The Professional

Page 26

I could already tell how sore I was going to be. Probably a good plan to take a breather.
He lay on his back, dragging me against his side. As he held me securely in the cradle of his arms, I rested my head on his chest. With the sound of his heart against my ear, I traced a tattoo, filled with fascination for this man—and a lingering unease.
I’d once imagined that I would be surrendering something when I lost my virginity. With Aleksandr Sevastyan, I might have surrendered . . . everything.
But fatigue was catching up with me.
As I was drifting off to sleep, he gruffly said, “I’ve got a thousand thoughts running through my head.”
He was actually instigating a conversation? About what was on his mind? “Tell me. Even just one.”
“Tomorrow, maybe,” he said in a noncommittal tone. “Go to sleep.”
“Just one, Sevastyan.”
He exhaled. “This need I have for you . . . it should unsettle you.”
I swallowed. It did. Still I asked, “Why?”
He pressed his palm against mine, studying our hands for nerve-racking moments. “Because it unsettles even me.”
Chapter 29
I shot upright, waking to the sound of my own scream and boots stomping toward the cabin.
“Natalie?”
I was awake. On the boat. Just a nightmare.
In sleep, I’d relived those bullets spraying. I’d heard Paxán’s treasured clocks shattering, thinking that he would be distraught at the loss.
Then I’d dreamed that Sevastyan had died by the boathouse, his mighty body felled. Raindrops had pelted his lifeless face, his unblinking eyes—
When he burst through the cabin door, I was already on my knees, reaching for him with a whimper.
He clasped me against him, tugging me into his lap as he sank down on the bed. “I’ve got you. Shh,” he murmured, squeezing me against his chest. “Shh, milaya moya.” He began rubbing my back with his big, warm hand, soothing me. God, I needed him. His strength, his heat.
In his arms, with his heartbeat drumming through my consciousness, I wondered how I could possibly have thought of this man as sinister.
When he was like this, I couldn’t make myself regret last night’s surrender. As he pressed kisses against my hair, I felt closer to him than I ever had to anyone.
How could I have regretted giving him anything I could . . . ?
The sound of voices outside roused me. “Where are we?” I asked.
“Docked outside of St. Petersburg.” He tucked me even closer. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
No need to ask what I’d been having a nightmare about. “I . . . relived it,” I said in a broken voice. “Then I dreamed you died.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Natalie. But you’ve been through a lot. You weren’t prepared for any of this.”
“I’d sensed something was off with Filip. Yet I ignored my instincts. I should’ve said something.”
Sevastyan shook his head. “I’d told Paxán about my misgivings, but he was ever loyal to his friends. He felt like he owed more to Filip, wouldn’t heed my advice. I should’ve fought him, made him see reason.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “We’re both blaming ourselves. Maybe we should blame Filip? Or Travkin?”
In a low tone, Sevastyan admitted, “I wish I could kill Travkin again.”
Reminded of what he’d done, I asked, “Why did you walk into the lion’s den to assassinate him? Why not wait?”
“The minute he marked you for death, he ensured his own. No one will ever hurt you. No one . . .” Sevastyan’s hand on my back paused; he tensed all around me.
“What? What’s wrong?”
I followed his gaze, saw my reflection in the dresser mirror. There were fingertip-sized bruises on my hip and ass.
In a hoarse voice, he said, “I did this to you?”
I peered up, saw an expression I’d never seen on his face.
Fear.
Because the only thing that could scare a man like Sevastyan . . . was himself.
He set me on the bed as if I were made of porcelain, then stood to leave, his posture stiff. “I left bruises.” He looked wrecked by this, which wouldn’t do.
So I tried to lighten the mood. “Please. I bruise from harsh language. Besides, this is kind of the nature of the beast, no?” He’d whipped women before, bound them. “Surely you’ve seen this in the past.”
He didn’t relax whatsoever, conflict clear in his expression. “No. Not from my hand.”
Because Sevastyan had never been with the same woman twice? When Paxán had told me that, I’d kind of thought he was exaggerating. But it was likely Sevastyan had never stuck around to see the aftermath of his appetites.
I sensed him slipping away from me. “I’m perfectly fine. You liked when my ass was sore,” I reminded him. “How is this different?”
“It’s different. Now.” He handed me a robe.
With a frown, I donned it. “Now that what?”
“We’ll discuss this later. We have a long day ahead of us.”
He wouldn’t look at me, was closing down right before my eyes. Now that we’d made love, I thought that we would be entering into a new stage of our relationship. In which, you know, we talked.
But it was as if a draft had soughed into the air between us. “In the banya, you told me not to wake up. I feel like I should be telling you the same. You’re pulling away, and I don’t know why.”
“I have something for you.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket pocket, handed it to me. “It was in Paxán’s cabin, in his safe.” The back was sealed with a red wax circle. I recognized Paxán’s fanciful calligraphic handwriting on the front.
For my daughter
He’d told me he would never tire of saying that.
“Read that, then pack a suitcase for five nights.” Sevastyan gave a curt nod. “We depart soon. I’ll leave you to it.”
As soon as I was alone, I tore the envelope open. . . .
My dearest Natalie,
If you are reading this, then I am—how do you Americans so eloquently phrase it?—shit out of luck.
Even in those words, I could hear his wry tone, could imagine him writing it with a sigh.
However, you are with Aleksei, and that is my consolation. He will walk into a hail of bullets for you.
He had.
Yet as loyal as he is, there is a darkness to him. Since the first winter I brought him to Berezka, he has not spoken about his childhood, but I know it was horrific. I never pressed him to talk about it, because I sensed he wanted to shed his past and make a fresh start.
This was a failing on my part.
Dorogaya, he’s like an intricate clock, and some mechanism deep within is broken. He bears scars inside and out, and until he can trust another enough to confide about his past, I don’t believe he will ever be whole. Coax him to entrust you with his burdens.
How? If Sevastyan hadn’t learned to open up by now . . .
Not that I expected him to know how. He’d been raised from the age of thirteen in a domicile inhabited by men, rife with guns and criminals.
And who knew what had happened to him before that?
You’re a wealthy woman now. Once you are out of danger, please see the world and live out your dreams.
With all my heart, I hope you and Aleksei can build a future together on a strong foundation. But if you can’t, my brave daughter, then eye the horizon. Life is short. Take it from someone who apparently knows.
Tears clouded my vision. Again his wryness permeated his words. But we would never laugh together again, would never share jokes.
You are my life’s great surprise, treasured beyond words. However much time I got to spend with you was not enough—and never could be.
With all my love,
Bátja
Through tears, I reread the letter several times, until I was almost numbed to it, then placed it in the inner pocket of my suitcase. As I began to pack, I reflected on my father’s advice about Sevastyan.
I wasn’t a big fan of women trying to fix men, to change them. I always figured there were guys enough out there, so I should look for a total package that was already fully Ikea-assembled—or go without.
But getting Sevastyan to open up didn’t necessarily involve changing him, it involved getting to know him. Like a scholarly investigation.
Our relationship needed work. Work is what I do.
Did I want Sevastyan enough to fight for him? Yes. Yes, I did. I’d wanted him since I’d first seen him.
I had to try.
I emerged from the cabin just as he was disconnecting a call. With the same mysterious person as before?
“Are you well?” His way of asking about the letter.
“Yes. Paxán wrote a beautiful good-bye.”
Sevastyan nodded. “I’ve just learned that much of the danger has lessened. Word of the bounty’s expiration has spread, and Berezka has been secured. Your father’s funeral will be held there in two weeks.”
“I see.” I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “Are we going back there now?”
“Not yet. I’ve rented a car for us to head south to Paris. There’s a secure property in the city.”
“But if the danger is dwindling . . .”
“I trust the information about Berezka—but not enough to risk your life.”
“Who’s giving you the intel? One of the brigadiers?”
“A man named Maksim.”
At the mention of this name, something tugged at my memory. “How do you know him?” When Sevastyan didn’t answer, I said, “Let me guess. You met him in the north. By chance.”
“Something like that,” he said, twisting that thumb ring like a son of a bitch. Like my shady Siberian. “I’ve known him for most of my life. I do . . . trust him, up to a point, at least.” Twist, twist, twist.
“Uh-huh.” I didn’t feel like he was outright lying, but he was definitely skirting around the truth. And for right now, I was just too drained to call him on it.
When he told me, “I’ll get your bag,” and set off for the cabin, it was almost a relief.
Once we were in the car, a Mercedes sedan much like his own, Sevastyan paused before starting off. Without looking at me, he squeezed the gearshift, rubbing his other palm over the wheel.
Finally he spoke: “A good man would reason that you were confused last night, traumatized, and couldn’t be held accountable for your actions. A good man would release you back to your old life, now that everything has changed.”
“But you don’t consider yourself a good man?”
He faced me, enunciating the words: “Not in the least, pet.” His answer sounded like both a promise and a threat.
How to respond to that? He’d basically told me he was a selfish bastard who wouldn’t ever be letting me go. Just as he’d informed me last night, while petting me so divinely.
I let the conversation rest—but I wouldn’t for long. Paxán’s letter had just highlighted my own misgivings. I needed more from Sevastyan.
Yet what was I prepared to do to get it?
He put the car in gear. As we drove away from St. Petersburg, I gazed up at him, realizing I was starting off on an expedition into the unknown. With this trip, with this man.
I was a bystander in both cases—waiting for Sevastyan to switch gears or signal with a blinker, to open up or show some hint of trust.
And all the while, the hazard lights flashed over and over. . . .
Chapter 30
“Amazing,” I breathed as I gazed out over Paris from the covered balcony of Sevastyan’s town house.
His “secure property” was a four-story mansion from the turn of the century, with a to-die-for view of the Eiffel freaking Tower, the pinnacle of all my travel dreams. It soared, the top disappearing into a low bank of rain clouds.
“I’m pleased you like it,” he said from the spacious open-plan sitting area. If Berezka had been all that was opulent, this place was nearly as lush, but the interior was more modern. In front of a crackling fire, he poured a glass of red wine for me.
I couldn’t help but sigh at him, all dressed to perfection in a three-piece charcoal suit. Seeing him like this made me glad I’d dressed up today. This morning, he’d told me Paris was only a few hours away, so I’d forgone my most comfortable clothes for thigh-highs, kitten heels, a pencil skirt, and a fitted blouse of deep purple silk.
For the last five days, we’d driven ever southward toward Paris, giving me a passenger-side view of southern Russia, Poland, Germany, and northern France.
At night, we’d stayed in lavish hotels and made love for half of the hours we’d allotted for sleep. Though he’d taken me again and again, he always treated me like porcelain.
Over these days, I’d seen more of his fascinating contradictions. He knew wines, spoiling me with rare vintages, but didn’t drink with me. When we dined in fine restaurants, he was such a gentleman, his table manners impeccable—yet I knew he was always carrying a very ungentlemanly pistol in a holster.
In addition to Russian, English, and Italian, he spoke fluent French and had a good grasp of German—but I could barely get him to communicate with me about anything meaningful.
He refused to open up. With every mile we’d put between us and Russia, distance had accumulated between Sevastyan and myself. I was beginning to see that Paxán was right: something was broken inside Sevastyan.
The grief we shared hadn’t brought us closer; in fact, we’d avoided all mention of Paxán and Berezka. . . .
When he stepped through the balcony doors, I accepted the wine, asking, “Is this place really yours?”