My mysterious companion won out. He stretched his long legs in front of him, then rolled his head on his neck. At some point, he’d refastened the buttons of his shirt. Clearly, whatever temporary insanity had occurred in the field had passed.
When we leveled off, the lights of the cabin dimmed, reminding me that I was sequestered with a larger-than-life type of man—one who had pinned me to the ground and felt me up only minutes ago.
Just as I opened my mouth to ask him what that was all about, he said, “As promised, I’ll answer your questions. But you need to wash yourself first.”
I followed his pointed gaze with my fingers, found a leaf in my hair. I peered down at my dirty legs and bare feet. I didn’t embarrass easily, but now my cheeks flushed with heat.
“There are showers in both of the suites.”
Chin raised, I unfastened my seat belt, rose with an indifferent air, then started toward the back. Over my shoulder, I said, “When I return, prepare for an interrogation.”
In a dry tone, he replied, “I’m not going anywhere, Natalie.”
Fifteen minutes later, I emerged into the main cabin—clean, sober, and dressed in one of Sevastyan’s button-down shirts.
After a shower in a large marble enclosure stocked with high-end toiletries, I’d padded back to the suite’s bed and stared down at my abused robe. The back had looked like modern art, in a pallet of greens, yellows, and blacks. And it had reeked of corn, a treacly sweet smell. No way I could wear it again.
I’d surveyed the suite, lighting on an expensive piece of luggage. Sevastyan’s. He’d helped himself to kidnapping me, so I’d felt justified borrowing a shirt. Slipping on the starched button-down, I’d shivered, enveloped by his crisp scent, covered from my neck to almost my knees.
With nothing between my skin and the material, I hadn’t even been surprised when arousal swept over me again; in the shower my skin had been hypersensitive. . . .
Now Sevastyan raked his gaze over me, head to toe, giving me an are-you-fucking-kidding-me? look.
I frowned in turn. Everything was covered. “I’m just borrowing it until I get my promised new clothes, okay?” When I sat at the opposite end of the sofa, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Tension headache?”
Without looking at me, he answered, “You could say that.”
“I can’t imagine the pressure you must be feeling,” I said in all truthfulness. “Do you do this kidnapping stuff a lot?”
Scowl from the Russian.
“It’s a fair question, considering that you and my father are involved in organized crime.”
Without missing a beat, he asked, “Why do you persist in thinking that?”
“Your tattoos. The pilot’s. I’ve researched your country enough to know about the Russkaya Mafiya and their love of ink. Plus, that would be the absolute worst outcome to my years-long quest.” I tapped my chin, musing, “And yet totally in keeping with my fortunes over the last few weeks—”
“A worse outcome than never knowing Kovalev?” Sevastyan asked, irritation scoring his tone. “You speak about things you don’t yet understand, little girl. But you will. . . .”
Chapter 6
“Things I don’t understand? Like crime?”
Stony gaze.
“Oh, God, he is mafiya.” I grew queasy at the idea. Why had I ever hired that investigator? My biological father was a thug. “What have you gotten me into?”
“You sought him,” Sevastyan repeated.
“You’re not really a bodyguard, are you? You’re probably his, what? His professional hit man? His enforcer?” I gave a nervous laugh. “That’s why you have those scars on your knuckles—from beating people senseless, right? And exactly what business is Kovalev ‘caught up’ in?” My hysteria building, I said, “A turf war against a rival gang?” Yes, it took a lot to ruffle me, but once I lost my cool, I tended to go big.
Sevastyan didn’t answer, so . . . ding, ding, ding. A turf war. And I was on my way there.
He finally said, “Are you done?”
“Tell—me.”