by Lila Dubois
“Such as being a spy?”
Alena pursed her lips. “You know, I always thought I’d make a good spy, but most of the time I have trouble following orders.”
“You followed my orders.” He hadn’t meant to say that, the words slipping out before he thought better of it.
Alena looked away from him, towards the windows that overlooked the park. There was traffic on the streets and people walking along the sidewalks bordering the green space. Wien was waking up.
“The window is reinforced. You can’t break it.”
“I wasn’t planning to attempt it. I do hope to get out of this situation alive.” She looked back at him, her eyes large, lips almost trembling. “And because of that, I accept your bargain. Three weeks as your slave rather than Serbian prison.”
Alexander sat on the end of the table and put a finger under her chin, tipping it up. “You think a sad look will fool me?” He leaned in close. “I may not know exactly who you are, but I know how to hurt you, and how to please you. Once you’re on your knees for me, you’ll tell me everything I want to know.”
Alena jerked her chin to the side, breaking the contact. “That’s your plan? Top me, fuck me, until I tell you everything?”
“It is. Do you think it won’t work?”
“I think that coercion invalidates the trust necessary for BDSM,” she snapped.
“Communication is also necessary, but you lied to me while you submitted.”
She closed her eyes. “After that first night, after I knew—”
“Knew that you wanted to fuck me? Or was that part of your act?”
“Knew that we had chemistry and—”
“You limited how I touched you, then pretended to change your mind. Fabricated the feeling that there was something special between us.” His anger rolled through him, bitterly cold. “It worked. I trusted you. I worried I was pushing you too hard, too fast. All the while I was the one being manipulated.”
Alena wouldn’t look at him.
He grabbed her hair, forced her to face him, forced her head back as he straightened. Her big brown eyes, ringed in gold, looked up at him, and for a moment he was able to forget about everything that had just happened. For a moment he could pretend she was his sweet, willing submissive.
“I wonder if you’ll enjoy submission when I’m not a puppet dancing on your strings.”
He released her hair and stepped back.
Alena didn’t say anything, merely watched as he scooped her passport off the table and tucked it into his pocket. Without it, her options for escape were very limited.
He paused at the door. “If you try and leave before the three weeks are up, I will use all my power to hunt you down.”
“I won’t. We’ve made a bargain.”
Alexander didn’t look back. Those last words had quavered, as if she were suppressing tears.
It’s all an act. You can’t trust her.
He’d keep repeating that until he believed it.
Moldova was an unlikely place for a palatial villa. The poorest country in Europe, its national identity was variable, thanks to hundreds of years of changing allegiance and leadership. The people of Moldova had been at times Cumanian, Ottoman, Bulgarian, Russian, Bessarabian, Ukranian, and Romanian.
Located in the Balkans, between modern day Ukraine and Romania, many of its historic buildings were gone, demolished by war or natural disaster. A landlocked agricultural producer, the country had struggled to export their goods until Wagner Global stepped in to facilitate a territory trade with Ukraine which gave Moldova access to a 600 meter stretch of the Danube.
The Port of Giurgiulești—managed by Wagner Global—allowed Moldovan goods to be loaded onto seagoing vessels rather than the small boats necessary to navigate the shallow Prut River, which formed one border of Moldova before flowing into Ukraine where it joined up with the Danube.
Beleu Lake was fifteen kilometers north of the port, and the construction of his sprawling, palatial villa—which replaced a smaller home that had been in his family for several generations—had been a strategic part of the negotiations around the opening and operation of the port. The villa, located in a rural and underdeveloped area, was his declaration of allegiance to Moldova. Only when the property had been nearly complete had he managed to fully assuage fears that Wagner Global was acting in bad faith.
Given the history of the region, Alexander could hardly blame them.
It had been a quick flight on a private plane from a small airport outside of Wien to an even smaller airport outside of Galati, Romania. From there they took a thirty-seven kilometer helicopter ride to the port.
The scenery below them was lovely and the helicopter ride could have been a relaxing experience if not for Alena’s icy silence and the tension radiating off his three-man personal security team.
Normally he wouldn’t have brought them for a trip like this, instead bringing an assistant and possibly his valet, depending on how long he planned to stay.
He’d been ambushed.
He hadn’t told Fischer about his plans to travel, so Eva must have reached out to RTW. The CEO himself—Zakaria Schroeder, a fellow Orchid Club member, though they never acknowledged one another when at the events, given their vanilla-world professional relationship—had shown up, a five-man bodyguard team in tow, and informed Alexander that he would be taking a security team.
Zakaria was within his contractually granted authority to go to the Wagner Global board if there was a clear and imminent threat which Alexander was willfully ignoring.
That asshole Zakaria had threatened to invoke that clause in their contract.
Alexander did not want the board to know about Alena, which meant he had to go along with what Zakaria wanted.
When Alexander did take this to them, the events would be sanitized and downplayed with a clean conclusion.
Zakaria wanted him to take a five-man team from the RTW advanced personal security division. Alexander had countered with an agreement for one security guard and his assistant. After a terse negotiation they’d settled on three security personnel, and he wouldn’t be taking an assistant—which he hadn’t planned on doing anyway.
What he planned for Alena was private.
Zakaria had followed Alexander when he stepped in to check on Alena. She’d looked tired, but no less poised than earlier.
Besides bathroom breaks, she’d spent half a night and most of a day zip-tied to the conference room chair. Half a dozen people had questioned her, but her answers remained identical to those she’d given Fischer in the dark hours of the night.
Zakaria had stared at Alena, a grim expression pinching his face, then he’d turned for the door without addressing her. As Zakaria walked out of the room, he’d stared Alexander down.
Zakaria recognized Alena from the club.
Fuck.
Given that he wasn’t a moron, Zakaria would put together that Alena had been at that club specifically to get to Alexander. The club was supposed to be safe, thanks to a rigorous vetting process. Now that security-obsessed Zakaria knew it wasn’t secure, there was going to be fallout.
The message Alexander had left Lillian had been brief and vague. He had a feeling Zakaria’s first call after walking out of Alexander’s building had been either to Lillian or the anonymous owner of the club.
Those thoughts and memories were what occupied Alexander’s mind instead of appreciating the scenery below the helicopter as it passed over rural Romania.
The helicopter started its descent, and Alexander sat back, ignoring the familiar but vexing way his stomach tried to climb out of his body through his mouth as they dropped.
When the skids touched down on a dock that had been cleared for them—technically a helicopter shouldn’t land here but docks made acceptable helipads—Alexander removed his headphones, hanging them on the hook behind his seat.
One of his new bodyguards—an American named Finn Lambert—opened the door and jumped out.
Jakob Morales, who spoke German with a Spanish accent and had dark hair and a medium skin tone that would allow him to blend in to almost any of the Mediterranean and Middle Eastern ethnicities, was next out. Jakob closed the door once he’d exited, sealing out the deafening sound of the blades.
Ruslan Ivanovych remained inside the chopper with them. Ruslan was the only member of the original five candidates Alexander had actively asked to be part of the team. Originally from the Ukraine, he spoke fluent Ukranian and Russian. Alexander’s Russian was conversational at best, and if there were any problems, having a Ukranian and Russian speaker might prove useful in a region where most people were bi- or tri-lingual with Romanian, Russian, and Ukranian the primary languages.
All three men also spoke at least some German, but also English—a fact he hadn’t told Alena. Finn quite obviously spoke English, but so far they’d been using German. If Alena didn’t know Jakob or Ruslan could understand her, she might slip up and say something in front of them that might prove useful.
Not that he intended for her to spend much time around them. Once they reached the villa, she was his.
Alexander watched through the window as Finn scanned the area while Jakob dashed for the long, low building nearest them. Jakob checked the exterior, opened the door and barked something at whomever was inside, then circled the building.
Finally he raised his hand and motioned with three fingers.
Finn opened the door, the sound of the rotor blades painfully loud, and motioned that it was safe for Alexander to exit.
He hopped out, holding his tie down as it flapped in the downdraft. The helicopter couldn’t remain—so the pilot had kept the engine on. As soon they were all out, it would take off once more.
Finn reached in and offered his hand to Alena. She stepped gracefully down, stray hairs which had escaped her bun whipping around her head and face. Alexander watched as she smiled at Finn. The American didn’t react, and released her hand as soon as it was possible.
Would Finn try to rescue his fellow countrywoman, if she told him she’d been coerced? It would be easy for her to paint a picture with herself as the victim, a helpless woman in need of rescue.
Ruslan hopped out, then quickly pulled their luggage out of storage. Finn escorted them to Jakob, then ran back to help Ruslan with the bags.
“The administrators know you’re here.” Jakob motioned to the battered looking door. A small plaque above it said “Office” in five different languages.
“Wait here.” Alexander commanded them.
Alena stiffened at the terse command. He planned to give her a lot of those once they reached the villa.
Her response was a polite smile.
Over the course of the day’s travels he’d learned what that smile meant—“Fuck you, you’re an asshole.”
He returned the smile with one of his own. He’d never tried to make a smile express a “fuck you” sentiment, so he was pretty sure it came out as a sneer, not a smile.
He had time to practice.
Two weeks, six and a half days to be precise. Yesterday had been busy—full of betrayal, tension, and confrontations. After a blessedly restful sleep, he and his bodyguards and captive had left for the airport early this morning, thirty-two hours after he’d seen her sneak out of her room.
Turning his back to Alena, Alexander walked into the building where the port facility director was waiting for him. He and the shift manager had the facility records laid out in neat stacks on a counter. Quarter-to-date reports, loss statements, and a brief memo which listed the names of three workers who had recently purchased either new vehicles or homes, were waiting for him.
The memo was in response to HR’s inquiry. He glanced at it, but trusted that Eva would both have the information and would use it appropriately. Everything else they’d prepared for his surprise visit, plus every other bit of information recorded at this facility, would have been on that server.
Someone had that data. Someone knew not only everything about his company, but could track all the goods they moved, and had confidential information about his employees.
Cold anger washed through him once more. He exchanged a few greetings with the men and assured them he was pleased with their work.
When he left, they were noticeably more relaxed.
Alexander was not. Seeing the office, the men who might be vulnerable due to his stupidity, had firmed his resolve.
Alena was going to submit to him, and then she was going to tell him who she worked for, and what the hell was going on.
Chapter 5
Alena was an experienced traveler, but by the time the black four-door Fiat, driven by Jakob, turned off the main road—a small two-lane, pitted motorway—she was exhausted. The private plane and passenger helicopter had both been luxurious and comfortable, but traveling, even with a billionaire, was tiring.
In Vienna they’d walked from the chauffeured car directly onto the plane. In Romania they’d deplaned, walked across the tarmac to the helicopter, and strapped in. The only time she’d ever had to wait was at the dock, when Alexander had left her with Finn while he went inside.
Now they were in cars on the way to the villa. Cars that had driven right up onto the dock after Alexander walked out of what she presumed was some sort of office or administrative center.
She and Alexander were in the middle of the three cars with Jakob at the wheel. Ruslan was driving the first car, and had passengers—the men who’d driven the Fiats to the harbor. Finn and the bags were in the last car.
The Fiats were several years old, and a distinct step down from their previous modes of transportation, but they were freshly waxed and meticulously clean. Alena got the impression that the cars were the best available.
The smaller road they turned onto was in considerably better condition than the motorway, and the smooth ride and gentle vibrations of the motor lulled Alena into closing her eyes, resting for just a moment.
She should be terrified. Or angry. She should feel something but she’d gone numb at some point today. The past two days had been surreal, from the intimacy and heartbreak of her time with Alexander, to the elation of success when she used the HPA, followed by terror when Alexander caught her. And that had only been the first day.
The car stopped and she opened her eyes. When researching Alexander to plot her approach, she’d read about the villa near Lake Beleu, but there hadn’t been any readily available pictures and she hadn’t bothered to hunt any down.
Now she wondered if the lack of pictures was a very strategic move to keep anyone from seeing this monstrosity. She blinked, wondering if she was hallucinating.
Beside her, Alexander sighed. “I didn’t design it.”
Alena turned slowly to look at him, then back to the “villa” though the description was hardly fitting. She stared for another moment, then burst out laughing. Alexander got out and came around to open her door. Alena pressed her lips together to hold back another laugh and took his hand. It didn’t occur to her until after he’d released her fingers that it was the first time they’d touched since she’d accepted his “bargain.”
“What architectural style is this?” Alena gestured to the building. Ahead of them the three Moldovan men were out of the lead car, grinning widely as they grabbed suitcases and hauled them towards the front steps.
“The style is ‘I hired four different architects and five different contractors because it was politically untenable to do anything else’.”
“In that case, it makes sense.”
Ten-meter tall Corinthian columns supported a roof featuring multiple triangular peaks and massive stone urns. A statue of three rearing horses was mounted on the top of the middle peak.
“The horses…” she mused aloud. “They look familiar.”
“The front face is a replica of the Bolshoi Theatre,” Alexander said glumly.
His tone made her laugh, but she quickly covered her mouth with her hand so as not to offend anyon
e, in case one of the men in the first car had a hand in the design.
“That wing is modeled after the Vatican.” Alexander pointed to the left side of the sprawling structure, which sported a gold dome supported by Ionic columns.
“They could have stuck to one style of column capital,” she said when the giggles subsided.
“It might have impinged on their artistic vision if I asked for any sort of unity.”
“Ah, of course.”
“You can’t see it from here, but the other wing is modeled on a Bavarian castle.”
“I was going to be disappointed if there wasn’t a castle element.”
“The back wing—the footprint is an equilateral cross—is done in a more normal, local style. River rock and brick exterior. I insisted on a veranda that would offer a view out over the protected nature reserve that surrounds the lake. There are columns, but they’re Doric.”
That was the most he’d said to her in two days. And without the slight stutter she sometimes heard, which was clearly the reason he preferred silence.
Her quiet man.
That thought hurt, and she turned away, not wanting him to see her expression in case it reflected what she was feeling.
“This is going to be a bitch to guard,” Finn said in German as he walked up.
Alena watched him out of the corner of her eye. The presence of a fellow countryman had given her a bit of hope. Hope that if things went badly Finn might help her escape.
And if she did escape, Alexander would hunt her down, and with his resources she had no hope of evading him.
Not that she would need to, because eventually the truth of what she’d been doing here would come out, but when exactly that would happen…well. It could be a matter of days, it could be months.
For now she was stuck, well and truly stuck.
Two weeks, six days. She had to make it that long without telling him anything he couldn’t know. If she could get ahold of her phone she might not even have to make it that long. The best-case scenario was that the HPA transfer had worked and the people she worked with had the information they needed and were currently taking action. If her part, and by extension Alexander’s part, was done, she’d only know about it if she had her phone.