The Professional: Part 1

by Kresley Cole

  "It's overcast, so you wouldn't have seen much."

  When I leaned over to peek out the window, he glanced away sharply.

  Outside, the skies were gray, the airport of no particular note. A limo was parked, cool and indifferent, on the tarmac near the jet. It looked like a car the British monarchy might favor.

  "There are clothes here for you," Sevastyan said. "Everything should fit."

  I gave him a saccharine smile. "Because you broke into my house and took down my sizes?"

  He narrowed his eyes. "And then I personally confirmed your measurements." With that, he left me.

  Oh, did you ever, I thought as I dashed into the shower. Minutes later, I returned to find steaming coffee and warm pastries left for me. I sipped the coffee . . . loaded with sugar and soy milk. Just as I took it, which he would know because he'd invaded my privacy.

  Ignoring my irritation, I tore into the garment bags and suitcase. Jess would've had a clothesgasm over the selections. Even I appreciated the designer sweaters and slacks, the boots of soft, soft leather.

  And the lingerie? The stylish bras and panties weren't overtly sexual--despite their see-through lace and coy ribbons--but farm girls in Nebraska just didn't wear stuff like this.

  I wasn't in Nebraska.

  So I shuffled through the undergarments, donning a matching pair in peach silk. I pulled on a form-fitting jade-green sweater of the finest cashmere I'd ever felt and a pair of black ponte pants. Normally I would've balked at the clinging material, but the sweater hit me almost at midthigh, so I wouldn't be flaunting anything. Flirty ankle boots molded to my feet, completing the outfit.

  I checked myself in the mirror, surprised by the color in my cheeks. My eyes looked clear, the green more vivid. I appeared . . . well-loved.

  Almost dewy-eyed.

  If one session with Sevastyan affected me like this, I couldn't imagine what sex with him would do to me. One way to find out.

  I packed the remaining clothes, then awkwardly rolled/carried the suitcase from the suite. If I'd expected Sevastyan to compliment me on my outfit, I was mistaken.

  "You don't carry bags," he snapped. Once I'd dropped the suitcase like it was hot, he squired me to the exit.

  At the head of the plane's stairs, I paused to inhale a deep breath, wanting to smell the country; all I smelled was jet fuel, and it was freezing here.

  Anticipating my needs, Sevastyan said, "Here, I have a coat for you."

  Fur, full-length. Decadent sable. "Oh, I don't do fur," I said firmly, even as I petted the silky expanse.

  "In Russia, you do." I was opening my mouth to argue when he said, "It was your grandmother's. It's been altered for you."

  My grandmother had worn this? Argument quashed. I slipped it on, not even surprised that it fit perfectly. As we descended the stairs, warmth enveloped me. "Why would Kovalev give me something like this?" He didn't even know me.

  "Who else should this coat go to, if not the owner's only granddaughter?"

  When he put it like that . . .

  Down on the ground, a nondescript driver opened a door for me, but Sevastyan was the one who assisted me into the backseat.

  Inside, a privacy screen separated us from the front. The tinted windows were so thick, I figured they had to be bulletproof. Sevastyan sat across from me--as far away as possible. As we pulled out of the airport, he refused to look at me, just kept his gaze focused out the window.

  "So where is Kovalev's place?"

  "Outside of the city, on the Moskva River. Around an hour away."

  We were going to be trapped in this car together for an hour? With him in that mouthwatering GQ suit?

  When we turned onto a larger road, I pried my gaze from him, longing to experience this new country. I glued my forehead to the window to see the sights, but all we passed were warehouses that could've just as easily been in America. Only the Cyrillic lettering differentiated them. "Will we drive through Moscow?"

  "Not today."

  "I'm not going to see the city?"

  "Nyet, Natalie." Hard no.

  In a defeated tone, I said, "Not a single onion dome?" I'd always loved viewing pictures of those quintessential Russian domes, so brightly colored and bold--even before I'd seen the two tattooed on his bicep.

  "Perhaps you will," he said in an enigmatic tone.

  Silence reigned; industrial parks dominated for mile after mile. The ride was a special kind of hell. "It's warm. Can I crack the window?"

  "Out of the question," he snapped.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. If I'd had a flower in hand, I would have plucked its petals: he wants me; he wants me not. Last night I'd been convinced he desired more with me. Today, not so much. "I want to talk to you about what happened on the plane."

  With a glance at the privacy screen, he lowered his voice to say, "We agreed to put that behind us." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  "No, we did not agree. You suggested it, and I vetoed. Besides, you're still thinking about it too."

  "Why would you believe that?" he asked, his voice husky.

  "Because you've been shifting in your seat, and you've kept your coat buttoned in this warm car. I'll bet you're hard behind that material."

  He didn't deny it.

  "You've got to be thinking about it, because I can't stop."

  "Try," he said dismissively, turning away from me once more.

  "It's difficult when my every movement reminds me of what we did." Because of this delicious, new, secret soreness. I admitted, "My ass feels like I've been horseback riding for the last two days." And I wouldn't trade the experience, or the twinges, for the world.

  Gazing out the window, he languidly curled his lips, his expression the epitome of masculine satisfaction.

  Oh, that breathtaking grin. Heart. Beat. Skipped. Was that manly pride on display because I was still feeling his corrections? His face was always so unreadable; he must truly relish what he'd done to me.

  If he felt a fraction of the attraction that I did for him, then how was he denying himself a repeat? Maybe he routinely experienced that kind of pleasure with others. The idea made me seethe. "I guess you do things like that all the time with tons of different women? I suppose I'm one of many."

  "You're not like the women I've been with."

  He'd said as much to me last night. Day and night. "How so?"

  Nothing.

  "Tell me."

  He shrugged. End of discussion.

  Fine. "I need to talk to you about logistics. Now that we've sorted out my clothing selection--"

  "It's not sorted. That was merely to get you through the day. An extensive new wardrobe will be provided for you."

  When he said things like that, I wished I was more interested in fashion. And, well, money.

  "Am I going to get a phone? I need to call my professors."

  "I've e-mailed all of them, explaining that you had a family emergency and must travel. Duration unknown."

  "You wouldn't!"

  He raised his black brows. Wouldn't I?

  He'd basically unenrolled me. Even though I'd already planned to arrange for incompletes, this high-handedness rankled.

  "You've always been responsible with your department," he pointed out. "It would be unusual for you to disappear without a word."

  "They won't buy it."

  "They will when the e-mail came from your address."

  "That's what you were doing while I was in the bath! I heard you come in earlier last night."

  No denial.

  So he'd been at my computer, steering my entire life, when he'd heard my whimper, deciding to check that out as well? Did he have no boundaries?

  God, so much had happened since then. It felt like weeks ago that I'd been at that bar with my friends, probably because my life had changed more drastically in twenty-four hours than it had in the last six years--since my dad had died and I'd realized how short and precious life was. Since I'd started my quest.
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br />   My nervousness about this entire situation returned full-force. "Okay, what about my living arrangement? Where will I stay? And how long are we looking at?"

  Sevastyan cast me a puzzled glance. "You will live with Kovalev at his home. Once it's safer, you'll come and go as you please."

  "I'm supposed to live with someone I don't know?" I hadn't even had an opportunity to Google Kovalev.

  "It's not as if you'll step on each other's toes there," Sevastyan said. "You'll stay encamped at his estate until the threat has been eliminated. Unless you decide to make your home there once the danger passes."

  Voluntarily reside with a stranger? At the dingy Soviet compound? "But how long will it take for the danger to pass? A couple of weeks? A couple of months?"

  "This is your life for the foreseeable future."

  My lips parted. My fall vacay had just gotten extended--all because of a father I'd never met. "Tell me what Kovalev's really like."

  One corner of Sevastyan's lips might've lifted. "He's nothing like you're expecting him to be." A little thawing from the Siberian?

  "You genuinely like him. It's more than just, um, organizational loyalty."

  He nodded. "Kovalev's the best man I've ever known. I respect him more than anyone."

  "How did you meet him?"

  "In St. Petersburg. By chance," Sevastyan said, with a twist of his thumb ring.

  "Ah, that explains everything." Closemouthed Russian.

  "Ask Kovalev for the story, if you like."

  Maybe I would. "So what will I be expected to do all day, now that you've unenrolled and unemployed me?" Already I had much more energy than I was used to. "It's going to be difficult to go from hard work to hard leisure."

  "You'll get to know your father. You'll enjoy the amenities at Berezka."

  "Little birch? Is that the name of his compound?"

  "Da."

  We fell silent. The landscape grew wilder, with more trees and larger properties. We passed gate after gate, each more elaborate than the last.

  My nerves were getting the best of me. I fussed with my new coat. A fur one. My grandmother's.

  What if I said something stupid or ticked Kovalev off? I didn't often put my foot in my mouth, but when I did, I tended to go big in that department as well.

  What if the man wasn't even convinced that I was his daughter and this was some kind of test? I only had Sevastyan's word on everything. Shit. How much could I really trust him--

  "Natalie, rest easy." He leaned forward and took my hands. "He's a good man."

  Right when I'd decided Sevastyan was a dick, he had to go and be all understanding. A raw moment of insecurity from me. A raw moment of sympathy from him.

  Then he frowned. "Your hands are cold." As I stared down, he took both of mine between his own. To warm them.

  Just as I'd imagined my future, faceless guy would.

  I blinked up at him. Had that only been last night?

  "Weren't there gloves for you?"

  "I didn't have a chance to look through everything."

  "Don't be nervous." With utter confidence, he said, "You will take it all in stride."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because you have everything else." The car decelerated; he dropped my hands, clearing his throat to say, "We're here."

  Chapter 11

  Guard dogs and machine guns. Why was I even surprised?

  At the beginning of the driveway, a pair of two-story white stone towers formed an arc over ornate iron gates. Uniformed men were poised in front of the structure, weapons at the ready, dogs snarling.

  Our driver rolled down the window and spoke to a guard, who seemed to be trying to get a look at me. I supposed they must be curious about Kovalev's long-lost daughter.

  A motor whirred as the gates opened. When they closed behind us, Sevastyan relaxed a degree, just as he had once we'd gotten into the air. His expression grew a shade less grim.

  "Well." I exhaled a surprised breath. "That was different."

  "The security has been increased for your presence. Kovalev will take no chances. But you shouldn't be frightened. We won't let anything happen to you."

  "I'm not frightened, I've just never been out of the Corn Belt before. And now this . . ."

  "I know, pet." I caught his glance at my lap, where I was twining my fingers together, and thought he had the impulse to hold my hands again. But he didn't.

  The drive meandered through what looked like a park, with hill after hill of golf course-quality lawn. The sun began to break through lowering clouds.

  I wanted to pay attention to everything, to memorize my first experience here, but again I was distracted by Sevastyan.

  As we crossed a charming wooden bridge, I noticed he was analyzing me. Determining my reaction to this place?

  The trees grew more numerous, dense forests changing colors with the fall. The leaves on the birches and other hardwoods were a riot of burnished orange, russet, and gold--gold like Sevastyan's eyes.

  When we neared a colossal structure beside a lake, I cried, "Is that it?" The walls and columns were ivory, the tiled roof topped with three copper domes, green with patina. "Domes! Oh, it's gorgeous!" No dingy, Soviet-era monolith here. The lake was so glassy, the building cast a surreal reflection. I was in love, ready to declare myself home--

  "That's the lake folly." At my raised brows, Sevastyan added, "A quaint place for guests to take tea."

  "Oh." Onward we drove.

  We passed a stable that must have had fifty stalls. "How many horses are there?"

  "Dozens. Kovalev loves animals."

  White tigers, anyone? Maybe he'd have caged Russian bears.

  As we rounded a curve, a mansion came into view. No, not a mansion--a palace.

  Jaw drop.

  "That is it," Sevastyan said.

  From a main three-story building, two wings stretched beyond my line of sight. It was the size of a freaking state building, but with so much more charm. I realized that the lakeside folly was a miniature of the mansion. The late afternoon sun gleamed off more copper domes. "I . . . this . . ."

  "It's a former tsar's residence," Sevastyan said. "Twenty years ago, it was in bad shape, about to be renovated as a museum and Russian landmark. Kovalev bought it instead and painstakingly restored it."

  "So it's historical." My heart was racing. "You didn't tell me I'd be staying in . . . in history."

  The limo parked in front, near a line of high-end cars of all makes and models. Before the driver could reach my door, I scrambled out, Sevastyan following. I craned my head up. "Spectacular," I eventually managed.

  He gave me a satisfied nod. "Horosho, to." Good, then. "I'm glad."

  "This must be Natalie Kovaleva!" A young man about my age strolled out of the grand copper doors. When the sun hit his face, my lips parted. He was . . . stunning. His dark blond hair was rakishly cut, his features a study in symmetry. His vivid gray eyes were devilish and alight with intellect.

  I'd just recovered speech after the sight of this estate. Now my brain was overloaded again.

  "That's Filip Liukin," Sevastyan said in a tone rife with disapproval.

  If Sevastyan was ruggedly hot and sex on a stick, this Filip was blindingly beautiful. While I was trying to form words, Sevastyan grated, "He's your cousin."

  Awkward.

  Filip was quick to point out: "Distant, far removed, and all that." His accent sounded British. He flashed me an easy grin, all dimples and flawless teeth.

  Filip reached out as if to clap Sevastyan on the shoulder. "Welcome back, bratan!"

  The look on Sevastyan's face deterred Filip from touching him. "Do not ever call me brother."

  Whoa. Sevastyan acted as if Filip had just sliced an exposed nerve.

  "You got it," Filip said easily, unperturbed. "Welcome back, all the same. I know you're glad to be relieved of this lengthy job."

  Did everyone think I'd been merely work to Sevastyan? An onerous task that took him from home f
or a month? I hadn't been, right? Maybe I was misremembering his response to me. As icy as he'd been on and off today, I had to wonder. . . .

  Filip opened his arms. "Come, Cuz, give us a hug."

  Still stung to think of myself as a task, I let Filip embrace me. As I drew back, I glanced over at Sevastyan, saw that his jaw was clenched, that muscle ticking. He wasn't liking this whatsoever, as if he was jealous.

  Attention fully on Filip--not a chore--I asked, "Do you live here?"

  "I might as well," he said, adding in a flirtatious tone, "And with you here at Berezka, I plan to stick around. No one told me you were gorgeous."

  My manalyzer sense began tingling, but I couldn't read it, for good or ill. If I felt a touch of unease, my opinion had probably been tainted by Sevastyan's reaction to him. I changed the subject. "Your English is so perfect." Sevastyan's was flawless as well, but unlike Filip, he'd retained his thick accent. "Did you grow up outside of Russia?"

  "I was educated at Oxford, got my MBA there. Now I've returned." In an affectionate tone, he said, "I'm trying to update your old man's operation, dragging it into this century." At the front doors, he offered his arm. "Shall we?"

  Was I being passed off, just like that? From Sevastyan to Filip? I'd been so excited before. Now I was out of sorts. Still, I eked out a smile. "I suppose so."

  "I'll take her inside." Sevastyan's hand covered my shoulder in a possessive grip, sending pleasure through me. I wanted to sag against him.

  Filip's smile barely faded. "I've got this. I'm sure you're tired from your stakeout."

  Sevastyan didn't say anything more, didn't have to. One dark glance and Filip backed down.

  "Easy on the trigger, Siberian." He chuckled good-naturedly. "I have something to take care of anyway. See you tonight, Cuz." He strode off toward that line of parked cars.

  Sevastyan called, "Where's your own car?"

  Without slowing, Filip called back, "In the shop."

  I stared after the guy, because it was difficult to pry my eyes from him. Like watching a retreating comet.

  When I turned back, Sevastyan looked like he was grinding his teeth. "Be wary of him. Appearances can be deceiving."

  "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're jealous."

  "That is not at issue," he said, spinning his thumb ring. "Come." He waved me across the threshold.

  Inside, I gasped at the opulence. A grand staircase curved gracefully up from an immense foyer. Marble gleamed beneath our feet. Alcoves housed delicate statuary, and oil landscapes adorned the walls. Instead of the garish mishmash I'd anticipated, everything was refined and tasteful.