I pick up my fork. “How about giving me the truth?” For example, where has he been all afternoon?
He watches me with unwavering attention. “I gave you the truth. Someone stole your card, and I will find out who. Until then, I’m keeping you where it’s safe.” His tone hardens with resolve. “Here.”
I clench my fingers around the fork. “As your prisoner.”
His voice remains level, but the minute tightening of his eyes betrays his impatience. “As someone I’m doing my damnedest to protect. That’s not going to change until I catch the perpetrator, so get used to the way things are. Asking my staff for a phone and trying to call home isn’t going to work.”
Stabbing a piece of potato with my fork, I glare at him. It’s good to know his telephone operator and guards report back to him. At least I know who’s on my side. No one, it seems.
A sensual aroma of cardamom and spices drifts to me as he reaches over the table and loads some of the pasta onto his plate. He showered. The smell stirs memories of happier times. I push them away, not wanting to remember him as a kind and skillful lover. The Alex who’s serving me small portions of every dish on the table isn’t the man who shared starters and kisses with me in Romanoff’s. He’s the man who brought me to Russia and locked me up in his house.
“Try the oliv’ye,” he says, serving us wine. “It’s my personal favorite.”
My appetite for the food is gone. I take a big gulp of the red wine while he watches me with hooded eyes as he brings a forkful of pasta to his mouth.
After chewing, he says, “Don’t be obstinate, Katyusha. It’s not going to help. The sooner you accept the situation, the easier this will be for you.”
I’ve already come to the same conclusion, but having my choices taken away isn’t something I’ll easily accept. Carefully, I ask, “Have you considered that you may be overreacting a bit?”
“Not where you’re concerned.”
“You’re locking me in and denying me the use of a phone. What am I going to do? Run away in a strange city where I can’t speak the language or call the police? I’m not stupid or naïve.”
“I’m not taking any chances.”
The jab hurts. He doesn’t trust me either. “You could’ve protected me just as well in New York.”
“You’re wrong.” He pulls the salt closer and adds a generous amount to his food. “I can’t protect you if you’re on the street or in a hospital with thousands of people passing you on a daily basis.”
I lean back in my chair, digesting that information. What about him and the thousands of people who pass him on the streets? What if someone shoots at him again? What if, this time, the sniper doesn’t miss?
“Katyusha?” He takes my hand and rubs a thumb over my knuckles. “Are you unwell? You’re very pale. Didn’t you rest enough?”
The fear is crippling. “How long is this going to take? To track down the person who wants you dead?”
“I’m doing everything in my power to find the son of a bitch.”
I swallow. “Do you at least have an idea of who it could be?”
“A business rival, maybe.” His brow furrows as he lets go of my hand to draw his fingers through his hair. “I don’t have any concrete leads for now.”
“In other words, we could be here for months.”
His jaw bunches. “As long as it takes.”
The words rush from my lips. “Don’t go out there. If you have a telephone operator, you must have a security chief or someone who can find out who’s trying to kill you.”
“Hey.” He leans over and grips my shoulder. “Slow down. I know how to take care of myself. Don’t worry about this. That’s my job.”
Easier said than done. I care about him. My feelings aren’t going to vanish just because he brought me against my will to Russia. I’ve fallen for him, and now it’s too late to protect my heart. If anything should happen to him—
I give a start when he pushes to his feet. The man staring down at me is wearing an expression that says he owns me. The heat in the cool blue of his eyes is the kind that can cut through iron. I imagine the blue flame of a welder melting steel as he rounds the corner of the table without moving his gaze from mine. His expression sharpens with intent. It should be a warning, but the magnitude of the power he exudes hypnotizes me, keeping me frozen in my seat.
He pulls my chair back as if the weight is nothing. Locking his fingers around my waist, he drags me to my feet. I’m a puppet in his hands, overwhelmed with fear, worry, and the notion of being trapped in a dark, endless tunnel. I don’t see a way out, not for the foreseeable future and not when he lifts me swiftly onto the table.
My heart is beating a mile a minute as I stare up at his face. The harsh lines are drawn in lust. It’s been too long. Too long for us, at least. We’re used to making love at least a couple of times a day. His hands on my waist feel right, but my mind can’t make peace with the new imbalance of power between us.
He lowers me gently, cushioning my head with one broad hand and going for the button of my slacks with the other. His gaze holds me prisoner, radiating pretty promises of safety and warmth as he pops the button through the buttonhole. My body heats instantly, his effect on me devastatingly powerful. The zipper of my slacks makes a scratchy sound as he pulls it down. His actions are slow and meticulous, his attention focused on my face.
I gasp when he slips a hand inside my underwear and over my folds. The mere brush of the pad of his finger over my clit makes my body bow. If he slips that finger inside me now, I’ll be lost, and the victorious look on his face says he knows it.
If this were any other day, I wouldn’t hesitate to take the pleasure he offers. I would give him everything he wants and all I’m capable of. When he took me in the bed and again in the shower the day before yesterday, we were on equal footing, or so I thought. Did I ever have a say in our relationship, or was it just a sweet illusion?
The thought hurts, adding to the growing mountain of torment in my chest. If I’ve been blind and naïve, I only have myself to blame.
Gently, he parts my folds, finding the wetness that’s proof of my arousal.
“Katyusha,” he says in a rough voice, his features tight with desire as he plants one hand next to my face.
When he lowers his head to move in for the kill, it takes every ounce of my willpower to say, “No.”
He freezes above me. Inside my panties, his fingers curl into a fist. I don’t have to look at him to know his control is hanging by a thread.
Gripping his wrist, I pull his hand from my underwear. Tears burn in my chest as I whisper, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
6
Alex
Torn between disbelief and confusion, I stare at Katerina’s face. Her beautiful features are drawn into a mask of regret and something else, something that looks a lot like disappointment. She holds my gaze with her large hazel eyes as I pull my arm from her grip and bring my hand to her mouth.
“You want me.” I trace the closed seam of her lips with the finger I had in her pants mere seconds ago. “Here’s the proof. Do you want me to part those pretty lips and make you taste it?”