll give me one too. I do need to learn to be more patient, just like you said."

  He eased closer. "I know I'm not right. But if you help me, I can be better. That's what I want. Natalie, understand me: I'm . . . asking."

  I was already reaching for him. When he swung me over to straddle his lap, I wrapped my arms around his neck. Against me, his body shuddered as if a weight had been lifted from him--like an overworked muscle finally allowed to rest.

  I whispered, "You let me in."

  He could only nod.

  "Please don't shut me out again. As long as you talk to me, I'll never leave you."

  "I'll do whatever it takes."

  For what might have been hours, he held me like this. "Sevastyan, what happens now?"

  In a voice hoarse with emotion, he said, "Now we go home."

  CHAPTER 45

  The Moskva River was almost frozen.

  From the pavilion, I watched otters frolicking on blocks of ice. I'd seen a stoat, several hares, and a snowy owl. They were all thriving in these bitter temperatures--a damp cold even more biting than I'd known in Nebraska.

  The pavilion was one of my favorite places on the property. I would come here whenever Sevastyan was working.

  All around me, Berezka was covered in snow, pristine. Which helped me to forget the fight to the death by the boathouse, the war for control that had raged over these grounds.

  Paxan's untimely death.

  Seamless white reminded me that wounds heal.

  Though Paxan's grave site was beautiful--a clearing atop a hill, surrounded by birch trees--I felt closer to him here.

  His funeral had been somber, attended by so many who'd loved him. In front of others, Sevastyan hadn't allowed himself to show grief. Later that night, in front of me, two tears had slid down his face, which might as well have been a thousand for a hardened man like him.

  Every day that passed we could think of Paxan with less pain. I was thankful that I'd gotten to spend even that short amount of time with him. In just weeks, he'd changed my fate forever.

  His dying wish had been fulfilled: my life was better because he'd been in it.

  I glanced over and saw Sevastyan striding toward me, his long charcoal coat whipping about his legs; my heart sped up at the sight of him. I knew that it always would.

  The winter sun caught his face as he neared. To look at him now, I would say he'd found some measure of peace. He appeared younger, that weariness I'd first sensed in him lifted. He smiled more often, and I could even make him laugh on occasion.

  "Ready to go in?" He offered his arm for the walk back to the main house. We'd redone my wing for the two of us, moving his things from his house on the property.

  "All set." I took his arm with a gloved hand, glancing up at his flushed cheeks and brightened gaze. Sigh.

  Over the last month since we'd returned, Sevastyan had been able to disentangle Paxan's legacy from mafiya concerns; then he'd taken over as vor, though in a scaled-back capacity. Now he focused on protection for Paxan's territory and people.

  And, damn, did the job of protector suit Sevastyan.

  "Your gifts for your mother and Jessica arrived from Buccellati today." Boxes of extravagant jewelry.

  Okay, okay, so the money was growing on me.

  For Christmas, Sevastyan and I planned to visit Nebraska. I could only imagine what my family and friends would think about my ex-enforcer.

  "Thanks for letting me know about the presents," I told him with a grin. I was pretty sure he sometimes talked just to make some kind of mental "word quota." I razzed him about that all the time. "Have you thought any more about your brothers?" I'd floated the idea of Sevastyan calling them on Christmas, a tentative start toward something more.

  "I . . . haven't ruled out anything. Though Maksim might think I'm leaning toward his proposal."

  "You have a point." While I was angling for a mere holiday call, Maksim was angling to unite his might with Sevastyan's and take over, well, Russia.

  Sevastyan hadn't agreed to anything, but his rivals had caught wind of the potential alliance and backed off considerably. Which meant he didn't have to work so much.

  Maybe he could leave his post this spring and take me around the world?

  Or perhaps I'd enroll in school over here. No surprise: I hadn't decided yet.

  One thing I was certain of? I was determined to make this winter different for him, to have him associate it with our warm bed, our wicked lovemaking, and our hopes for the future.

  "Oh, before I forget, Jess has kind of called dibs on your old place. She wants to fly back with us after the holidays." And she might've vowed never to leave. As she'd put it: "If I get to live in my own mini palace, Imma be one borscht-eating bitch."

  "Then it's hers," Sevastyan
said, surprising me. "As long as I get you to myself during the nights."

  "You've got yourself a deal, Siberian." For the first time in his life, he was enjoying the long nights. We swam together, read together, and played chess by the fire. Or we tried to. Last night, we'd scattered the pieces when he'd tossed me atop the board to have his way with me.

  Never had a queen been so happy to be taken.

  Often, we talked into the night as he shared more of his burdens. With each one, I marveled at the loving and honorable man he'd become. He'd also been telling me all about Paxan, and I could see the kindly clockmaker's hand in guiding him.

  Sevastyan still had shadows; now they were our shadows.

  As for me, I'd been working on becoming more patient. To help with that, I was repairing my batja's clocks. Clockmaking demanded patience.

  When the wind whipped, Sevastyan said, "Come here." He tugged me closer, shielding me with his big body. He always did that, just as he warmed my hands whenever they got cold.

  I snuggled up to him, even though I was warm in my luxurious cashmere coat and sweater--that I'd paired with jeans and clodhopper boots.

  I'd been making an effort to preserve my self ; Natalie was back--hopefully a little more patient and accepting. Maybe, just maybe, a little wiser . . . ?

  When a white hare crossed our path, I murmured, "It's so beautiful here."

  "Wait till you see it in the summer." He'd started talking about the future, growing increasingly confident that I wasn't going anywhere.

  Probably because we'd taken to living together like a house on fire. "Hey, maybe we'll have gotten rid of Jess by then."

  He flashed me an amused look.

  The only thing missing between us? He hadn't told me he loved me. Though he showed me every day, and he'd certainly convinced me of it in Paris, I needed to hear the words. Yet this was one thing I couldn't ask him for; it had to come naturally. . . .

  "Tomorrow we should visit the banya." As he peered down at me, the sun struck his eyes, setting them aglow.

  Molten gold: my new favorite color.

  "I agree. It's important. For our health." Had I thought I would miss the thrills to be had at Le Libertin? Wrong. Sevastyan had already made me fly on several occasions since we'd been home.

  Other times, he would make love to me with touches and kisses so worshipful, I couldn't decide which side of him I craved more.

  "And until we can get to the banya," he said in a husky voice, "what should we do for our health?"

  "A chess rematch? Or maybe a hot shower for two?" We conserved water whenever possible because we were responsible citizens. Who liked sex in the shower.

  "I have an idea. But it'd be better if I showed you. . . ." He trailed off, his expression filled with sensual promise.

  At that look, a puff of breath escaped me. "Can we walk faster, Sevastyan?"

  Instead, he stopped, drawing me even closer. "As much as it pains me to say this, my brother was right. You should call me by something other than my last name."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "Anything. Pick something out of a hat."

  "Wow, so many options." Decades ago, he'd chosen Aleksandr for himself. Maybe I'd shape it up a bit. "It could be that I've got a name already picked out. Perhaps I'm just waiting for the right time to tell you."

  "Why wait?"

  "Are you being . . . impatient?" In a saucy tone, I countered, "Okay, then why are you waiting to propose to me?"

  Sexy grin. "I can't much longer--I know you're going to want to marry when we go to Nebraska."

  Busted. Our first night together, he'd mentioned my wearing "his gold." Who knew I'd first wear it in the form of a wedding ring? I quirked a brow. "Pretty confident I'll be your wife, aren't you?"

  He removed his glove to smooth the backs of his fingers over my cheek. "Eto dlya nas neizbezhno, milaya." It's inevitable.

  We lay in our bed that night, catching our breath after a round of bone-melting sex. Sevastyan was still softly thrusting, brushing kisses over my face.

  I was utterly sated, basking in heavy-lidded bliss as the nearby fire crackled. Outside, snow pelted the windows and winds howled, but all was cozy within.

  Tonight, I'd decided that there was nothing better than watching his body move by firelight--and that this man possessed a never-ending bag of carnal tricks.

  When he trailed his lips down to my neck, I threaded my fingers through his thick hair, arching to his mouth.

  Between kisses, he rasped against my damp skin, "Ya lyublyu tebya." I love you.

  A log popped in the fire; I grinned like an idiot.

  He tensed when I didn't answer, raising his head with an alarmed expression. "What is it?"

  Still grinning, I said, "It's nice to hear those words." I leaned up and kissed the bridge of his nose.

  His lips curled. "I can only imagine."

  With all my heart, I told him, "Ya lyublyu tebya, Aleks."

  "Aleks?" He cupped my face with his rough palms, eyes lively. "Of all the names, this is what you've decided to call me?"

  "You don't like it?" I asked, though I could tell he did.

  Molten gold. "I like it." Then he leaned down to give me a lover's kiss like no other. . . .

  The night I'd met Aleks Sevastyan, I'd wished for someone to snuggle up with through the winter.

  I'd never imagined that the winter nights would be this cold--or that the warm arms around me could be so strong.

  EPILOGUE

  You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of Natalie Marie Porter

  &

  Roman Aleksandr Sevastyan Saturday, the twenty-ninth of December at six o'clock in the evening Fontanelle Manse, Nebraska

  R.S.V.P

  Name:

  Maksimilian Sevastyan

  Would be delighted to accept

  Must decline with regret

  Number of people in party

  R.S.V.P

  Name:

  Dmitri Sevastyan

  Would be delighted to accept

  Must decline with regret

  Number of people in party

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  For this story, I envisioned the clockmaker/repair shop that Natalie's grandparents owned as one of the many underground enterprises that flourished in Russia outside of State control in the '60s, '70s, and '80s.

  While researching Russian organized crime--facets of which grew apace with the underground economy in those decades--I dug into the backgrounds of various crime bosses. They ran the gamut. Some had advanced degrees; others were political activists. One had even become a TV producer. With such real-life variety, I felt comfortable portraying a gentleman clockmaker (one with a violent and dark past, which he specifically glossed over for his newfound daughter).

  Lastly, I can't take credit for Sevastyan's vodka/wiper-fluid import idea. This scheme was based on true events.

  I hope you enjoyed The Professional. Thank you all so much for your readership! And play on . . .

  AUTHOR PHOTOGRAPH BY DEANNA MEREDITH STUDIOS

  KRESLEY COLE is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Immortals After Dark series, an intensely sexy paranormal collection that has won three RITA awards and been translated into seventeen languages. In 2013, Kresley was inducted into the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame. Visit her website at KresleyCole.com.

  FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/KresleyCole

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  Books by Kresley Cole The Game Maker Series

  The Professional

  The Immortals After Dark Series

  The Warlord Wants Forever A Hunger Like No Other No Rest for the Wicked Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night Dark Needs at Night's Edge Dark Desires After Dusk Kiss of a Demon King

  Deep Kiss of Winter

  Pleasure of a Dark Prince Demo
n from the Dark

  Dreams of a Dark Warrior Lothaire

  Shadow's Claim

  MacRieve

  The Arcana Chronicles

  Poison Princess

  Endless Knight

  The MacCarrick Brothers Series

  If You Dare

  If You Desire

  If You Deceive

  The Sutherland Series

  The Captain of All Pleasures The Price of Pleasure

  We hope you enjoyed reading this Gallery Books eBook.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Professional: Part 1 copyright (c) 2013 by Kresley Cole The Professional: Part 2 copyright (c) 2014 by Kresley Cole The Professional: Part 3 copyright (c) 2014 by Kresley Cole These titles were previously published individually as ebooks.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  First Gallery Books trade paperback edition May 2014

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