“Ah. That makes sense.”
She tilts her head, her red-blonde locks trailing in the water. “What does?”
“The appeal of natural medicine. Considering who your mother is.”
She nods. “Right. I grew up attending home births with my mother. We only use folk remedies when we are sick, even though my mother can write prescriptions now. I’ve seen time and again how the body balances itself when given the right support.”
“I remember the poultice you made for Oleg when his leg was infected. He healed quickly. That’s probably a dying art.”
Seeing her face shine at my words does crazy things to my stomach.
“I believe in the body’s natural ability to heal, and I’m fascinated by all the alternative methods that are out there. I mean, I’ve seen women who couldn’t conceive get pregnant using Chinese herbs and acupuncture. Did you know Chinese medicine doesn’t believe in infertility except in a tiny percent of cases?”
I shake my head, entranced, not so much by her words, but by her enthusiasm. The light that shines behind her face is brighter than the moon.
“Are you interested in Chinese medicine?”
“Well, I love it, but I don’t think acupuncture is my thing. I just want to learn everything, to be honest. And I believe Western medicine has its place, but there are so many remedies that have fallen by the wayside because they don’t have a patent and big pharma behind them, you know?”
“I’m sure.” My mind is already working overtime trying to figure out how I can help her make all this happen, legally or illegally. Natasha has a passion, and she shouldn’t have to give up on her dreams because they are impractical. Or because she doesn’t have the support she requires.
Besides, getting her out of Chicago—sending her safely away to naturopathy school for four years—suddenly seems like the best possible solution for my sanity. A compromise for the burning need I have to take care of her—to infiltrate her life and turn us both inside out in the process—without breaking my vow to Alyona.
“You can get in the hot tub, you know.” Her voice is suddenly soft. I can’t decide if it’s shy or teasing.
“No chance.” I climb to my feet.
She splashes a little water across my feet. “Why no chance?”
“You’re in there.” I speak as I walk to the French doors, my back to her. “Naked. Wet. Slippery.” My jeans are way too tight by the time my hand rests on the door handle, like my verbal acknowledgment of her hot little siren body makes her even harder to resist. “And I have about nine hundred eighty ideas of what I could do to it.” I yank the door open and step through, pulling the door shut without looking back.
“Dima?” she calls to me just before it clicks shut.
I stop, dragging in a tortured breath. Fuck. I turn. “Da?”
“I forgot a towel. Could you bring me one?”
A growl of disapproval sounds in my throat. She’s manipulating me again. I try to cloak myself in annoyance while the thrill of anticipation wings around me, whipping me into a frenzy. I point a stern finger at her. “Only if you stay in that tub.”
She gives a quick nod, her face pure innocence, and I should have known better.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe I knew what she would do from the moment she asked for the towel, and I wanted that outcome. My punishment. Both our rewards.
This filter of the prisoner and her keeper that allows me to justify things I have no business doing.
Because, of course, when I bring the towel to her, she stands up out of the hot tub, water streaming from her slick body, steaming around her in a cloud.
Her breasts are perfection—pale, peach-tipped beauties with freckles that dip from her breastbone down between them.
I snap the towel around behind her and use it to yank her up against my body roughly. “What did I tell you about staying in the hot tub?” I make my voice a menacing snarl—so unlike any voice I ever use with anyone in my life. Especially a beautiful woman.
Maybe this helps me believe it isn’t real. What I am about to do to her. What I already did twice before. I’m playing a role, enacting a part for the bratva. I’m not falling for a woman.
I’m not giving myself to her.
I can’t offer that.
Her wet hands brace against my bare chest, her soft lips part.
I walk her backward, loving the mingle of fear and excitement in her gasp, her widened eyes. Her calves hit the back of a lounge chair, and I use the ends of the towel to keep her from falling back. “Turn around.” My words are smoky. Dangerous.
She spins obediently, and I push her to her knees on the cushion. She grips the back of the chair. Her ass has a few marks from last night, and that gives me pause.