Saved by the Outlaw: A Bad Boy Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  So, really, I have nothing to feel bad about!

  I blow-dry and curl my hair to create subtle waves, and then I stand looking at my naked body in the mirror, the fog slowly clearing away from the mirror’s surface. I turn and look at myself from every angle, wondering what exactly Ivan sees in me. Sure, I’m decent-looking enough, I suppose. But I’m boring. Or, at least I must be in comparison to the kind of lifestyle Ivan leads. With his sharp good looks, money, and dangerous charm, I’m sure he can get any woman he wants.

  Why me?

  I put on some soft pink lipstick and smoky eye makeup before standing in front of my closet staring pensively at the clothes hanging there. I’m realizing that I have no clue what kind of date Ivan is taking me on.

  “What the hell should I wear?” I wonder aloud. Finally, I decide on a knee-length, flouncy lavender dress, thick leggings, a khaki pea coat, and a purple woolen scarf. I check the time and realize it’s now almost noon! So I tug on a pair of brown boots, grab my purse, and head downstairs to the lobby to wait for my rugged, Russian mobster date.

  I stand near the entrance, looking out the window at the snowy scene outside. There isn’t a whole lot of snow on the ground yet, but the people walking by are bundled up in light sweaters and scarves. I can see puffs of air when they breathe. Finally, a chilly New York winter day, after months of dreary rain! My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down at the text.

  “Come outside.”

  I walk through the doors to stand on the sidewalk looking around for Ivan.

  My phone buzzes again. “Look left.”

  I glance to my left to see a big white taxi cab pulling up to the pavement. I start walking over to it when the back passenger door opens and Ivan steps out, dressed the most casually I’ve ever seen him. He’s wearing dark, neatly-pressed jeans, a grey sweater, a perfectly-tailored black jacket, a steel-blue scarf, and black oxfords. He looks absolutely delicious. Ivan reaches out a hand to me and I take it, meeting his dark-blue gaze a little nervously.

  “You look radiant,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly. I give him a smile.

  “Thank you.”

  Something from my childhood, my mother warning me not to get into strange cars with bad boys, flutters in the back of my mind. I brush it aside and let Ivan help me into the taxi. I’ve already done a thousand things my parents told me not to do — might as well add another one.

  “So, where are we going?” I ask brightly.

  Ivan reaches over and places a hand on my thigh. “A beautiful place.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” I reply teasingly.

  “Just wait and see.”

  We ride along for about an hour, and I’m wondering how expensive this taxi ride is going to end up. With my financial struggles, I try to avoid cabs unless absolutely necessary, resigning myself to the buses and subways. But glancing at the fancy clothes Ivan is wearing, I am reminded that he can absolutely afford it.

  We drive up through Brooklyn and Manhattan, occasionally getting stuck in traffic for a few minutes here and there. It’s a mostly silent drive, except for the small talk Ivan makes with me, asking about the club, about the burgeoning romance between Ashton and Natalie.

  “I love that you’ve noticed that, too,” I laugh.

  “It’s incredibly obvious. They aren’t exactly trying to hide it, are they? If so, they aren’t doing a very good job of it,” Ivan replies, a smile warming his face. It’s remarkable how drastically a simple smile can change his countenance. When his lips are in that hard, resolved line, he certainly looks the part of a hit man. But as soon as he smiles, he looks like Prince Charming. It’s a bizarre and intoxicating dichotomy, and I can’t help but want more.

  “I hope they aren’t mad at me for not coming in today,” I admit, the guilt weighing on me. After all, I am the owner. If I can’t show up to work, how can I expect anyone else to?

  “I spoke to Natalie about it last week,” Ivan says breezily.

  “You what?” I retort. Ivan gives me a raised eyebrow.

  “I knew it would burden you, but you need this day off. So I told Natalie you would be out today. She took it very well. In fact, I think she enjoys getting to be the boss when you’re not around. Might want to watch out for that one,” he jokes with a wink.

  I sit stewing for a couple moments. I’m pretty independent and private, and the last thing I need is some guy to swoop in and make my decisions for me. I like my freedom. And like he said, I am the boss. I shouldn’t need a man to come in and talk to my employees for me!

  Still, I can’t pretend it isn’t kind of nice that I don’t have to worry about it. I do so much, and I am in control of so many things. Sometimes it really does feel good to have someone else take the reins…

  “You’re angry,” Ivan remarks astutely.

  “Not angry, exactly.”

  “Offended?” he pushes. I wish he would just drop it.

  “It’s just that I like being in control,” I admit quietly. Ivan squeezes my thigh.

  “And I certainly do not want to take that control from you against your will, Katy,” he explains in an undertone. “But I think you like it more than you say.”

  Again, there’s that mingled sensation of irritation and arousal. What does it say about me, a strong woman with a hold of her own destiny, that I enjoy being bossed around and dominated by a bigger, stronger man?

  “You may be right,” I reply softly. The car finally slows as the driver parallel parks on the street. I look out the window to see that we are at the American Museum of Natural History.

  “Well, here is our destination,” Ivan says, smiling again as he pays the driver and takes my hand to assist me out of the cab. “We’re going to see the butterflies.”

  All my previous annoyance dissipates instantly. I can’t help but laugh out loud. This has got to be a joke — going to the Butterfly Conservatory with my Russian mafia hit man master.

  “Don’t you like it?” Ivan asks, and the twinge of slight insecurity in his tone almost makes me melt right there on the icy sidewalk. He actually cares if I like his date idea or not.

  “I love it,” I reply genuinely.

  We spend the next hour or so wandering through the bright flowers and butterflies, shedding our cold weather layers in the near-80 degree temperature of the conservatory. It feels like a tropical paradise, a slice of warm, colorful heaven smack dab in the middle of snowy New York City. I feel like an ethereal being, floating around surrounded by such beauty. It’s truly a magical place, and I find myself feeling a little dreamy as Ivan guides me by the hand, excitedly pointing out different moths and butterflies.

  But my stomach is rumbling by now, and Ivan suggests that we go to a sweet little café down the street for lunch. It feels exhilarating to walk down the street hand-in-hand with such a powerful man. Despite the precarious, transactional nature of our relationship, and despite knowing exactly what Ivan has done with these hands, I still feel safer than I’ve ever felt.

  And yet that underlying current of danger remains, and I like that, too.

  When we get to the restaurant, he firmly informs the hostess that we want to sit in the front corner. She takes one look at him and immediately acquiesces. It doesn’t take much for Ivan to get whatever he wants. All he has to do is fix you with that cold, forceful gaze.

  He orders a sandwich and a vodka tonic, while I eat a bowl of pasta and sip my peach martini. I keep wondering when the cutesy-date portion of our day will end and my Prince Charming transforms back into my domineering sex master.

  As lovely as the past few hours have been, I have to admit that I am starting to really anticipate the inevitable second part. He’s staring out the window wistfully at the snow, looking as though his mind is a thousand miles away. I wonder if it really is.

  “You like the snow?” I ask conversationally. There’s a moment’s delay before he replies.

  “Da. It reminds me of home.”

  I feel a little blindsided
by this sudden glimpse of Ivan’s inner thoughts. He’s usually so closed-off and cold, it’s hard to imagine what goes on inside his head. I wonder if he will mind if I push him for more information…

  “Russia?”

  He nods. “Balakovo.”

  “I imagine it’s a lot colder there, though,” I add.

  “Yes. Much colder. And quieter. Much smaller than New York. It is where I grew up, and sometimes I still miss it.”

  “How did you end up here in the Big Apple?” I prod. Ivan stops and looks at me sideways, causing me to freeze up instinctively. I hope I haven’t asked too much.

  “It is a very long story, and not a happy one. I am sure you don’t want to hear it.”

  I nod, looking at him expectantly. I am sure that he is about to tell me no, that it’s time to leave. But instead, after a few moments he waves over the waitress and orders another martini for me and a vodka on the rocks for himself. Once the new drinks appear, he takes a long sip and then leans in closer.

  “I was just a small boy when my mother and my older sister Anya were killed,” he begins, swirling the vodka gently in its glass. I prop my chin on my hand to show that I’m listening.

  “I don’t remember it at all because I was only three, but the witnesses say that four men on motorbikes forced my mother’s van off the road and into a ditch. My mama, she was killed instantly, and poor Anya bled out before the policemen and the doctors came. She was eleven. We were driving to visit my father at work.”

  “I am so sorry,” I murmur to him, a little breathless. His story sounds so similar to mine — the way that my mother and brother died. He continues.

  “My father came to take me home from the scene. You see, he was a member of the Spetznaz — the special forces in Russia. He was a very tough man, a well-trained soldier who could kill a man as easily as look at him. But he was also fair and gentle, and he lived his whole life in the light. He was a good man, Katy, working within the law.”

  “Who were the motorcyclists? Did they do it on purpose?” I ask.

  Ivan nods gravely, a dark look crossing his face. “They were very bad men. My mother and Anya did nothing to provoke them. Their deaths came as revenge for something my father did. He was part of a unit trying to take down the mafia.”

  The confusion must be obvious on my face, because he immediately adds, “Yes. My father opposed the mafia. He was instrumental in capturing and dismantling the mafia’s hold on a small town on the Siberian border, for which they never forgave him. It was just a minor village, and my father was just doing his job, but they could not accept the loss.”

  “So then, what did your father do?”

  “He did not retaliate. You see, he could not. He was now a single father with a very young son — if anything were to happen to him, I would have been an orphan. And Russian orphanages are not good places,” Ivan explains. “But he did one thing that the mafia did not expect. He raised me to fight.”

  Ivan pauses to take another draught of his vodka. “My poor father, he realized that it was not enough for him to be a fighter. He had lived his whole life thinking he could protect his family, that he was enough to keep them safe. But the day of the accident, he learned otherwise. No matter how hard we try, evil can always strike behind a turned back. He learned that he would not always be around to shield me from harm, so he had to teach me to protect myself. And he did. Do not get me wrong, my father was always a kind man, but he was also very disciplined. He did not allow me to cry as a child. He taught me to hide my weaknesses and to grow my strengths. I could hold a gun and shoot a target from a distance by the age of seven. I could get my father in a headlock and bring him to the ground by my fourteenth birthday. My father was a good soldier, but he trained me to be even better.”

  I am utterly enthralled with Ivan’s words, sitting rapt and quiet, as he sips his drink and shakes his head sadly. “I was going to join the Spetznaz, myself, when I came of age. But when I was sixteen, something terrible happened.”

  “What?” I prompt, on the edge of my seat.

  “My father died.”

  “Was it the mafia?” I ask in a near-whisper.

  He gives me a mournful look. “No, moya zvezda, it was a natural death. Old bones, long winters, and a broken heart are the cruelest killers.”

  “Is that when you decided to come to America?”

  “Ah, the story is not that simple. You see, when my father died, I nearly lost my head. Finally, thirteen years of pent-up rage boiled over and now there was no one left to keep me in check. So, I prepared myself for a mission: to find the men who killed my mother and sestra. I did not sleep for many nights, spending every minute in pursuit of their names and addresses. Turns out they were all old men by then, but they kept themselves very well-guarded. One day, I tracked them all to a lounge in Novosibirsk. I managed to subdue the guards and get inside.

  “I told them who I was. I made them confess to their crimes. And then I executed them, one by one.” Ivan takes another drink and sets down the empty glass. “But I was still a lawful man, Katy. In the middle of that bloody scene, I started to call the police to turn myself in. I knew I was guilty, and I had no reason to hide anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “Before I could dial the number, I heard the sounds of guns clicking from every direction. I looked up to find myself surrounded by members of the mafia. They’d responded quickly to the threat and now they had an ultimatum for me.”

  “What was it?” I ask, my eyes wide.

  “They gave me two options: to die, or to join them. Automatically I chose the first option, but then they mocked me, telling me how despicable it was for me to allow myself to die, throwing away everything my father had worked for. They called me a coward.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier for them to let you turn yourself in?”

  Ivan shakes his head. “They did not want the police involved any more than necessary. So, finally, I gave in. I joined the mafia. They were so impressed with my skill that they trained me as an ubiytsa — a hit man. They wanted me as far away from the Special Forces as possible, making me cut all ties with Russia, so they shipped me off to Brighton Beach. I have been here ever since.”

  I finish my martini with one big gulp, completely at a loss for words.

  Ivan fixes me with a serious, almost regretful expression. He is so handsome.

  “I understand if this changes the way you see me, Katy.”

  11

  Katy

  I reach across the table, place my hand on Ivan’s wrist earnestly, and he locks my eyes in the deepest, most entrancing gaze. He slowly, delicately lifts my hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to my knuckles. I feel my heart tripping over itself with excitement. Ivan does not take his eyes off of me, does not lower my hand, but raises his other hand to snap his fingers, getting the waitress’s attention. She hurries over, and I can all but feel her tension as she witnesses the smoldering heat between us at the table. Poor girl, I think. You’re standing too close to the flame.

  “Ready for the tab?” the waitress asks meekly after a moment.

  Ivan nods, then finally breaks away for just a second to reply, “Yes. We are.”

  “I’ll get that right now, then, sir.” She rushes away, undoubtedly blushing. I, however, feel surprisingly cool. Something has shifted between Ivan and I over the course of our time at this table. I know him better now, better than perhaps anyone else. I don’t imagine that Ivan is the sort of man to share just that sort of personal detail with just anyone. I have gotten the impression that he lives a solitary kind of existence — without friends to confide in, without family to remember him as he used to be so long ago.

  He has shown me his own heart, even just for a short moment.

  And now I want — no, need — him to show me another side of him, a different part.

  He pays the bill, leaving an overly-generous tip, and leads me out the door by the hand. We step out into a sudden swirl of snowf
lakes, the air so cold it momentarily takes my breath away. Just as I gasp at the temperature, Ivan pulls me close and seizes my mouth in an engulfing kiss, his hand clawing at my hair, trailing down to clutch my ass. With my lungs tightening in my chest, I feel an inexplicable euphoria. He pulls back to stare hungrily into my face.

  My throat opens and immediately I inhale sharply. Ivan raises an eyebrow and cracks a slow, somewhat diabolical grin. He’s no sadist, I know, but he seems to be taking a unique pleasure in depriving me briefly of air. And I have to admit that I kind of like it, too.

  “What do you say we get somewhere warm and lose these clothes?” Ivan growls huskily, moving close to breathe the words into my ear, sending a shiver down my neck.

  “We’ve got a long drive back,” I reply, unable to repress the slight pout in my voice.

  Ivan kisses me again, harder this time. “I have a place much closer.”

  He snakes an arm around my waist and tugs me down the street to hail a cab. Even in the heavy snow, it only takes about ten seconds for a driver to take notice and pull over for him. I wonder what it must be like, being so riveting and powerful a figure as Ivan. The world seems to fall hushed in awe at the sight of his stature, the sound of his voice. Being at his side, I feel as though I’m in the presence of a power I have never touched before. And if I just stay with him, I get to share in the glory of it. Like I’m made bigger, stronger, almost invincible beside him.

  We climb into the cab and Ivan gives the driver some quick instructions, and then we’re off, winding quickly through traffic, peeling off down side-streets. I halfway wonder if Ivan slipped him something, we’re going so fast. But I can’t worry. I physically can’t bring myself to give a damn about anything but the desire rising in me, the need to be impossibly close to the impressive man seated beside me. Luckily, he seems to feel the same way.

  Ivan turns to me and entangles both hands in my hair, pulling me to him in a kiss. Before I can stop myself or think better of it, I clamber over to straddle him in the back seat of the taxi cab, never breaking our kiss. Ivan slides his hands down my back and down over the slope of my ass, giving it a quick smack. I moan into his mouth and move closer, my crotch coming full-flush against his. I can feel myself getting aroused, even through the layers of clothing separating our bodies.