The Professional (The Game Maker 1)

He looked at me like I was insane to defy him. So why wasn't I terrified of him? No, I was furious--at him, at my out-of-control body. Another heel-digging lunge back.

With his free hand, he gripped my waist and yanked me back against him, forcing my thighs wider.

His gaze descended, his eyes going wide before narrowing intently.

I felt cold air between my legs, just as I saw that my robe had come open at the belted waist. Everything below was exposed. My pale skin glowed in the moonlight, the trimmed thatch of red curls stark in comparison.

I was too stunned to react, pinned by his gaze. His lids grew heavy, his nostrils flaring. His broad chest seemed to struggle for breath. I was naked from the waist down but had no way to cover myself. I twisted my arms to free my wrists--until I saw that look of his.

Dark, hungry, molten. Dangerous. As before, I felt like his captured prey, his to enjoy.

My fury dwindled. When my body decided to soften beneath his, he gave a curt nod, as if I'd pleased him, and his free hand landed on my bare hip. Skin to skin. He groaned at the contact; I shivered from the electric heat of his rough palm. Hadn't I imagined those hands kneading me everywhere?

Shaking, I watched as he straightened his ringed thumb from my hip until it reached my mons. He brushed the tip of his finger along the edge of my curls. It was so slow and unexpected, so tender, I couldn't bite back a moan.

He touched me as if with . . . reverence.

I no longer saw signs of that iron control; instead he looked lost.

Like I probably looked in that moment.

His cock pulsed in his pants, drawing my attention. At the sight of that long, heavy length, my pussy clenched for it. I murmured, "Sevastyan?" as my hips rolled. "What are you doing to me?" He'd somehow spellbound me, making me feel empty and desperate.

For the second time tonight, I was heading toward an orgasm.

Still riveted to my sex, he grated words in Russian, something about how he couldn't be expected to deny himself in the face of this. How no one should expect him to.

I'd never been more confused in my life. "Are you . . . are you going to kiss me?"

With his accent thicker than I'd heard it, he rasped, "Would you want a man like me to take your mouth?" His thumb ring glinted when he gave another slow stroke.

Good question. I answered myself when words spilled from my lips: "Try it and see."

"You think I'd stop with a kiss?"

"You assume I'd want you to?"

My reply seemed to wake him from a daze. As if burned, he jerked his hands away, his expression transforming from lost to disgusted. Again, he told me, "Cover yourself." Now he was as furious as I'd been before, but I had no idea what I'd done.

I swatted the ends of my robe down as he levered himself to his feet.

When he seized my hand, yanking me up, sanity resumed--as if the Natalie I'd known all my life had decided to rejoin us.

What kind of madness had just possessed me? I clutched my robe with a shaking hand. I'd just let this man touch me, this stranger, and had been rolling my hips for more.

If he'd made a move to fuck me on the ground, I thought . . . I thought I might have let him.

Fist clenched around my upper arm, he dragged me along. "If you run from me again, I will catch you. It's what I do." He locked his gaze on mine. "And then I'll spread you over my knees and whip your plump ass until you know better."

I stumbled at that, but he hauled me back up. Striding on, he scowled down at my bouncing breasts.

Braless in silk. Nothing left to the imagination. "I won't run if you don't force my hand! I don't want to go with you. I know what you are. You're mafiya. Which means my father is too." Deny it, deny it. Laugh in my face.

Sevastyan set his jaw, dragging me along faster.

No denial. My father, this man, that pilot were all mafiya.

"You can't force me to go to him--ow!" Sudden sharp pain dug into my bare feet; I'd stepped on a strand of briars.

Without even slowing his stride, Sevastyan swooped me up as if I were weightless.

I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck. "Just wait--I don't want to get caught up in anything like that!" My mouth was inches from his throat, from his bobbing Adam's apple. His heat seeped into me, and I could feel his heartbeat; though he was no longer running, it sped up sharply when I murmured, "Sevastyan, please."

"You're already caught up," he said, the words like a sentencing.

We emerged from the field. Desperate, I whispered, "Pozhaluista, nyet." Please, no.

"Natalya," he rasped, "I won't let you go. I can't. Resign yourself."

As we neared the plane, the pilot raised his brows at me. I could only imagine what he was thinking. I was in Sevastyan's arms, my hair a tangle, my nipples protruding.

When the blond smirked, Sevastyan grated in Russian, "You leer at his daughter? I should give him your eyes for that."

The pilot swallowed; I gaped. With crystal clarity, I understood that Sevastyan was capable of such brutality.

Then he was carrying me up the steps. Shit, shit, shit! Oh, God, this was happening!

The pilot followed us up, pressing a button to close the outer door. By the time he'd closeted himself in the cockpit, the door had sealed closed with a hiss.

Trapped.

CHAPTER 5

As Sevastyan deposited me into one of several seats, I grappled for words, but stunned disbelief and a roiling anger rendered me mute. He'd forced me onto this plane against my will. Was kidnapping me.

I wanted to say, "You're not going to get away with this," or even "You're going to pay for this." But I suspected both would be lies.

"We leave directly," he told me, his voice inflectionless. "Put on your seat belt."

Despite how pissed I was, I wouldn't argue with him this time. In my mind, private jet was just another way of saying baby plane. And hadn't this crop-duster-esque runway seemed short? I knew sub-nothing about flying, but surely that wasn't normal?

As I strapped myself in with shaking hands, I surveyed the luxurious interior. There were twelve seats, along with a plush sofa, a big-screen TV, a stocked media console, and an extended dining table. Polished wood accented all the amenities.

Nothing but the best for the mob.

Sevastyan didn't sit. He stared out the windows, still vigilant.

I wondered what he would look like relaxed. "I'm in immediate danger, aren't I?"

Gazing out into the night, he gave me an unconcerned shrug. As good as a yes. Before I could ask more, the engines grew louder. I clenched the armrests of my seat, nails sinking into the buttery soft leather. When we started easing forward, I found myself telling Sevastyan, "I've never flown before."

Our speed increased so rapidly, I was thrown back into the seat. The jet thundered down the runway. Outside the window, the cornfield zoomed by. Even Sevastyan took a seat on the sofa across from me.

"I-I've been on a train."

He spread an arm over the back of the sofa. "It's just like that."

"Was that a joke?"

Face grim, he said, "Unlikely, pet."

"You really need to stop calling me th--"

The nose of the plane was rising! I squeezed my eyes shut.

But taking off was surprisingly smooth. When the pressure eased and I realized we were in the air, I cracked open my eyes and popped my ears. Gradually, I released my death grip.

Several things competed for my attention. I couldn't decide whether I wanted to watch the fading lights of Lincoln, the full moon glimmering off the right-side wing, or Sevastyan trying to relax.

My mysterious companion won out. He stretched his long legs in front of him, then rolled his head on his neck. At some point, he'd refastened the buttons of his shirt. Clearly, whatever temporary insanity had occurred in the field had passed.

When we leveled off, the lights of the cabin dimmed, reminding me that I was sequestered with a larger-than-life type of man--one who had pinned me to the ground and felt me up only minutes ago.

Just as I opened my mouth to ask him what that was all about, he said, "As promised, I'll answer your questions. But you need to wash yourself first."

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."

F ifteen 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.