“I’m from Siberia; they call me the Siberian. End of story.”
“Simple yet elegant, goes with everything. Were you born into the ‘the life’ or did you steer your major?”
Flinty gaze.
“Okay, so what’s Kovalev’s mob name?”
“Older vor call him the Clockmaker.”
“Because he cleans clocks? With his fists?”
“Your father has a wry sense of humor as well. You have much in common with him.”
“Really?” I tilted my head. “You’ve learned a lot about me, huh?”
“I know everything about you, academically, financially, socially. I know that you had stability growing up and a caring couple to raise you, which relieved Kovalev’s mind greatly. I know that you’re driven and clever. Probably too much for your own good.”
I recalled that feeling I’d had of being watched earlier tonight. “You followed me home from the bar.” Mere hours ago.
“I did.”
“Have you been in my house before tonight?” Had he found the collection of vibrators under my bed, or noted that half of my Internet bookmarks were for porn?
“Of course. I was thorough.” His demeanor was so matter-of-fact, even as he sat here admitting that he’d violated my privacy on the regular.
My entire life had been laid bare to this man. Between gritted teeth, I said, “Any highlights you discovered that you’d like to share?”
“Don’t worry—not every detail will make it back to Kovalev.” Smirk. “Such as the arsenal you keep under your mattress.”
Arsenal? Dying here.
“Or what I caught you doing to yourself in your bath.”
Now that I wasn’t in fear for my life, embarrassment scalded me. Sevastyan had caught me diddling the da, spelunking, dialing the pink telephone. “Why did you open the door to my bathroom in the first place?”
“I heard a sound.” He raised an eyebrow. “A whimper. I thought the worst.”
“You seem to have a talent for keeping me at a disadvantage. Maybe when we get to Moscow, I can investigate your apartment? Look under your bed? How about I watch while you masturbate?”
At that, tension shot through him as if he’d been gut-punched. “Guard your tongue, pet.” His fingers were wrapped so tightly around his glass, I thought the crystal would shatter.
“Or you’ll do what? Throw me down in a cornfield and feel me up?”
He clenched his jaw, as if battling for control of himself. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
Stop arguing with him, Nat. Go—to—bed. Was I so intrigued/aroused by this guy that I’d do anything with him, even fight?
“If you hadn’t run—”
“Oh, don’t you dare put that back on me!”
“A half-naked redhead was spread beneath me, rolling her h*ps in welcome. I don’t have ice in my veins.”
I arched a brow. “Don’t you?”
“Not in that area of my life,” he amended. “Even though you’re far from my type, I was affected.” He used his right forefinger to twist the thumb ring on that same hand. I’d noticed he’d done that before when he’d seemed uncomfortable. A tell? That could come in handy. “Any man would’ve been, so don’t read more into it than that.”
“Far from your type.” How could that comment wound me? “You’re not exactly mine either, Siberian.” Probably not the best idea to taunt the assassin. I rose. “You seem determined to humiliate me and pick a fight with me. I’m not interested in either.” I turned away and marched down the aisle. “Wake me up when we get there.”