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."
"Why can't I go back to the Bunghole . . ." Jess trailed off, then gasped. "Oh, my God! Did you hook up with that DUDE FROM THE BAR? The unicorn!"
Sevastyan quirked a brow. Of course he'd heard.
"In a manner of speaking." Yes, I was presently wearing nothing but his shirt--with my body still thrumming from his touch--but not by choice!
Making her voice syrupy, Jess crooned, "Awww, our little Nat's gonna lose her skin tag tonight."
My eyes went wide, darting to Sevastyan. "Shut it, Jess! Look, here's the deal--that guy was sent here to take me to Russia because my biological father is some kind of mafiya criminal-lord type."
"Huh." Completely unfazed, she said, "Actually, that explains a lot about you." Then, to her boy toy, she said, "I don't remember telling you to stop."
"Will you pay attention? I'm on a jet heading to Moscow--"
"Get the fuck out!"
"--and some rival goons might go by the house. Can you stay away until after your trip?"
"You mean I'll be forced to buy all new clothes and luggage for Greece? My parents will believe this excuse as much as all my others." Growing serious, she said, "Are you safe?"
I gazed at Sevastyan's face, searching. "If I don't call you in a week . . ." I trailed off. Then what? Notify the embassy? What hope would they have against the Red Mafiya? "I will call you in a week."
"Just be careful, babe," Jess said. "Oh, and tell the unicorn that if anything happens to you, I will skull-fuck him, 'kay? How do you say 'desecrate his motherfucking corpse' in Russki?"
Sevastyan tapped his watch.
"Gotta go, message received--and stay safe yourself." Hanging up, I turned to him. "It's morning in Russia. Why don't you give me your boss's number, so I can explain some things to him?" Customer service in your organization requires a complete overhaul. "Share some of my thoughts."
"Kovalev's in a congress." At my nonplussed look, Sevastyan explained, "It's like a summit meeting for vory."
"Don't you think my going to Russia will just magnify this problem?"
"We have men there, safeguards in place. Your father's compound is a fortress."
A mafiya compound? I could just see it: some gray and dingy Soviet-era monolith. Inside, the decor would be a riot of gaudy knickknacks, selected on the basis not of taste, but of price. And Kovalev . . . I pictured a hulking brute in a tracksuit, wearing so many thick gold chains that his neck looked like a ring toss. He probably kept white tigers and had a diamond-encrusted toilet.
Ugh. I frowned at Sevastyan. "Forcing me back there wasn't always the plan?"
He shook his head.
"So if those bad guys hadn't headed to the States, would you have kept spying on me from afar?"
"I would have remained in place--protecting you--until your father could travel here to meet you."
"If you were my sole bodyguard, when did you sleep?"
"While you were in class or at work. When I knew you'd be around others for a while." That meant he'd gotten even fewer hours than I had. He cocked his head. "I ca
n sleep when I'm dead, no?"
Exactly what I'd thought. "This is a lot for Kovalev to put on your shoulders." I couldn't imagine a task like that--having another person's life in my hands.
"I would do anything he asked me."
"Is devotion like that common in your . . . organization?"
"He's been a father to me since I was young. I owe him my life," Sevastyan said in a tone that told me he would not be unpacking that comment.
"Then in a way, you're like my much, much older brother."
Another scowl from the Russian. He didn't like that remark at all. "I'm only seven or so years older than you are."
I waved that information away. "And my mother . . . ?"
"I must let Kovalev explain that. It's not my story to tell."