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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

    “T hings 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?”
    “You sought him,” Sevastyan repeated.
    “You’re not really a bodyguard, are you? You’re probably his, what? His professional hit man? His enforcer?” I gave a nervous laugh. “That’s why you have those scars on your knuckles—from beating people senseless, right? And exactly what business is Kovalev ‘caught up’ in?” My hysteria building, I said, “A turf war against a rival gang?” Yes, it took a lot to ruffle me, but once I lost my cool, I tended to go big.
    Sevastyan didn’t answer, so . . . ding, ding, ding. A turf war. And I was on my way there.
    He finally said, “Are you done?”
    “Tell—me.”
    “Your father is part of the Bratva, the brotherhood. It’s like acriminal aristocracy. He’s vor v zakone , the head of our organization, answering to no one.”
    The blatant pride in Sevastyan’s tone made my queasiness increase. “So I’m a freaking mafiya princess, then? That’s the real reason I’m in danger, isn’t it?”
    “Your father is embattled. Adversaries would love to see him fall. And there is another vor who might hurt you in order to hurt Kovalev. Or use you to coerce him.”
    “Again, that sounds like a chronic problem.”
    Sevastyan studied my face, as if debating how much to tell me. “After I left the bar, I found out that two very dangerous men flew from Moscow hours ago, heading to America—sent by Kovalev’s bitterest enemy. There’s a good chance they were coming here.”
    Fuck. This little mafiya princess was in trouble. “You’re taking me straight to the source of the conflict! Turn this jet around, and let me disappear! I could go out west, get lost.”
    He glanced over at me, must’ve sensed I was about to freak. “I was sent here to keep you safe. If you do as I say, then you’ll have nothing to fear. And there was another reason we felt it imperative that you leave tonight. When you