Chapter 4
VERA
I startle awake to the plane shaking so badly at first I think I must be dreaming. When I realize it isn’t a dream, I gasp and try to stand but am quickly pulled down by large, strong hands.
“Nyet.” Markov is holding me tight against him, his arms like vice gripping me. The overhead speaker crackles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve hit a bit of turbulence. There is nothing to fear. Please remain seated and be sure your safety belts are fastened. We should be able to navigate out of this pocket short—”
His words are cut off when the plane takes a sudden deep nosedive. Screams drown out any more thoughts, mine along with everyone else’s. Panic swoops over me. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel tears escape between my lids.
A calm, collected voice beside me anchors me to safety. “Vsyo budet khorosho.”
His tone, for the first time, is softened and reassuring. I have no idea what he’s saying, but somehow, it puts me at ease. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth when a large, warm hand comes to rest on my thigh.
I open my eyes to see him staring straight ahead, ever the picture of stoicism.
His jaw clenches, but he shows no fear. My mind swirls in a tempest of fear – what if we crash?
Would we survive? My scientific mind immediately calculates how far up we are, our location, the chances of survival.
I can hardly form a cohesive thought. What if we – what if I--
Just as soon as the turbulence began, it stops. The plane flies calmly now in the inky darkness of the night sky.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly. My breathing regulates.
“Spasibo.”
I’m glad I brushed up a bit on my phone.
Markov gives me a silent nod.
I look down at his hand resting on my thigh. We realize at the same time he’s touching me in a way my bodyguard has no business touching me. He was only reassuring me, yes, but the continued intimacy of his hand on my thigh has crossed a line we should never cross.
My cheeks flame, and a warm trickle of awareness flutters between my thighs.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spent the last hour before I fell asleep reading about dominant, perfect, sexy as fuck billionaires, especially when I’m in such close proximity to the sexiest Russian I’ve ever laid eyes on.
I lay my hand on top of his and, with great reluctance, push his hand off of me.
I feel his eyes on me but don’t return his gaze as the flight attendant comes to us.
“I’m so sorry about that.”
I shake my head. “Unless you’re personally responsible for the behavior of the sky, I don’t think it’s your fault. But thank you.”
Markov says something to her in rapid Russian that makes her laugh. She responds, and he gives her a glimmer of a smile.
An unexpected stab of jealousy hits me straight in the solar plexus. I want to know what he said to her. I didn’t even know the man was capable of humor.
I want to be the one that makes him smile. Or, almost smile anyway.
They continue chattering, and I pick up my book. Fine, have a conversation that doesn’t include me. I’ll just read my book and pine away with unrealistic expectations, no big deal.
“He says to tell you he was only trying to comfort you and apologizes if he was untoward.”
I blink and look up at the flight attendant. “Excuse me?”
She repeats herself. I look over to see him staring straight at me, as serious as always.
I clear my throat.
“Please tell him thank you.” I want to say so much more, but for once, I’m grateful for the language barrier.
I glance at the time, surprised to see I slept through most of the flight. We land in an hour.
“Can I get you a snack?” The flight attendant offers the two of us a basket. I recognize little packets of trail mix and a few candies, but there are other snacks I’ve never seen. Русское Поле, some sort of rye crisp, and a variety of chocolates with names like Коркунов.
“Those are excellent,” she says. “Do you like chocolate?”
“Mmm. Of course.”
“Here,” she says with a smile. “Take a few of each.”
I’m not surprised when Markov declines a snack and drink, considering the fact that he probably subsists on egg white omelets and protein shakes. A man does not carve out a body like that on potato chips and chocolate.
I eat my snacks and comment on them, pretending he can understand me, only because the silence between us feels heavy and weighted.
“Mmm. I like the delicate flavor of the chocolate,” I say, like I’m doing some kind of review.
“Though the subtle hint of roasted nuts is quite nice. Not quite an M&M, but it will do.”
He just continues to stare straight ahead. What causes someone to be so serious?
I turn back to my book and lose myself in a fake world with fake promises that won’t ever happen in real life.
I wish my father hadn’t insisted I take a bodyguard with me.
Despite Markov’s silence and stony disposition, he snaps into action as soon as we land.
I don’t even bother fighting him when it comes to carrying my bags.
At this point, I figure I might as well enjoy the bit of pampering, or whatever it is you want to call it.
I don’t know how he quite manages it, but he holds our bags, escorts me off the plane, and seamlessly guides me toward the exit.
Though it was a ten-hour flight to Moscow, due to the time difference, we arrived in Moscow midday.
It feels strange, honestly, as if we’ve skipped a whole day.
The sun hangs high in the clear blue sky in contrast to the inky night we left behind.
As we exit the plane, the brisk air of Moscow greets us, a welcome change from the stale cabin air we’ve endured.
The hustle and bustle of Sheremetyevo Airport greets us with travelers and locals alike navigating terminals with practiced ease.
The diverse mix of accents and languages around us create a lively hum.
My body feels weighted from jet lag, but there’s an underlying current of excitement.
I’ve never left my country. This is a new chapter of my life filled with promise.
We gather our luggage and head to the pick-up area.
“I was told there would be a car waiting for us—um, me,” I amend.
I’m not sure how I’m going to explain his presence to the people I’ll be working with.
I sigh when he stares at me and pull out my phone to bring up the translation app when I see a driver standing beside a large SUV with a sign that says Vera Ivanova in bold black lettering.
I point. “There, that’s for us.”
Markov gives the man a flinty look and nods, carrying our bags.
A tall woman who looks vaguely familiar waves excitedly to me.
I realize when we get closer to her that I recognize Professor Irina Kuznetsova with her sharp, intelligent eyes, slender frame, and short silver hair.
She’s the woman I did a teleconference with a few weeks ago, the one in charge of the program.
Wow. I had no idea she’d come all the way here just to see me.
“Vera! Welcome!” she says in perfect English. She gives Markov a curious look.
“Professor Kuznetsova?” I say, reaching a tentative hand out to her. “You came all the way to get me at the airport? I’m honored, really.”
“Please, call me Irina,” she says sheepishly. “You and another one of your classmates, Jake Thomas, took the same flight. I had no time to introduce you two or I would have made sure you made each other’s acquaintance well before the flight.”
Markov stands stoically to the side.
“You brought a guest?” she asks, her brow furrowed.
God. Here we go.
“Looks more like a bodyguard to me,” a booming voice says in English behind me. I turn to see a man who could be the poster child for ‘All-American’ standing behind me—light brown hair, perfect teeth, pale blue eyes, and an athletic build.
He looks like a child next to Markov.
“Jake Thomas,” he says, extending his hand to me. “We were on the same flight but not all of us got mysteriously upgraded to first class.” He circles his neck as if pained from sleeping in coach and gives me a wink.
I turn away, my cheeks flushing. Markov narrows his eyes.
“Bodyguard?” Irina asks. Oh, God. I can’t stand the idea of anyone thinking I brought a bodyguard with me. Nobody knows who I am or where I come from.
What if she sends me home? After everything I’ve done and everything I’ve gone through to get into this program…
My cheeks flush hot as I shake my head and remember that Markov can’t speak English.
“No, no,” I say with a forced laugh, trying not to panic.
I wasn’t supposed to bring anyone with me.
I should be here alone. Goddamn my father for not thinking about the finer details.
It’s so typical of him to pronounce something that will have a direct impact on my life without caring about the ramifications for me.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “This is—this is my husband.” Markov thankfully doesn’t react because he has no idea I just told such a bold-faced lie.
Irina stares but quickly composes herself.
“Oh! Of course!” Irina says. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”
She takes out her mobile and makes a quick call. I can’t understand what she’s saying but it seems as if she’s pleading with someone. Markov listens carefully, his face darkening.
Shit.
She comes back a minute later, smiling broadly. “All set,” she says. “You can come with me. I’ve arranged a car ride back to the school and will only have to make a minor adjustment to the room situation.”
Oh dear God.
The room situation.
“Have you two met on the way here?” Irina says, a wide smile in place. “Mr. Thomas didn’t come from too far away, Ms. Ivanov,” she says. “You hail from the Midwest, don’t you?”
”I do,” he says, sticking his hands in his pockets as if he’s being modest. “Though the last few years I studied at Harvard.”
Oh, God, name-dropping an Ivy League. Lovely.
The bustling atmosphere of the airport surrounding us makes me feel even more exhausted than ever. I stifle a yawn.