The Professional (38 page)

I’d paced more since I’d met Sevastyan than in all the years before him.

Each minute that he remained absent, my mood continued to plummet.
Not going to call . . .

Pride—mingled with anger—gave me the strength to toss the phone on the bed.

Still freezing and achy, I took a steaming shower, then headed
to the walk-in closet. Skirts and delicate blouses, heels and hose. If he’d reordered items from my vast wardrobe at Berezka, he must have cherry-picked these clothes.

I scowled at his selections. Sometimes I just wanted to veg out in sweats and a pizza-stained T-shirt. Sometimes I would prefer to wear jeans and clunky boots while trapped in my gilded cage.

When kink-hungover, I didn’t automatically reach for a gauzy teddy. . . .

The sun was setting by the time Sevastyan returned. The first thing I noticed—his gaze was shuttered.

“Where were you?” I sounded remarkably calm, considering the fact that I wanted to bum-rush him with waif-fu.

“Meetings.” He wasn’t cold, but there was a marked difference between the dream lover of last night and the detached man standing in front of me now.

“So how was your day?” (
Dear.
)

“It was fine.”

I stared at him with bewilderment. “Mine was fine too. Dandy really.”
This
was how he was going to treat me after all we’d shared? How naïve I’d been; just because we’d overcome our sexual hurdles didn’t mean we could overcome our emotional ones too.

“Good.” He turned away, removing his jacket and holster.

I got the sense that he was trying to distance himself. And if I were paranoid, I would even have said that he was . . . uneasy around me.

After we’d gotten on the same page at last? That couldn’t be right. Forcing a laugh, I said, “Have you been avoiding me today?”

“No,” he answered, but he was twirling that ring.

“Y
ou’re quiet,” Sevastyan remarked.

“Just thinking.” I stared out the limo window as we navigated the streets of Paris, passing lines of flickering gas lamps and chestnut trees. He’d said he had a surprise for me tonight, some unspecified destination.

It’d been four days since the club, and while Sevastyan and I had continued to make progress in bed, we’d been stymied in other areas. Namely: every single one.

We’d crested that night, and now seemed to be bottoming out.

“You’re pensive.” He drummed his tattooed fingers on the armrest. “I’ve never seen you so.”

“Guess I have a lot on my mind.” Misgivings. They were flooding in.

There was no denying it any longer—Sevastyan was avoiding me during the days.

Which was so different from the nights, when he would spoil me with pleasure, commanding me, guiding each interlude. Again and again, he’d demonstrated that our kinks were breathlessly well matched.

As promised, he’d had a collection of tools and gear delivered. It came stored in a sizable wardrobe—basically a BDSM closet. Though he hadn’t broken out any hard-core gear yet—true to his word to take things more slowly—he had used different toys on me.

He seemed fascinated by my orgasms: how quickly he could force one from me, how long he could deny me, until I was pleading for permission.

At night, he was perfection. But during the day,
if
he was around, he was quiet and closed off. Which sucked in more than one way. Sevastyan was pressing for more sexual vulnerability from me, an ever deeper surrender, which left me raw the next day—just in time for him to be an ass.

Like running to catch a fly ball—with my face.

He drummed his fingers again. That
drum drum drum
was grating on my nerves. The night of the club, we’d meshed seamlessly. Now friction chafed between us.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he said.

Oh, that was rich. “No hint of where we’re going?” I asked, deflecting, letting him know how it felt.

“I meant this as a surprise.”

Another sex club?
Not really in the mood, Sevastyan.
Yet I had to admit he’d put my curiosity on a slow boil. “For someone who hates surprises, you like delivering them well enough.”

“Would you rather have stayed in? It is getting late.”

My emotions were in such tumult that I might’ve balked at going with him, except for two things: I was desperate to get out of the house. And earlier, he’d acted differently with me.

When he’d returned from his meeting, he’d taken me in his arms without a word and held me like I was the only thing keeping him afloat. Like he was crossing a finish line to reach me.

It was so confusing!

He exhaled a long breath. “Sometimes you’re an utter mystery to me.” If he kept drumming his fingers, I was going to snap them like dry kindling.

“You’re one to talk. Besides, I tell you everything that’s on my mind.”

“Not tonight.”

“Maybe not,” I conceded.

“I asked you to tell me what you needed. You agreed to.”

Where to start? “You really want to do this?”

“Yes.”

Here goes . . .
“When you bailed the day after the club, I would’ve expected you to leave a note or a text. To reassure me.”

“Of what? There can be no doubt of how I felt after that night.”

“It would’ve been nice to receive
any
acknowledgment.”

Drum drum drum.
“Very well. And . . . ?”

“I want to know where you go every day.”

“I have business concerns that I’m able to address from here.”

“Syndicate business with that Maksim guy?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “I know he gave you information about Berezka. I know you talk to him as much as I do Jess. Who is he to you?”

“Nothing more than a temporary ally. He’s assisting me with work obstacles I’ve run into.”

Again, I got the impression that Sevastyan was shielding me. Plausible deniability?

“What else is bothering you?”
Drum drum.

“I can’t stay cooped up and alone in the town house any more.”

“Which is one of the reasons I’m taking you out tonight.”

I glared. “How much longer will we stay here? I’m used to being around people, talking and laughing. I’m used to having goals and working toward them. I need an end date; this indefinite shit doesn’t work for me.”

“We’ll return to Russia at the beginning of next week. Things will be different there, Natalie.”

Why did I have the sinking suspicion that I’d be hearing that line a lot? “How?”

“You’ll meet new friends. Your days will be full, and I’ll feel more confident in your safety. For now, I need you to be patient.”

I inwardly grumbled. I supposed I could make it another couple of days. . . .

When the limo slowed, I asked, “Are we there?” My voice sounded ridiculously expectant;
curiosity killed the Nat.

Sevastyan drew a silk cloth from his jacket pocket. “As I said, it’s a surprise.”

“Fine.” I let him blindfold me. Once we’d parked, he helped me outside into the blustery night.

As he guided me up a flight of concrete stairs, I asked, “Oh, so we’re going
above
ground this time?” Snark.

“I wouldn’t get used to it,” he snarked back.

We crossed a threshold into a warm interior. Aside from the echo of my heels, it was quiet inside.

When he removed my blindfold, I blinked my eyes, adjusting to the soaring area. Recognition hit, and I twirled in place.

We were in the Musée d’Orsay! I’d read all about this museum in my tourist guidebook, had seen pictures. It was a renovated train station housing galleries of famous French impressionists and other artists of the period.

Van Gogh’s
Starry Night over the Rhone
, my favorite of them
all, was . . .
here
. It blew my mind that I’d soon be viewing it in person.

I glanced around, saw not another soul. The lights were dimmed.

This was just for us? My irritation from before dissipated to a whisper, and I felt guilty for my impulse to snap his fingers.

In a dry tone, Sevastyan asked, “Is this the tits?”

A laugh burst from me. “It is! You’re redeeming yourself, Siberian. How did you get us in after hours?”

“Called in a favor. This museum’s smaller and more personal than the Louvre, better suited for one night’s exploring. Come.”

One of the first sculptures was of lovely Sappho with her lyre, her expression contemplative. “She composed her poems to be accompanied by the lyre,” I said. “You could say she’s the first lady of lyrics.”

The autodidact looked impressed. “You know ancient Greek poetry?”

“You don’t study the history of sexuality without getting to know Sappho.”
Natalie Porter, history student.
Did that designation even fit any longer?

Maybe I should take Paxán’s advice and travel the world, living out my dreams. With the man beside me . . . ?

As Sevastyan and I strolled on, passing one wondrous statue after another, I sneaked glances up at him. Though he’d pulled off this museum coup, he seemed a little less confident than his usual proud self.

I recalled his attentive expression when he’d washed my hair, how badly he’d wanted to get it right. He looked the same tonight, as if it was critical to impress me.

In fact, he was gauging my reactions more than he was admiring the exhibits. Just as he’d watched my face—instead of an orgy.

“You’re not interested in art?” I asked.

“I’m more fascinated by how you respond to it.”

Irresistible Siberian. When he made comments like this, how could I stay mad at him?

One of the last exhibits on the ground floor was
Woman Bitten by a Snake
, a life-size sculpture of a female writhing naked across a bed of flowers. Her body was voluptuous, her curves on display for eternity.

Even in the midst of such a sensual sight, I could feel Sevastyan’s burning gaze on me. When I peered up at him, his eyes darkened, letting me know whose curves he wanted to see for eternity.

I’d gotten accustomed to that sensual look of his—in bed, in the shower, in a sex club. But in a museum, I grew kind of flustered. Like I’d been when I’d first tried to pick him up.

I girlishly tucked my hair behind my ear—
uh, can I buy you a drink?
—and moved on. We climbed the stairs in silence, each lost in thought.

But on the second floor, I hastened past other masterpieces without due reverence to get to
Starry Night
. And then . . .

There it was. Right in front of me. “I can’t believe I’m looking at it.”

He remained silent by my side, allowing me take it in.

The copies I’d seen had never conveyed the elaborate texture of the piece, the exaggerated brush strokes. Those gaslight reflections over the water were bold daubs. Each star was a cluster of deftly layered paint, creating height from the canvas.

I blinked up at him, having no idea how much time had passed. With a blush, I explained, “It’s my favorite of the era.”

“Why this one?”

“The boats, the lights over water . . . this scene is a world
away from the fields of home, from all I’d ever known. I’d never seen these kinds of blues in the Corn Belt. For a girl like me, the colors were exotic, calling to me.” Not to mention that I’d secretly sighed over the two lovers in the foreground, sharing such a night.

Sevastyan eased even closer to me. “When you get excited, your cheeks flush pink, and your eyes become even brighter against that flame-red hair.” He reached forward to twine a lock around his finger. “Your colors call to me.”

A breath escaped me. Seeing him like this, I told myself that life-altering sex, admiring looks, and earnest compliments could tide me over.

Until what?

Until he saw me as a partner, a confidante.

He drew back. “Again, I speak too freely with you.” Now color shaded
his
cheekbones. “Whenever I’m around you, I say more than I mean to.”

“Then we should spend more time together.” I let him lead me by the hand to another gallery room.

“Or less,” he said, even as he appeared displeased by that prospect.

“Would it be so bad for me to know more about you?”

“I don’t think you would like what I revealed.”

Was that the reason for all his secrecy? He didn’t want to scare me off? That didn’t bode well.

As I perused another exhibit, I remembered my first semester at UNL. Jess and I were just becoming friends, and she’d been dating a “promising” new guy. Yet one night he’d told her with a mysterious air, “I don’t think you’d like me if you really got to know me.”

Much to his dismay, she’d kicked his ass to the curb. To me,
she’d explained, “When a man tells you something like that, honey, you better take him at his word.”

Jess and I had made each other a promise: when men talked about themselves negatively
—“I’m no good for you,” “I have trouble committing,” “I’m not going to settle down anytime soon
”—we would listen to them.

Sevastyan had told me he wasn’t a good guy. I’d thought he meant because he was a hit man. So what was he hiding from me?