Through tears, I reread the letter several times, until I was almost numbed to it, then placed it in the inner pocket of my suitcase. As I began to pack, I reflected on my father's advice about Sevastyan.
I wasn't a big fan of women trying to fix men, to change them. I always figured there were guys enough out there, so I should look for a total package that was already fully Ikea-assembled--or go without.
But getting Sevastyan to open up didn't necessarily involve changing him, it involved getting to know him. Like a scholarly investigation.
Our relationship needed work. Work is what I do.
Did I want Sevastyan enough to fight for him? Yes. Yes, I did. I'd wanted him since I'd first seen him.
I had to try.
I emerged from the cabin just as he was disconnecting a call. With the same mysterious person as before?
"Are you well?" His way of asking about the letter.
"Yes. Paxan wrote a beautiful good-bye."
Sevastyan nodded. "I've just learned that much of the danger has lessened. Word of the bounty's expiration has spread, and Berezka has been secured. Your father's funeral will be held there in two weeks."
"I see." I swallowed past a lump in my throat. "Are we going back there now?"
"Not yet. I've rented a car for us to head south to Paris. There's a secure property in the city."
"But if the danger is dwindling . . ."
"I trust the information about Berezka--but not enough to risk your life."
"Who's giving you the intel? One of the brigadiers?"
"A man named Maksim."
At the mention of this name, something tugged at my memory. "How do you know him?" When Sevastyan didn't answer, I said, "Let me guess. You met him in the north. By chance."
"Something like that," he said, twisting that thumb ring like a son of a bitch. Like my shady Siberian. "I've known him for most of my life. I do . . . trust him, up to a point, at least." Twist, twist, twist.
"Uh-huh." I didn't feel like he was outright lying, but he was definitely skirting around the truth. And for right now, I was just too drained to call him on it.
When he told me, "I'll get your bag," and set off for the cabin, it was almost a relief.
Once we were in the car, a Mercedes sedan much like his own, Sevastyan paused before starting off. Without looking at me, he squeezed the gearshift, rubbing his other palm over the wheel.
Finally he spoke: "A good man would reason that you were confused last night, traumatized, and couldn't be held accountable for your actions. A good man would release you back to your old life, now that everything has changed."
"But you don't consider yourself a good man?"
He faced me, enunciating the words: "Not in the least, pet." His answer sounded like both a promise and a threat.
How to respond to that? He'd basically told me he was a selfish bastard who wouldn't ever be letting me go. Just as he'd informed me last night, while petting me so divinely.
I let the conversation rest--but I wouldn't for long. Paxan's letter had just highlighted my own misgivings. I needed more from Sevastyan.
Yet what was I prepared to do to get it?
He put the car in gear. As we drove away, I gazed up at him, realizing I was starting off on an expedition into the unknown. With this trip, with this man.
I was a bystander in both cases--waiting for Sevastyan to switch gears or signal with a blinker, to open up or show some hint of trust.
And all the while, the hazard lights flashed over and over. . . .
CHAPTER 30
"Amazing," I breathed as I gazed out over Paris from the covered balcony of Sevastyan's town house.
His "secure property" was a four-story mansion from the turn of the century, with a to-die-for view of the Eiffel freaking Tower, the pinnacle of all my travel dreams. It soared, the top disappearing into a low bank of rain clouds.
"I'm pleased you like it," he said from the spacious open-plan sitting area. If Berezka had been all that was opulent, this place was nearly as lush, but the interior was more modern. In front of a crackling fire, he poured a glass of red wine for me.
I couldn't help but sigh at him, all dressed to perfection in a three-piece charcoal suit. Seeing him like this made me glad I'd dressed up today. This morning, he'd told me Paris was only a few hours away, so I'd forgone my most comfortable clothes for thigh-highs, kitten heels, a pencil skirt, and a fitted blouse of deep purple silk.
For the last five days, we'd driven ever southward toward Paris, giving me a passenger-side view of southern Russia, Poland, Germany, and northern France.
At night, we'd stayed in lavish hotels and made love for half of the hours we'd allotted for sleep. Though he'd taken me again and again, he always treated me like porcelain.
Over these days, I'd seen more of his fascinating contradictions. He knew wines, spoiling me with rare vintages, but didn't drink with me. When we dined in fine restaurants, he was such a gentleman, his table manners impeccable--yet I knew he was always carrying a very ungentlemanly pistol in a holster.
In addition to Russian, English, and Italian, he spoke fluent French and had a good grasp of German--but I could barely get him to communicate with me about anything meaningful.
He refused to open up. With every mile we'd put between us and Russia, distance had accumulated between Sevastyan and myself. I was beginning to see that Paxan was right: something was broken inside Sevastyan.
The grief we shared hadn't brought us closer; in fact, we'd avoided all mention of Paxan and Berezka. . . .
When he stepped through the balcony doors, I accepted the wine, asking, "Is this place really yours?"
"I bought it from a Saudi prince." That would explain the heavy security, the private entrance. A guard and servants were already installed here.
"Sounds expensive."
A hint of amusement. "I have money of my own, milaya."
Was that why Paxan had left his vast holdings to me?
Our first day on the road, Sevastyan had told me that when things settled down, we would need to discuss my inheritance, but I was in absolutely no hurry. Since then, we hadn't talked about expenses or money until now.
He joined me at the railing, the situation reminding me of the first time I'd looked out from my balcony at Berezka. Except that now, Sevastyan wasn't physically standoffish. He pulled me in front of him, my back to his front, and wrapped his warm arms around me. Resting his chin on my head, he locked me tight against his torso.
"When did you buy it?" I asked.
"Not long ago."
Another vague answer to put with the rest of them. I bit my tongue. Sometimes I bit it so hard it bled.
Since that night on the boat, there'd been no progression of emotions--or intimacy.
He'd claimed me again and again, praising me, bringing me untold pleasure. After each time, he'd let me explore his body as intently as he'd explored mine. Nights of breathless discovery. I would drift off to sleep with my hands still caressing him.
But he never took me as he so clearly needed to. I'd find his gaze on my wrists--because he needed them bound. He'd nuzzle my nipples, suckling them, but never grazing them with his teeth or pinching them up to the point of pain.
Yesterday, at a gas station in Germany, he'd been on the phone--again--so I'd wandered inside and made a purchase: a hard-core bondage magazine (it was just sitting in a rack of mags next to the motor oil!).
Once we'd gotten under way, he'd absently asked, "What do you have there?"
So I'd turned to a page I'd dog-eared while waiting for him, holding up one of the many pictures that had piqued my interest: a naked
woman bound by her wrists and ankles to what looked like a padded sawhorse.
She'd worn these really cool nipple clamps; they'd looked like someone had placed one conductor's wand above the peaks, then another below, tightening the slim bars together with screws on the ends. Recalling how hard Sevastyan had pinched my nipples in the banya--and how I'd loved it--I wanted to be clamped like that. At the mere thought, my nipples had stiffened.
Once Sevastyan had registered what he was seeing, his pupils had dilated, his knuckles gone white on the steering wheel. Voice hoarse, he'd asked, "Is that what you think you want?"
I'd nodded. "You have a lot of experience with scenes like this, right?"
"Enough for both of us, so that we never have to descend to that level again."
Descend? "You should know--since apparently you're the only man I'll ever sleep with--that I want to try just about everything once. My curiosity demands it."
He'd swallowed, his throat working. "Like what?"
In as casual a tone I could feign, I'd said, "I loved it when you whipped me with the venik." When the stinging had turned to heat and the heat to bliss. "So maybe we should raise the stakes and try a paddle, or something like"--I'd shoved an ad for a flogger at him--"this."
My cool Siberian's upper lip had beaded with perspiration.
"Or this." I'd showed him a picture of a naked and gagged woman trapped in a pillory. A fully dressed man was behind her, smacking her between the legs with a dogging bat, which looked like a leather-covered bookmark that flared at the end. "That must feel . . . electric."
With a blistering curse, Sevastyan had snatched the mag from me, flinging it in the backseat.
I'd been certain he was about to pull the car over to ravish me on the side of the road. Yet he never had. He wouldn't even discuss what I'd shown him--as if it'd never happened.
Basically, my relationship with Sevastyan was emotionally stunted and heading toward sexually frustrated. Two very big hurdles . . .
Now, as the lights of Paris twinkled in the distance, he turned me in his arms. "What are you thinking about?"
"The drive down. The magazine."
He dropped his hands and drew away from me. Crossing to the railing, he rested his forearms atop it. "I'm not discussing that."
I narrowed my eyes, filled with irritation and disappointment. But recalling his white-knuckled reaction to my choice of light reading made me realize I could wear him down. Tempt him to lose control. Maybe?