The Professional

Page 2

Probably just the tequila getting to me. Or stress from this week’s insane work schedule. Safety-wise, the only scary thing about this campus was its deadly dullness.
Shaking off my unease, I dug my phone out of my pocket and checked e-mail. Nothing from Zironoff. I was beginning to think I’d gotten scammed by my investigator. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had ripped me off. Had I blown a year of tips on that DNA dickwad?
There was an e-mail from Mom, wondering why I was working so much, worrying. If she ever found out about my quest, she’d take it personally, and we didn’t need any more friction between us.
Finally home, I meandered up the walk that wound through our yard. Our place was a cute mid-century bungalow, owned by Jess’s parents. She called it the Bunghole, a perfect indication of her maturity level.
Inside, I shed my coat on the way to the kitchen. Chilled Gatorade, my secret hangover preventative, awaited me.
Hearing a sound from the front of the house, I called from the fridge, “Jess, that you?” I sounded tanked. “Whatcha doing back?” Maybe she’d struck out for once? We could commiserate.
No answer. I shrugged—the Bunghole emitted more banging and moans than a p**n set.
I closed the fridge. Half of the door was covered with glossy pics from Jess’s pervasive fashion magazines. My half was covered with postcards. She sent them from all the exciting locales she visited each break. Though I had an open invitation from her family and yearned to travel, I was constantly working. I’d never even been outside of the Midwest.
I’d never seen a seashore, much less the Eiffel Tower.
If I had a dollar for every time I’d gazed at these cards while promising myself, One day . . . well, I wouldn’t need to work three jobs.
After downing my Gatorade dose, I swerved to my room, knotting my hair atop my head for a bath. Minutes later, when I eased back into the steaming water, another wave of drunken disappointment settled over me.
Now that I’d crashed and burned on my first pickup, I had to wonder how guys kept hitting on women, forever risking rejection. I mused over all the men I’d turned down—had I torpedoed their mojo?
I just couldn’t figure out why that Russian had been so angry. And what the hell had been so off-putting about me? I wasn’t a beauty like Jess, but I’d had male interest ever since I’d sprouted mammaries.
Curious, I ran my palms down my legs. They were fit from standing for hours on end while waiting tables, just as my arms were lean from hefting trays.
My hands ascended to my hips. Admittedly, they were wide, but my waist was narrow. And my br**sts? They were fairly big, bobbing now in the water, coral-colored ni**les puckering just above the surface. My rack had been on display tonight; that Russian hadn’t given it a second glance.
But what if I hadn’t repelled him? What would those hot, rough palms of his have felt like kneading my chest? At the thought, I experienced a surge of arousal so strong it startled me. My ni**les stiffened even more. When the bathwater lapped at them, my breath hitched.
I’d talked to him for less than two minutes, seen him for less than ten, and his effect on me was this strong?
To hell with it—he could spurn me all he wanted to, but he couldn’t keep me from fantasizing about him. With a mental Screw you, Russian, I reached between my legs to stroke, picturing his broad shoulders, his square jawline, his mouth. Those hooded golden eyes.
Even in the water, I could tell how slick my pu**y had grown, my forefinger gliding along my lips, parting them. When I reached my clitoris, I found it swollen and supersensitive.
Sighing with need, I began to rub the bud in slow circles. My lids slid shut, and my knees fell wide against the sides of the tub. With my free hand, I petted my br**sts, thumbing my ni**les till they strained. . . .
I debated fetching one of my trusty vibrators from under the bed. But then I pictured the Russian kissing down my torso with that scorching expression, and realized B.O.B. could sit this one out.
Though I’d never had a guy go down on me, I could all but see the Russian’s dark head between my thighs as he began to lick. Another stroke had me undulating in the water, gasping. His lips would be firm against my weeping flesh as he hungrily tongued me. He’d want me wetter and wetter, and I’d oblige.
In this fantasy, my aching cl*t wasn’t throbbing against my finger, but against his greedy tongue.
As my body tensed for my orgasm, every inch of me seemed to gather in on itself, like a star about to explode. I rubbed my palm over my taut ni**les, another shot of stimulation. So close, only a couple more strokes . . . I cracked open my eyes to watch myself writhing in the throes. Corner of my vision, strangest thing . . . through the steam, I thought I saw the Russian.
In my doorway, gazing down at me with smoldering eyes.
Broad chest heaving as he gnashed his teeth.
Muscles tensed as if he was about to fall upon me.
I squinted through the haze. Surely my muddled mind was imagining this? Was I that drunk? I was right at the razor’s edge of coming, my toes already curling. As I met his mesmerizing imaginary gaze, my sneaky finger decided to give my cl*t one more shudder-inducing flick.
He exhaled sharply, big hands opening and closing. His expression said that he was about to seize my body and eat me up, bit by little bit.
So close . . . Then it registered that he was actually standing in the doorway of my bathroom.
The Russian had broken into my house and was spying on me, like some psycho!
I shot upright, drawing a breath to scream, but he cut me off: “Cover yourself, Natalie.” His voice was rough, his brows drawn tight. “We need to talk.” With a vile curse in Russian, he strode off.
Cover myself? Talk?
Night-stalker-serial-killers didn’t say shit like that!
I was so confounded, I couldn’t manage a scream. My mouth moved, but no words came out. I scrambled from the tub, reaching for a towel, and secured it around me. Even in the midst of this turmoil, I hissed in a breath as the terry cloth rubbed my ni**les.
Casting around for a weapon, I plucked off the cover of the toilet tank, hefting it over my shoulder in a batter’s pose. From the safety of the bathroom, I called, “I don’t know what you’re doing in my house. But you need to leave now. Or I’ll call the cops!”
“I was sent here by your father,” he replied from my bedroom.
I swayed, and my makeshift weapon faltered. Considering his Russian accent—and the timing—I knew he had to be talking about my biological father. Still I said, “My dad died six years ago.”
“You know that’s not the one I’m referring to.”
In a rush, I demanded, “What do you know about him? Who are you? Why did you break into my house?”
“Break in?” Scoffing sound. “Your key was under a plastic rock. For anyone to find,” he added in a chiding tone. “Your father is a very important—and wealthy—man. He’s assigned me to be your new bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard! Why would I need one?”
“Anyone in a family with a ten-figure net worth”—I gasped at that—“needs protection.”
“You’re saying he’s a . . . billionaire?” Was I getting punked? Maybe that was in rubles or something.
“Correct. His name is Pavel Kovalev. He just learned of your existence a short while ago, through the investigator you hired.”
I now knew my father’s name.
I’d initially wanted to learn about my birth parents because I possessed an overdeveloped sense of curiosity. Then it had occurred to me that I might have gotten my sense of curiosity from my parents.
After that, I’d imagined a man and a woman in their forties, mired in endless wondering about the child they’d given up to a Russian orphanage twenty-four years ago. The thought had pushed me to take on yet another job, to keep digging relentlessly. I’d searched not just for my sake, but for theirs.
But he’d never known I existed? Then I frowned. “My investigator? Zironoff? He hasn’t returned my e-mails or calls.”
“He was made aware that we would be handling this internally going forward.”
“Oh.” Thanks for the heads-up, dickwad. At least I hadn’t gotten ripped off again. No, I’d . . . succeeded.
After six years of searching.
I tottered from shock—and residual tequila. I returned the tank cover to its spot before it dropped on my head like a cartoon anvil. “If you’re my bodyguard, then why were you spying on me in the bath?” I snagged my pink robe, hastily swapping it for the towel. “Huh?”
Silence. When I didn’t hear anything, I had a weird surge of panic that this man—a new source of answers, an alleviator of curiosity—had vanished as quickly as he’d appeared. “Are you there?”
Trying not to think of how short my silk robe was—and what he’d just caught me doing—I poked my head out of the bathroom; no sign of him. So I cautiously padded toward my room. “You didn’t answer my question. Hey, why are you in my closet?”
He emerged from the walk-in. “Where is your luggage?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” I didn’t have real luggage. I’d packed for school in laundry baskets and boxes.
He raked his eyes over me in my robe, lingering on choice parts of me. Seeming to shake himself, he snagged my sizable book bag, dumping library books on the floor. The History of Sexuality, The Boundaries of Eros, A Thorn in the Flesh.
“What the hell, Russian?!” If he’d noticed the titles—my general field was the history of women and gender—they didn’t faze him.
When he tossed the empty bag to me, I barely caught it. “Pack necessities only. Everything else will be provided for you.”
I gaped down at the bag then back up. “I’m not doing anything, not until you tell me where you think I’m going. And why this can’t wait until tomorrow. For all I know, you could be a human trafficker!”
“And this would be my m.o.?” He exhaled with a kind of surprised impatience, as if no one had ever argued with him before—as if he’d done this to a hundred other girls, and every one of them had started packing with a Yes, sir. “My name is Aleksandr Sevastyan. Call me Sevastyan.” Like Sebastian with a v. “I’ve worked for your father for decades. Kovalev is keen to meet you.” He added almost to himself, “I’ve never seen him so eager.”
“How can he be sure I’m his daughter? Zironoff could’ve made a mistake.”
“Nyet.” Nyet was a harsh no; net a soft no. “You offered up your DNA. Kovalev already had his on file. There is no mistake.”
“If he’s so eager to meet me, why didn’t he come himself? Why not just call me?”
“As I said, he is a very important man in Russia, and at present, he’s caught up with work concerns that can’t be handled by anyone but himself. He trusts me implicitly.” Sevastyan moved to my bedroom window, peering out between the blind slats with the same wariness I’d noticed in the bar. “If you pack a bag and get on a plane with me, he will meet you at his estate outside Moscow in less than fourteen hours. This is your father’s wish—one I will be carrying out.”
My manalyzer might be cocked up, but my bullshit detector was still pinging clear; against all odds, I was starting to believe this guy.
Reality began to set in. “But I’ve got shifts tomorrow.” Which I wouldn’t need if my search could end. “And my classes!” As soon as the words left my lips, I felt silly. What would this towering, tattooed Russian understand about a Husker’s advanced degree? What would he care?
Surprisingly, he said, “Your schooling is important to you. We understand this. But your father wants you in Russia now. Not next month or next week. You leave tonight.”
“Does he always get what he wants?”
“Without fail.” Sevastyan checked his expensive-looking watch. “Our flight leaves in an hour. I’ll explain more on the way to the airport.”
Airport? Flight? I’d never been on a plane. Yet I could be in Russia in less than a day. Don’t think of the postcards, don’t think . . .
Even Jess had never been to Russia!
Then I straightened. “Again, what’s the rush? And news flash—I don’t have a passport! How am I going to get into Moscow without one?”
“I’ll work that out. It’s not a problem.” Sevastyan shut off the lamp beside my bed, dimming the room.
“How can that not be a problem?” I glanced at the tattoos on his scarred fingers and had a sinking suspicion, but tried to ignore it. Nope, not possible . . .
“I understand that all of this is a lot to take in. But things are different for you now, Natalie. Some rules . . . no longer apply.”
I squared my shoulders. “Not good en—”
“Let me make this simple for you,” he interrupted. “I’m walking out of this house in five minutes. You can either walk out with me, packed and dressed, or leave in that little robe”—his piercing eyes swept over me, over my ni**les pressing against the silk—“thrown over my shoulder. Your choice.”
My lips parted. His tone and bearing left no doubt that he was dead serious about kidnapping me. This ruble-billionaire’s bodyguard was going to finish his job—period. Still, I dared another question. “Why haven’t you said anything about my mother?”
When his eyes narrowed, I again got the impression that not many people challenged this man.
“Four minutes.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “I can’t just sign on for this, Sevastyan. Not without more answers.”