Chapter 9 – Ivan #2
“So, Isabella,” I said smoothly, leaning forward with a deliberately charming smile. “You’re quite the person of interest.”
Her eyes widened slightly before she controlled her expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
There it was again—that spark. I’d seen it before, in the garden when she hid the sharp intelligence in her eyes behind a practiced mask of casual indifference.
“No?” I kept my voice light, watched her body language. While keeping her sister, who, again, glared at me in my peripheral vision. “I think we both know that’s not true. What is it that makes you so…precious to a lot of people?”
I reached across and grabbed her hand lightly, expecting either an outburst or a show of that false sweetness. “There’s no need for pretense. Your reputation precedes you.” And I would find out exactly why Grey wanted her over her sister.
Before she could respond, Shorty lunged between us and slapped my hand away.
“Don’t fucking touch her,” she snarled, eyes blazing. “Leave her the fuck alone, you weasel.”
Interesting. Very interesting. So Mirabella was the protective one and the feistier one. Who would’ve thought? And Isabella was the brainy one? Was that what had caught Grey’s interest?
“I’m just making conversation,” I said, maintaining my calm facade despite the surge of adrenaline her fierceness triggered. “No need for hostilities.”
“Fuck off,” she said, way more riled up than during the last twelve hours when it was only me and her.
Mirabella positioned herself protectively in front of her sister and even made her scoot over, so she was sitting opposite me now. “Your ‘conversation’ isn’t welcome.”
I raised an eyebrow, reassessing everything I thought I knew. “And here I thought we’d bonded last night, sharing a bed and all.”
Shorty’s sister’s eyes went wide, and she inhaled sharply, and I was so focused on her that I missed Shorty’s response, which was immediate and physical—a sharp, well-aimed kick that caught me in the shin. Not enough to do real damage without shoes but enough to make a point.
In one fluid motion, I grabbed her wrist and stood, pulling her up with me.
“Excuse us,” I said to the wide-eyed twin still seated. “Your sister and I need to have a private conversation about appropriate behavior and air safety.”
I dragged the struggling woman toward the bathroom at the rear of the plane, ignoring her creative Italian curses and the way she tried to dig her heels into the carpet.
I slammed the bathroom door shut behind us and lifted her onto the small counter in one fluid motion. The space was cramped, forcing me to stand between her legs, my body pressed against hers, not unlike our position in the cabin when I took care of her wound.
I could feel her rapid heartbeat even through our clothes. Could feel her freeze, and her eyes widened with something that looked a lot like pure terror or fear.
Good.
Only she masked whatever I thought I’d glimpsed immediately, glared at me, and raised her hands into fists.
I caught both wrists, pushed them down, and glared right back. “Listen carefully,” I growled, placing her hands on either side of her, caging her in even more. “You don’t hit me. You don’t interfere with my questioning. You don’t make a scene on this aircraft. Understood?”
Her eyes burned with defiance, chin tilted up despite her compromised position. “You stay away from my sister,” she hissed, “or I’ll make you regret ever laying eyes on either of us.”
I leaned closer, using my height advantage. I already regretted this mission more than any other before it. Not that it would deter me from executing it with the utmost professionalism. “Is that a threat, Shorty?”
“It’s a promise.”
The confined space seemed to shrink even more, the air between us charged with something dangerous. I could smell her—that faint floral scent mixed with smoke and something uniquely her. The scent that had me hyperaware all night.
Our faces were inches apart, her breath warm against my skin.
At least apart from the moment of fear earlier, she wasn’t afraid of me anymore, a fact that I somehow liked and hated at the same time. Everything would be so much easier if she were intimidated by me.
“Your protectiveness is admirable,” I said, voice dropping lower, “but misplaced. I’m not the threat here.”
“Says the man who kidnapped us and handcuffed me to him all night.”
My eyes dropped to her lips as she spoke, lingering there a beat too long before meeting her gaze again.
Something shifted in the atmosphere—the anger was still present but now laced with a different kind of tension. Her pupils dilated slightly, and I felt her breath hitch when I moved infinitesimally closer.
“That was for your own protection,” I murmured.
“Bullshit,” she whispered, but there was less venom in it now.
I became acutely aware of every point where our bodies touched—my chest against hers, my forearms brushing her hips while gripping her wrists, my legs between her thighs.
The air felt electric, charged with something I hadn’t anticipated.
And neither did she, if her rapid breathing, wide eyes, and racing heartbeat were any indicators.
For a long moment, we remained frozen in that electric tension, her defiance melting into something more complex. I should have stepped back. Should have maintained professional distance. But something about this woman had gotten under my skin from the moment I’d chased her.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Shorty,” I said, my voice rougher than intended.
Her dark eyes studied me, calculating, assessing. “I didn’t start this game. You did.”
My fingers twitched with the urge to touch her face, to trace the line of her jaw. Instead, I let go of her wrists and planted them on the counter beside her hips, my thumbs touching her pinkies.
“Tell me something,” I said, not moving away. “Why are you so protective of your sister? As far as I know, she can take care of herself. What makes Isabella so special that everyone wants her?”
A flash of something—surprise, concern?—crossed her features before she masked it.
“She’s my sister,” she answered simply. “We protect each other.”
“That’s not the whole story,” I pressed, sensing there was more. “What is it about her?”
Her jaw tightened. “Well, if anyone should know, it should be you? Aren’t we just bargaining chips to get Vince to do whatever you or your bosses want?”
“Maybe,” I conceded, “but that’s not all.”
She shifted slightly, inadvertently bringing our bodies closer. I felt her warmth through my clothes, saw the pulse fluttering at her throat. If she wanted to punch me again, this was her chance, but her hands remained by her side, still touching mine.
“You’re not what I expected,” she said suddenly, changing tactics.
“Well, you’re not what I expected either.”
“I thought you were the top dog.”
I smiled. “I am the top dog.”
“On someone else’s leash,” she said, raising one side of her mouth with a condescending half-frown.
“You really think I’d let just anyone hold my leash?” I corrected automatically, then immediately regretted revealing even that small truth.
Her eyebrows lifted. “No? So who is it you let yourself be yanked around by?” She hesitated. “You’re executing someone else’s command. Isn’t that the definition of being someone’s dog, Ivan Zotov? What is it you want?”
The way she said my name—half challenge, half curiosity—sent an unexpected jolt through me. I leaned closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear.
“That’s the wrong question, Mirabella Salvini,” I whispered. “The question is: what does your sister know that makes her so valuable?”
I felt her tense, confirming my suspicion that there was something more to Isabella than just being a Mafia princess. Something that made her a target.
Before she could respond, the plane lurched with unexpected turbulence, throwing us off balance.
I pressed my body fully against hers, braced one hand against the counter, and cupped the other around the back of her head to keep her from bumping it against the mirror. And then I buried my face in her hair for a single deep inhale.