17. Natalia

17

NATALIA

It's annoying how well I sleep in my new bed.

I wake up at quarter to six, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Then I remember who's responsible for my record-setting night of REM, and I get grumpy all over again.

But it's fine. It doesn't matter.

Andrey Kuznetsov sure doesn't.

I'm ready to take on the world today—or, well, if not quite the world, then at the very least, I'm ready to take on the evil ne'er-do-wells of Sunshield Insurance, my employer and enemy du jour.

Armed with all my things—another item to be grumpy about: Andrey was right that it took only one trip for his men to bring my stuff to my new residence—I do some light yoga on the deck, followed by a twenty-minute dip in the pool.

By seven, I'm dressed in my favorite black slacks-white shirt combo, and it's go time. All I need is a little breakfast pick-me- up—preferably something buttery and sweet—then my nemeses at Sunshield should prepare for the worst day of their lives.

My cheerful mood hits a snag the moment I step out of the pool house.

Andrey is standing on the patio, clearly waiting for me. " Dobroye utro," he murmurs as I freeze in the threshold.

The surprise isn't Andrey—it's the four tall men surrounding him, all staring at me .

"Come to audition your boy band for me?" I point at one of them with a head of tight, curly ringlets. "I'd go with Permed and Dangerous. Or, wait, wait— New Curls on the Block."

Leonty, the boyish blonde who drove me to my apartment, is the only one I recognize. He's also the only one who laughs.

"Call them what you want; you'll be spending a lot of time with them," Andrey says drily. "You've already met Leonty. This is Leif." He points to a man with long, dirty blond hair. "That's Olaf—" Olaf sports a teardrop tattoo under his right eye. "—and finally, Anatoly."

Anatoly, the curly-haired butt of my not-all-that-funny opening joke, grimaces in my direction.

I stare at the motley group of charmers with a wry rendition of It's Raining Men playing in my head. Somehow, even my thoughts are off-key.

"Okay, well, nice to meet you all." I give them an awkward wave. "But I think four bodyguards might be a bit of overkill."

"Don't worry," Andrey assures me. "They'll be discreet."

"Look at them. A giant might not crush you underfoot, but it's still a giant. People are going to notice."

Andrey turns with a dismissive wave. "You leave that to them. Now, come on—you need breakfast before work."

"Andrey!" I yell, racing after him.

He doesn't slow down, so I have to jog across the grass to keep up. Not exactly the easiest thing to do in heels.

"Andrey, hold up. I need to speak to?—"

I manage to fall into step with him, but before I can finish speaking, he turns to me with a disapproving glint in his eye. "Is that what you're wearing to work?"

I stare down at my favorite—and let's be honest, nicest—outfit. "Yes. What's wrong with it?"

"It's—" His eyes trail up and down my body. "You know what? Doesn't matter. You look fine."

With that, he turns and heads into the house.

"You're an ass!" I throw at his back.

I'm fairly sure I catch a chuckle before he disappears through the double doors.

When I finally catch up, he's in the garage, holding open the passenger door to a sleek red convertible coupe. I'm so distracted by the pretty car that I get in without a word. The door slams shut and, the next thing I know, Andrey's getting in the driver's seat.

From the side mirror, I spy my bodyguards climb into a huge black Escalade. "This is insane," I protest. "I don't need a whole army following me around all day."

"They won't be following you around; they'll be watching you from a comfortable distance."

"Whose comfort: theirs, yours, or mine?"

His answer is a secretive smirk. "What would you like for breakfast?"

My stomach growls. "Something that will soak up all this anger and resentment boiling inside me."

"I know just the place."

"Just the place" ends up being a gorgeous patisserie nestled in the heart of Little Italy. My mood improves—slightly—when a tray full of croissants and cherry danishes hits the table. The pastries are accompanied with the richest hot chocolate I've ever seen.

At my first bite, I let out a very loud and very inappropriate moan.

Andrey's eyes snap to mine and my cheeks turn as red as the cherries on the Danish. "Sorry. They're just so good."

He pushes the plate towards me. "Eat up."

When I die, I want to be buried inside a croissant , I decide. It is frustratingly hard to hold onto any kind of anger when you're eating food this good. I happily plow my way through half the tray before Andrey interrupts my gorging.

He slides a small envelope onto the table beside my empty cup of hot chocolate. "This is for you."

The night we slept together and he tossed money on the coffee table comes back to me in a rush. "If it's money again, I'm gonna order another hot chocolate just so I can fling it in your face."

"It's a credit card. Technically not money, but I'll brace for the hot chocolate anyway."

Opening the envelope, I find a gleaming black credit card with my name on it. I'm hesitant to touch it; it just looks rich. "What's this for?"

"For anything you may need. I'm happy to buy you anything you want, of course—but this way, you don't have to ask."

I'm struggling to figure out exactly what I'm feeling. It is thoughtful.

But cards this thick and heavy don't come without strings attached.

"Is this a power move?" It's blunt, but there are no prizes for beating around the bush.

"No." He signals the waiter for the check. The moment the bill arrives, Andrey slips a fifty-dollar bill between the cover and hands it back. "Come on. You don't want to be late for work."

Stuffing the credit card into my bag, I follow him out onto the sunlit pavement. To my surprise, he's holding the passenger door to the convertible open for me.

"I thought my boy band was responsible for dropping me off at work?"

The Escalade is parked across the street, although I can't see any of the men through the tinted windows.

"I'll drop you off today. It'll give me a chance to check out where you work."

He says it so casually that, for a minute, it seems almost reasonable. I despise that little magic trick of his. "What does that mean, you want to check out where I work' ?"

"Wherever you go, my baby goes," he explains coolly. "I need to make sure it's safe."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"I never kid about safety," he deadpans.

I plant my feet and cross my arms over my chest. This is the last straw. He's spent the whole morning telling me how things are gonna be.

Sure, it's a pretty pool house—but it's his pool house. His bodyguards following me around all day. His credit card. His damn rules.

"There is no way you're coming to work with me."

He gives me a cocky smile. "Why don't you just get in the car, lastochka ?"

"I think I'd rather walk."

I'm about to give him the hair-flip of my life when he shoots his hand out and grabs hold of me. The next thing I know, my back is pressed against the convertible and Andrey is breathing over me, those bewitching gray eyes boring into mine.

"I think not."

A few people titter as they walk past us on the street. I even hear a wolf whistle from a gaggle of passing men.

"Get off of me."

He doesn't get off of me—he does the opposite, in fact. He leans in a little more forcefully, trapping me between the car and his body—which, in the interest of being fair, isn't not attractive. His knee is wedged between my legs and the pressure he's putting on a certain part of my anatomy is definitely not appropriate for polite company.

"Andrey!" I hiss. "Stop it."

"Why? You seem to be enjoying it."

"People are watching ."

He shrugs nonchalantly. "Let them."

"You're just gonna bully me until you get what you want, aren't you?"

"What I want is your safety, Natalia. I take care of what is mine."

My arms prickle with goosebumps. I try to swallow the unwelcome surge of pleasure that races through my body at his words.

"Except I'm not yours."

He grinds his knee harder against my pussy, kneading slowly in soft, teasing movements. We're gonna get arrested for indecent exposure if he keeps this up.

The problem is my protests are getting breathier and less earnest.

My cheeks are getting hotter and redder.

And my pussy is definitely getting wetter.

I'm so scared of letting out a moan that I have no choice but to clamp my mouth shut and pray that he finishes with me soon.

A pair of older ladies walk past us. Their casual smiles turn to shock and they avert their gazes fast. "Oh my…" I hear one gasp.

Bastard.

I bite down on my tongue and, just when I feel like I'm about to explode, he releases me and steps back.

I sag against the car, suddenly exhausted. Andrey, on the other hand, looks effortlessly calm and utterly composed. But a lopsided, borderline cruel smile simmers on his lips as he leans in, his breath hot against my cheek.

"Oh, you're mine, lastochka. You just haven't accepted it yet."