The Professional (The Game Maker #1)(9)
Author: Kresley Cole

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.”

“Your father is part of the Bratva, the brotherhood. It’s like a criminal aristocracy. He’s vor v zakone, the head of our organization, answering to no one.”

The blatant pride in Sevastyan’s tone made my queasiness increase. “So I’m a freaking mafiya princess, then? That’s the real reason I’m in danger, isn’t it?”

“Your father is embattled. Adversaries would love to see him fall. And there is another vor who might hurt you in order to hurt Kovalev. Or use you to coerce him.”

“Again, that sounds like a chronic problem.”

Sevastyan studied my face, as if debating how much to tell me. “After I left the bar, I found out that two very dangerous men flew from Moscow hours ago, heading to America—sent by Kovalev’s bitterest enemy. There’s a good chance they were coming here.”

Fuck. This little mafiya princess was in trouble. “You’re taking me straight to the source of the conflict! Turn this jet around, and let me disappear! I could go out west, get lost.”

He glanced over at me, must’ve sensed I was about to freak. “I was sent here to keep you safe. If you do as I say, then you’ll have nothing to fear. And there was another reason we felt it imperative that you leave tonight. When you return to Russia, those men will follow you—instead of questioning your loved ones.”

“They would hurt Mom? Jess?” Alarm for them razored through me.

“Without hesitation. Unless we signal that you’ve left Lincoln—which we will do in Moscow.”

“I have to warn them! Just in case.” Would Sevastyan let me call?

“There’s a phone in the cabinet beside you.”

“How much can I tell them?”

“That depends on how much you trust them not to tell others. You have five minutes.”

Remembering the last time he’d said that, I didn’t waste time arguing. With the headset clutched in my damp palm, I rang my mom. What could I tell her? Things were already tense between us.

Those last few years with Dad’s illness had been tough on her, on us both, and after his death, we’d drifted apart. Then, this past summer, she’d remarried, moving upstate with her new guy. But I was happy for her. She and her hubby had an RV. Apparently, RVing was a lifestyle choice. They went to “roundups” with other RVers.

I got her answering machine. Luckily, she was on the road for a week. I left a message, trying to sound casual. “Hi, Mom, just calling to check in. Have fun at the . . . roundup,” I said, feeling like a rube in front of Sevastyan. “Love you.”

Jess answered on the fourth ring, snapping with impatience: “Having my box eaten right now; this better be good—”

“Jess! I’ve only got a couple of minutes to talk.”

“Nat, is that you?”

“Yeah, and I need you to listen to me. You can’t go home tonight.”