by Nic Saint
She flung it to the floor, and broke down in tears.
CHAPTER 7
Yulian stalked along the corridor, cursing under his breath. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with, now he’d gone and gotten involved with Julia. Knowing the young reporter, she would turn the event into a big story and plaster it all over the front page.
He could have slapped himself for allowing himself to get carried away like that. With anyone but the feisty reporter. And yet he couldn’t deny the strong attraction he’d felt, the instant rapport when their bodies had connected. Chemistry. Lightning striking. Whatever you wanted to call it, it had been there. Not in his imagination, but in her—in them.
She’d responded, and had kissed him back. Had given herself to him without holding back, and it had elicited an even stronger response in him.
What was it about this woman that both infuriated and attracted him? He’d felt it from the first time he’d laid eyes on her. The moment she’d walked into the make-up room at the news studio and had gone over some preliminary questions, he’d noticed that sparkle in her eye, the way her tufts of soft blond fell across her brow, the way her mouth quirked up when she smiled. Then, when they’d walked down to the studio together, he’d noticed the way her lithe body swayed as she walked, the curve of her hips and the swing of her pert behind.
He’d told himself it was just a natural attraction to feminine beauty, and then when she’d started asking him all the questions she knew were off-limits, his anger had induced him to walk away. Now he wondered if he hadn’t punished her so severely simply because of his initial attraction. Because he felt betrayed.
He shook his head in disgust. This was all he needed, he thought. Another complication in a life that was already rife with them.
When he stepped into his luxury suite, he wasn’t surprised to see Ruslan staring down at the man they just caught with a bewildered look in his eye. It’s not every day you run into a murderous thug on board a cruise liner. Ruslan scratched his bald pate.
“Pop him one, sir?” he asked curtly.
“Mh?”
His mind was not on ill-behaved mobsters but on the girl he’d just held in his arms. The effects of the kiss still lingered, as did the memory of her softness when she was pressed up against him. When her large eyes had swum with tears, he’d felt a distinct tug at his heart.
“Want me to pop him one and throw him overboard, sir?” clarified Ruslan.
He stared down at the unconscious figure of the member of the Gorev clan. They were a particularly noxious breed, he knew, always ready to do the bidding of anyone who paid enough money. Officially, the Gorev family supplied their brand of service to the Demiakovs, the rival family to the Gornakovs, but they were a mercenary family, and didn’t mind to make a buck elsewhere if the taking was good.
He suspected this one had tried to induce Julia to hand over the master of the now infamous interview, hoping for some extra tidbits of information that hadn’t already been on YouTube. The one that had gone wide had been the ‘greatest hits’ version, starting with his startled expression when she’d told him she was surprised a known Mafia Don would sit down with a member of the press, and ending with him stalking off like a prissy child.
The Gorevs, undoubtedly acting on Demiakov’s orders, wanted the full version, so they could mine it for information about him and exploit his potential weaknesses.
“Is he dead?” he asked, curious.
It would have made things easier if he was. They could simply drop him into the Caribbean Sea and be done with him.
“Not yet, sir,” replied Ruslan with a trace of disappointment. Then he perked up. “But he could be. Just say the word.”
His thoughts returned to Julia Kent. What was it about her that attracted him so? She was annoying, pushy, and entirely too conceited for her own good. Then he realized Ruslan was still staring at him expectantly. He sighed, and stared at the man. “Women, Ruslan. Can’t live with them, can’t kill them.”
“Touché, sir,” the man murmured.
With some effort, he yanked his mind back to the present. What to do with Gorev? Since taking over the reins of the Gornakov empire, he’d sworn he’d turn the organization around. Turn it into a legitimate business, no longer tainted by crime. You can’t make such promises and then start killing your enemies, leaving their bodies strewn about the seven seas. It sends out a mixed message. Confuses the troops. Now he understood the apparent ease with which his father had run the business in such a ruthless fashion for so many years.
Whacking people was so much easier than managing them.
“We better not, Ruslan,” he finally commented with a weary sigh. “We’re not criminals, remember? We’re businessmen.”
“Businessmen still need to take care of the competition, sir,” insisted his stern-faced assistant, not giving up without a fight.
“Yes, they do,” said Yulian gently, “but that rarely involves murder.”
Ruslan raised an eyebrow, indicating he had his doubts about this whole businessmen spiel. “If you say so, sir,” he intoned.
“Just… lock him up somewhere,” he suggested with a wave of the hand. “We’ll hand him over to the cops the moment we arrive at the next port.”
Ruslan wrinkled his nose, indicating how he felt about the prospect of cooperating with the cops, but then proceeded to wrap the man up like a Christmas present, and shove him into one of the closets near the entrance. Even though he might not agree with his master’s way of doing business, he was nothing if not a loyal servitor, fully imbibed with the feudal spirit.
Yulian eyed the man with affection. They formed an odd couple, people thought, the handsome young billionaire and the ugly old servant, but they’d been together so many years now, there was a bond between them that was stronger than mere friendship. When Yury Gornakov had put Ruslan in charge of keeping his five-year-old safe, the bodyguard had taken his task to heart, and had never left his young master’s side since the day he arrived.
Now, twenty-seven years later, Ruslan still rarely left his side, and had made it a habit to be there for him twenty-four seven, expanding his skill set to include all the necessary requirements for the job, transitioning from glorified wet nurse to secretary, assistant, bodyguard, pilot, chauffeur and even cook and butler if the circumstances demanded.
As it was, the bond between the two men was strong. So strong, in fact, that Yulian couldn’t quite envision a life without his trusty friend and comrade.
When the Gorev descendent had finally been wrangled into the closet, he sat back on the sofa, and posed the one question that had been on his mind all this time. “What do you think about her, buddy?”
“Sir?”
“Ah, don’t be like that. You know perfectly well whom I’m referring to.”
“She seems… a real live wire, sir.”
“Yeah, she is, isn’t she?” mused Yulian, thinking back to the interview. Even though he’d been furious, he’d been keenly aware of the attraction that had rocked his world perhaps even more than her exasperating line of questioning.
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Yulian waved a hand. “You have the floor, old man.”
Ruslan’s stern demeanor broke down when he lowered himself into the sofa across from Yulian, and took a cigar from the box on the salon table. As he lit it, he placed his feet on the table and took a long drag. “I think she’s the bee’s knees, sir, if you catch my drift. She’s the tit to your tat, the zig to your zag, and the yin to your yang. What I mean to say,” he added before Yulian could interject, “is that you would do well to hook up with the young lady, sir, before someone else snaps her up.”
Yulian stared at the man with a thoughtful eye. “You really think so?”
“I do.” He pointed the cigar at his master. “You’re thirty-two now, sir. Time to tie the knot. Have kids. Raise a family of your own.” Then he shrugged. “Just my two cents, sir.”
Yulian stared up
at the ceiling, where the smoke of Ruslan’s cigar was pooling in thin wisps of white mist. The smell brought back memories of his childhood. Though second-hand smoking was a serious matter, he still associated the acrid fumes with the man who’d been more of a father to him than his real father, whom he’d rarely seen. Since he’d never had a mother—Yury had divorced the first Mrs. Gornakov before the child had barely been out of diapers—Ruslan was about all the family he’d ever had.
He trusted the man implicitly, and he knew that he was right.
“I doubt if she’ll have me, buddy. After all, I’m the one who got her fired, and blacklisted, and almost arrested. And if that weren’t enough, she hates my guts. To her, I’m the Mafia Don. The King of Crime.”
Ruslan displayed a rare smile. “She doesn’t hate your guts, sir. I’m sure she doesn’t. I saw the way she looked at you just now. She likes you. She really does. All you need to do is woo her a bit, you know? Lay the old charm on her?”
He grinned. “So easy, huh?”
Ruslan shrugged. “You’ve got the looks, sir, if I might be so bold, and you’ve got the gift of the gab.”
“I don’t have much gab when it comes to Miss Stern,” he murmured. For some reason, his customary equanimity left him when he found himself in her presence. His blood boiled, his temper rose, and the tendency to grab her by the shoulders and give her a vigorous shaking became almost irresistible.
“You’ll do just fine, sir,” countered Ruslan.
He still had his doubts, but had to admit Ruslan's powers of observation had always been formidable. Though he might not look it, the man was a keen judge of character. “All right,” he finally relented. “I’ll woo her like no man has ever wooed a woman.” Then he frowned. “But where do I begin?”
“You could always offer her her job back, sir,” suggested Ruslan. “Would be a nice place to start. The lady likes being a hard-nosed reporter? Let her be one.”
Yulian’s lips curled up into a smile. “You know, Ruslan? You’re quite the sly devil if you want to be, did you know that?”
Ruslan grinned. “I try to give satisfaction, sir.”
CHAPTER 8
The dinner guests had already taken their places at the tables when Julia swept into the stately dining room. She’d finally worked up the courage to step from her cabin after the humiliating scene with Yulian. At first, she’d told herself she’d be damned if she was going to face him again. But then her stomach had complained, emitting an insistent rumble, and she’d relented.
Life had rarely been more complicated than since the day Yulian Gornakov walked into her studio. She should have known the man was bad news from the moment she landed the assignment. And yet she’d never felt more alive either.
Yulian had that je ne sais quoi that made women weak at the knees, and it hadn’t left her unaffected either. His boyish good looks and easy charm had hit her like a brisk slap to the buttocks. Or a gust of warm wind on a summer night aboard a Caribbean cruise.
There was something about the man that made it very hard to put him out of her mind, even though he’d treated her badly, and continued to do so even now.
One day she would work as a reporter again, she knew, but it would have to be where Yulian’s long arm didn’t reach. She wondered if perhaps China was in need of a good reporter? But then she didn’t speak the language, so that might be a long stretch. She could always move to India. They spoke English over there, didn’t they? And she doubted whether Yulian would bother himself with extending his ban to Indian news organizations.
She scanned the room before entering. It was her first night off since the Emerald Princess had departed from Port Canaveral, and she was eager to make the most of it. She’d joined the cruise to work, but her father had instructed her to socialize as well. To crawl out of the slough of despond and get out amongst the milling crowds to mingle and be merry.
She spotted her father’s dapper figure, and when he caught her eye, he waved her over to join him at his table.
With a smile, she glided along the parquet floor ballroom that was at the heart of the dining room, en route to her father. Her wrap dress swished around her legs, and she absently tossed her blond tresses. The captain of the ship dined with a different set of guests each night, randomly chosen by one of his staff, so that at the end of the journey a cross section of passengers had enjoyed the privilege of sitting at the captain’s table. It was a tradition he strictly adhered to.
Lacking a spouse to keep him company—Julia’s mother was bringing down the house in La Scala in Milan right now—he enjoyed having his daughter present, and Julia genuinely liked this opportunity to see something of her father. For the past couple of years, she’d focused so much on her career, they’d hardly spoken, and they both had some catching up to do.
“Sit down, my dear,” her father spoke, drawing out her chair like the gentleman he was. She acknowledged him with a radiant smile. At least one man in this universe still had manners, she thought, and didn’t grope her in her own room.
Then her eye swiveled to the left, and her smile disappeared. Dressed in a black velvet blazer and bow tie, his auburn hair fashionably tousled, Yulian looked positively stunning. When his cool gray eyes caught hers, she gasped, and his lips curved into a mocking smile.
When she was sufficiently recovered, she hissed, “What are you doing here!”
He grinned. “It’s a pleasure to see you too, my dear.”
“It’s not a pleasure for me.” She turned to her father, who was entertaining a robust lady sitting at his other arm. “What is he doing here?” she demanded hotly.
Her father merely glanced over. “As a patron of this company, Mr. Gornakov is an honored guest, honey.” He smiled at Yulian. “A very generous patron, if I may add.” Then he leaned in, and whispered in his daughter’s ear, “I’ve learned that Mr. Gornakov owns this ship, so you better play nice.”
Julia snapped her head around to face the infuriating billionaire. “You are incorrigible. First you get me kicked out of BSS, now you’re trying to have me kicked off my father’s boat as well? Who do you think you are? My own personal tormentor?”
Before she could stop him, he’d snatched her hand and raised it to his lips. “Not your personal tormentor, my dear. More like your personal mentor, if you will. It seems it is my mission in life to keep you safe from harm.”
“I’d rather you kept me safe from you,” she sniffed, making desperate attempts to have her hand released from his grasp. He didn’t budge, but merely brought it to his lips and pressed kisses to her fingertips. In spite of herself, the tingle of his touch felt alarmingly enticing.
“Is this the way you thank the man who saved you from the wretch Gorev?”
“That wretch Gorev would never have been here if not for you.”
“True,” he agreed. “But you have to admit that your interview had something to do with his presence aboard this ship as well.”
“Oh, so now it’s all my fault again, huh?” She yanked her hand free and kept it well out of reach this time. “What did you do to the guy anyway? Chuck him overboard, like you wanted to do with me?”
He pursed his lips. “Let’s just say he’s safely tucked away.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Is that Mob speak for putting a bullet in his head?”
He merely smiled at the mild barb. “It is Mob speak for making sure he won’t bother you again.”
She couldn’t prevent a sharp intake of breath at that. So he did have the guy killed. He was a Mafia Don after all. And here she was tangling with him again. Would she never learn her lesson?
The entrée had arrived, and she eagerly tucked into the roasted chateaubriand with pan jus, hoping the meal would distract him, and he would leave her in peace. If she could only get through dinner, tomorrow other guests would be seated at her father’s table, and with some luck, she would be able to steer clear of the infernal billionaire for the remainder of the voyage.
“What is i
t exactly that you do, Miss Stern?”
She rolled her eyes, her mouth full of chateaubriand. When she finally managed to swallow the tasty morsel, she hissed, “That’s none of your business.”
“As the owner of this vessel I make it my business to know everyone’s business,” he countered pleasantly.
She ground her teeth at this for a moment, then grudgingly replied, “I work for the PR department. Write up the daily notices that go on the bulletin boards, make sure the ship’s website is up to date so the guests know what activities are planned, do the interviews with crew members that are broadcast in the entertainment center. That kind of stuff.”
“And she does a very good job of it, too,” her father added, taking a small break from entertaining his other guests. “She’s quite the reporter, my little girl.” His smile did much to alleviate some of the pressure that was building at the base of her skull, and she gave him a grateful squeeze of the arm.
“It’s true,” agreed Yulian. “Your daughter is quite the reporter.” Giving her a level look that erased her smile, he added, “I, for one, should know. I’ve been on the receiving end of her skills and know exactly how it feels.”
She swallowed, not wanting to get into a match of wits at her father’s table. Nevertheless, she’d never been one to let anyone walk all over her, most definitely not some conceited billionaire mobster. “Sooner or later, someone had to ask you all those questions, Mr. Gornakov,” she countered. “You should bless your lucky stars it was me. Other reporters wouldn’t have played nice. They would have nailed you to the wall. Cut you into little pieces. Taken your precious reputation and ripped it to shreds.”
Anger flared up in his eyes. “Oh, so now I’m supposed to be grateful to you? For making a fool out of me in front of a global audience? Five million hits on YouTube before I finally managed to get that damn video taken down. Do you know how much that stunt of yours cost me in goodwill? If you’d purposely set out to destroy me you couldn’t have done a better job.”
