The Professional: Part 1 (The Game Maker 1.10) - Page 17

"I'm so glad you're here, Natalie. It's nice to have someone else around who's Westernized. And who doesn't hold it against me that I've never been to prison!" He laid his hands on my shoulders and smiled down at me, a move that would make most women proffer their panties. "Kovalev has to go into the city tomorrow afternoon. Let me show you around the place--"

Before I could pull away, the doors opened, revealing the Siberian on the other side. My heart leapt--had he been coming for me?

He stopped in his tracks, expression growing lethal. What'd I do now? Then I realized it looked like Filip and I had been about to . . . kiss. I swung my head around to take in the immense dining room and the other guests already inside. About thirty brigadiers.

And all their eyes were on Filip and me, every conversation stalled.

I guessed it was pretty bad when dozens of Russian gangsters got scandalized by one's behavior. But I hadn't done anything.

At least, not with Filip.

When Sevastyan's fists balled, I marched away from both men. Squaring my shoulders, chin lifted, I made my way to Kovalev, my heels sounding abnormally loud in the silent hall.

He was standing at the head of a lengthy table that was covered with dazzling candles, china, and silver. He glanced uncertainly from me to Filip, so I gave him a ready smile. "This is incredible, Paxan. Thank you." My guiltless demeanor seemed to defuse the situation; conversations resumed.

When Kovalev pulled out the chair to his right for me, he said under his breath, "Anything amiss?"

I murmured back, "Not at all."

Filip followed, taking a seat beside me. With a laugh, he muttered, "That was awkward, huh?"

When Sevastyan returned to the table and took the seat opposite me, his face was his usual unreadable mask, but that muscle in his jaw was twitching.

Kovalev introduced me to the rest of our dinner companions, more than two dozen men in their twenties and thirties--Yuri, Boris, Kirill, Gleb, then I started losing track. They were a rough-looking lot, but they all appeared to hero-worship Kovalev. Only two other women were seated, Olga and Inya, long-term girlfriends of a couple of the brigadiers.

After introductions, what seemed like an army of servers began conveying platters, while others poured vodka into glittering crystal glasses. Though I wasn't used to being on this end of service, I forced myself to relax.

"A toast," Kovalev called, drink in hand. "To my lovely daughter. Who found me against all odds, who toiled and fought to get what she wanted."

Filip called, "The apple didn't fall far from the tree."

When the dinner guests raised their glasses of vodka, I did the same, then brought it to my lips to sip--

Everyone shot theirs, then turned to me. I recalled it was considered rude to put a glass with alcohol back on the table. With a shrug, I downed mine too, and cheers broke out. I couldn't help but grin, glancing at Sevastyan, who simply stared at me.

I could've sworn he'd been jealous of Filip earlier, but if he gave a damn, then why hadn't he bothered to come get me from my room in the first place?

In any case, I refused to let him ruin this for me. Here I was at an authentic Russian banquet, drinking vodka with my father's extended . . . clan. I was in the land of my birth, ensconced in a former tsar's home.

I gazed up, marveling at the frescoes above us. This absolutely looked like the dining room of a tsar. I realized I'd never felt history like this. Which took some of the sting out of my involuntary withdrawal from school.

Tonight, my good mood was bulletproof.

Another toast followed: "Za vas, Natalya Kovaleva!" To you. This time I got my shot down in time with the table. I savored the burn, pleasantly warmed.

When a zakuska--a spread of miscellaneous appetizers--was served, Filip leaned over. "This is called a za-kus-ka."

Sevastyan said, "Natalie studied Russian--I'm sure she knows what it is."

I cast him a quick look of appreciation. Having every dish explained to me would've gotten old.

Filip's affable mien never faded, even as he said, "It's merely etiquette, Sevastyan. To be welcoming to a guest--escorting her from her room and such."

Thanks for reminding me.

The two men stared each other down. The tense moment was broken by another serving: oysters topped with plentiful caviar from the Volga Delta. Then a fish course followed.

I took a bite of heavenly baked sole, making a sound of bliss; Sevastyan's eyes were on me.

I shot another glass of vodka; his eyes were on me.

I listened to a story Filip seemed determine to whisper to me; Sevastyan clenched a fist beside his plate. He could assure me that there was no us all he wanted to, but . . .

Actions speak louder than words, Siberian. And his focus on me was warming me as much as the vodka.

When servers brought yet another dish, Kovalev announced, "In honor of Natalie's home of Nebraska."

It was corn souffle! I grinned at him. "I love it." I was beginning to sound crazy tipsy.

Then I felt Sevastyan's dark gaze on me yet again. Was he remembering the cornfield? Pinning me in the dirt? Meeting his eyes, I downed another shot.

Kovalev turned to Sevastyan. "You're not eating, Aleksei?"

He straightened. "Perhaps I'm feeling the trip."

Filip quipped, "Or your age."

With his quiet intensity, Sevastyan said, "I hold my own."

In a merry tone, Kovalev said, "There now, lads." He turned to me. "I think our clever Filip sometimes forgets Aleksei was a bare-knuckle prizefighter for many years."

I raised my brows. When I'd first seen Sevastyan, I'd guessed he was a fighter. That would explain the scars on his fingers, his broken nose. I recalled the many times I'd seen Sevastyan ball his fists. For a fighter, that must be the default factory setting.

When I thought of all the men who'd struck that noble face of his, I wanted to touch him, to smooth my fingers over his skin. I was trying to imagine him in the ring, dealing pain, when another course appeared.

Dessert. There were baked apples, fruit pastels--a kind of Russian Turkish delight--and sirniki, a cheese pancake with a side of honey for dipping. As soon as my first pastel touched my tongue, I rolled my eyes with bliss.

After dessert, drinks reigned and laughter grew boisterous. It was bad etiquette not to finish an opened bottle of vodka, so everyone politely pounded shot after shot--well, everyone except for Sevastyan. After the toasts, his glass went untouched.

Paxan recounted hilarious tales of his attempts at leisure. Sailing? The boat was now an artificial reef. Breeding horses? He'd find that wily escaped stallion one of these days.

I laughed until my eyes watered, admitting that I'd thought he would have white tigers and a bear--and a diamond-encrusted toilet, which made Kovalev double over.

The guy named Gleb taught me a Russian tongue twister. Everyone laughed at my buzzed rendition, but I was a good goddamned sport, so I feigned a quick curtsy. I saw that even Sevastyan's customary scowl had changed to a look of something like fascination, as if I were a creature he'd never seen in the wild before.

Every time I

grew convinced I couldn't break through his icy reserve again, he'd show hints of the man beneath the enforcer facade. . . .

I wished I could freeze time--couldn't remember when I'd last had such a fun night--but before I knew it, a grandfather clock struck midnight.

Paxan stood. "Well, my friends and family"--he smiled at me and Sevastyan--"you'll have to excuse me."

A chorus of "One more drink!" rang out.

He shook his head. "Take pity on an old man! And continue--that's an order." Sevastyan and I rose at the same time, both intending to walk Paxan out.

"Sit, sit, you two. Enjoy yourselves. I'll see you tomorrow."

As I watched Paxan strolling away, I didn't want to let him out of my sight. I had the feeling that he might disappear. But then Sevastyan gave me a reassuring look, as if he understood what I was feeling. It helped.

After that, drinks continued to flow. The hour grew late, but I didn't care because I didn't have work tomorrow, didn't have to deal with first-year students spinning tales about why their papers were late.

My only complaint? I wanted Sevastyan to talk to me, to flirt with me. To touch me. I desired more of what he'd shown me the night before.

I wanted sex with him.

Craved it.

I'd been reminded of how relentless I could be; maybe I should pursue him relentlessly?

To my right, Filip and some brigadiers got into a heated debate about the fastest sports car--which gave me an opportunity for mischief. I was intoxicated enough that the idea of teasing Sevastyan seemed brilliant.

Though he'd warned me that he didn't like surprises, I slipped off one heel, then stretched my hosed foot toward his legs. I made contact with his inner thigh, right above his knee. He tensed, but didn't give me away, just cast me that menacing look.

Was it a good idea to play with an enforcer like him? Vodka said, Hell, yeah, touch his badge! I reached higher. With each inch closer I got to his dick, his breaths came quicker. He gave a forceful shake of his head.

With a lazy grin, I dipped my forefinger into a honey pot, then sucked it between my lips, my smug expression saying, Whatcha gonna do, Siberian?

His own lips parted. Recalling me sucking him the night before?

Higher, higher . . .

Contact.

God, he was burning hot, hard as iron. He tilted his head sharply, his nostrils flaring. And for a long moment, his chest didn't move at all.

With my lids gone heavy, I rubbed the ball of my foot along his length, delighted when his cock pulsed in reaction. I grew wet in response, dampening the black silk thong I'd worn for him. My nipples budded in the demi cups of my bra.

Tags: Kresley Cole The Game Maker Erotic
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