When I didn’t answer him, Sevastyan turned on the heater, and hot air blasted against my chest, over the hypersensitive tips of my br**sts. I nearly yelped when I felt the seat warmer toasting the cleft of my ass. In the close confines of the car, I got another hit of his mind-numbing scent.
So much stimulation. Could he see me trembling?
Once we were on the main highway heading out of town, the car purring along at eighty miles per hour, he commanded, “Put on your seat belt.”
I didn’t like this tone at all, heard it constantly at my server jobs. “Or what?” I narrowed my eyes. “And did you really call me pet earlier?”
“When I tell you to do something, it’s in your best interest to do it, pet.” Without warning, he reached over to yank my seat belt into place, roughly grazing my br**sts with his forearm, filling my head with his scent. I squirmed on the hot seat, feeling dazed by this arrogant man.
I remembered one time when I’d been written up for public intoxication after a football game; I’d been mentally yelling at myself to sober up, willing myself to recover my wits so I could talk the cop out of the expensive citation. Stop chuckling, Nat, and answer the nice officer! Not OSSIFER, dumbass! Do NOT touch his shiny, shiny badge, do not—DAMN IT, NAT!
I felt like that now: under the influence.
Sevastyan affected me in a way I couldn’t shake. I was experiencing a bewildering attraction to him, some inexplicable connection.
And no matter how bad an idea it was, I kept wanting—metaphorically—to touch his badge.
No, no, no—I needed to concentrate on getting information out of him. “Do you keep your promises, Sevastyan?”
“To you and your father alone.”
“You promised me answers.”
His hands tightened on the wheel, those sexy rings of his digging into the leather. “Once we are on the plane.”
“Why not now? I need to know more about my parents.”
He didn’t deign to respond, just monitored the rearview mirror with that wary alertness.
I remembered his earlier demeanor, checking the street through my bedroom blinds. “What’s up with this paranoia? We’re in Lincoln, Nebraska; the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened here was when this Russian a**hole kidnapped an unwitting co-ed—in her robe.”
The speedometer hit triple digits.
“Are we . . . are we being followed?”
Another glance into the rearview. “Not at present.”
“Which indicates we might have been in the past—or perhaps could be in the future?” This was too bizarre. “Am I in some kind of danger?” Questions about my parents and past faded as dread about my immediate future surfaced.
With reluctance, he said, “Kidnapping for ransom is always a fear.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t buy that. What you just described sounds like a chronic problem, or a theoretical one. Yet you broke into my house and demanded that we leave in five minutes, which sounds like an acute problem. So what happened between the time I saw you in the bar and the time you entered my home?”
Sidelong glance. “I think you have your father’s cunning.”
“Answer me. What happened?”
“Kovalev called and gave me the order to get you on a plane. Which means it’s as good as done.”
A sudden thought struck me. “How long have you been my bodyguard, Sevastyan?”
“Not long,” he hedged.
“How—long?”
He hiked his broad shoulders. “A little over a month.”
And I’d never known. “Have you been following me around? Watching me all this time?”