Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 113324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 567(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
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.
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?”