Chapter 6
VERA
Someone’s shaking my shoulder. I’m dead asleep, warm and cozy in bed. It feels so good to sleep. Why is someone waking me in the middle of the night?
I open my blurry eyes and see a tall man standing over me. I’m completely overshadowed by the breadth of his body. I jerk back and gasp.
What the hell?
Caught between sleep and waking, I startle and flail. Tangled in the sheets, I almost fall out of bed. Just in time, he bends and catches me. I’m immediately aware of his clean, woodsy scent and the warmth and confidence of his touch.
Wait.
I recognize that sharp jawline and piercing eyes.
And the familiar perpetual scowl. “It’s just me. Relax.”
I blink, trying to clear my brain.
Did he just speak English?
Is he still. . . holding me?
His warm arms around me feel nice. He’s strong and sturdy, and I’ve always fantasized about what it would be like to be held by a strong man. . . like him.
It feels better than it did, even in my wildest fantasies.
I stare into the depths of those green eyes.
He definitely spoke English. There is way more to this man than he lets on.
“Let me go,” I whisper, even though a part of me wants to ask him to hold me tighter. Even though a part of me wants to reach out and run my fingers along the scruff on his strong, masculine jaw. We’re alone, just the two of us. What happens in Russia stays in Russia, right?
I half expect him to drop me on the bed like a sack of potatoes, but instead he gently releases me.
“You have to get ready to go.”
I sit up on the bed and stare at him. “Did you magically learn another language while I napped? Or have you been lying to me, Markov?”
He sits on the edge of the bed, which bows under his weight.
“I made a decision while you were sleeping.” He speaks with a thick Russian accent, but his English is perfect. “We must communicate more clearly if I’m to keep you safe. I never told you I didn’t speak English.”
I stare at him. Yeah, right. “Oh, don’t play that game with me. You know that you led me to believe you didn’t speak English. And here you are. . .” I gesture with my hands in confusion.
He shrugs. “I knew that you and I would be sharing quarters, though I didn’t know it would be”—he gestures to the bed—“quite this close. I thought it would be in your best interest and mine if we had distance between us. If we couldn’t communicate, we could remain professional.
But I realize now that puts your safety at risk. ”
My cheeks heat with a sudden realization of what he’s implying. “Do you think just because I’ve lived a sheltered life that I’m going to fall for the first hot guy I see as soon as I leave my parents’ home?”
His brows snap together. “Nyet.” It seems even when he’s trying to speak English, his Russian still makes an appearance. “I did not think that about you.”
Oh dear God. The memory of what I said earlier comes back in a rush…how he could take what I’ve said. I spoke too freely. Divulged too much.
I told him I don’t wear clothes to bed.
I told him he looked like Jason Bourne.
I should have kept my damn mouth shut.
Also? Who the hell am I kidding? He’s not just the first hot guy I’ve met, but he is sexy as hell and exudes every vibe of the dominant nature that makes me crazy. He’s the hero of a romance novel in real life, the classic Byronic hero.
If I’m Jane Eyre. . . he’s my Mr. Rochester.
I can’t think like that. I won’t allow myself.
But I have to admit I love hearing him speak.
I cannot allow myself to have a crush on this guy. He works for my father, and anybody who works for my father must be a dick.
Though he’s giving me an earnest look, the sharp cut of his jaw and the deep timbre of his voice remind me that he is no boy.
“It is my job to protect you. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman.
But you’re my boss’s daughter. If I so much as touched you, he would kill me.
” His eyes, a striking shade of steel blue, hold mine with an intensity that underscores his solemn vow.
He continues speaking, outlining the boundaries he must never cross, the lines drawn so rigidly by duty and honor.
Yet, I’m still caught up in his earlier words—beautiful, intelligent woman.
He said it with such natural conviction, as if stating something as undebatable as the sky being blue.
No underlying charm, no playful smirk to soften the edges of his professionalism. Just plain fact.
Blood thunders in my ears, a relentless drum that makes it difficult to focus on anything but the man in front of me.
His presence is commanding, his commitment palpable, and it sends a flurry of butterflies through my stomach.
I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice, to appear as unaffected as he is disciplined.
But it’s a formidable challenge, when every fiber of my being reacts to the proximity of him—this man who might see me as more than a duty…
He glances at his phone, the light casting a glow on his steely features.
“I’m sorry we started off this way. It’s time that I told you the truth.
I speak English as well as anybody here.
Maybe then I can… communicate more effectively with the American.
” The way he says communicate more effectively sends chills down my spine.
The underlying threat in his tone is unmistakable.
I swallow hard. “Markov, you need to leave him alone. He’s in the program with me.”
The flash of his eyes is almost predatory and makes my heart quicken with a mix of fear and anticipation.
“He’s hot for you, and he’s a dick. I’ll take care of it. Now get up and ready so we’re not late.”
I shake my head in disbelief, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and alarm, when I glance at the time. “Oh my God! We have to be there in ten minutes!”
“Do you need more time than that?” His question comes casually, as if our earlier exchange hasn’t altered the dynamics of our relationship.
It’s so strange that all of a sudden he’s speaking English.
I can hardly wrap my brain around the sudden shift.
Part of me is relieved-- now, I actually have an ally here, one I can communicate with.
But can I trust him? Doubt gnaws at me, unsettling my thoughts. There I go again, thinking like we’re in a romance novel.
We have no relationship beyond the professional. There is no foundation of trust or affection. He works for my father and is my bodyguard. Period. End of story.
But is anything really that simple?
“Okay, listen. I can get ready in ten minutes, but for future reference, I typically need a little more than that.” I gesture in my hair. “My hair alone can take ten minutes. “
“Why?” He looks genuinely confounded.
“It goes all frizzy when I sleep. I can’t walk out in public like this.”
He shakes his head. Even though he speaks English, it still feels like he has a language barrier.
“You could braid it? I’ve heard my sister say that helps.” He averts his eyes for a moment as if he shouldn’t have said that. Huh.
“Well, I don’t know how to braid it. Not on myself anyway. And that would make me look so young. I’m already basically the youngest one in the program. . .”
Markov scowls. “We have no time to argue details. Look, I can braid it for you. And you don’t look young. You come off too collected and mature to look like a child. That American, though, he looks like a child. Do you have a hair tie?”
Wait. Did I actually wake up, or am I still dreaming?
I stare at him before replying. “I have a hair tie.”
We have no time to waste, and he’s right. . . it would help me get ready. Braiding will quickly tame it, and then I can dash on some makeup and change into some nice clothes. Next thing I know, I’m rummaging through my bag, trying to find a hair tie.
“You’re already dressed! Did you do that while I was sleeping? Did you even get any rest?”
“Yes, I changed when you were sleeping. No, I didn’t sleep but it’s no matter. Give me the hair tie.”
Am I really going to let him braid my hair?
Do I have much choice other than doing a messy and weird bun? While I wouldn’t call myself vain, I’d like to avoid the mad scientist look if I can help it.
He gestures for me to sit at the desk chair while he stands behind me. It feels strangely intimate when he runs my brush through my hair. I quickly take it from him and shake my head. “I can do this part.” My cheeks are hot again, the heat creeping down my neck. I hope he doesn’t notice.
I brush my hair, pulling out the tangles, and I know exactly what it looks like now. The tangle-free fluffy mess is reminiscent of cotton candy.
“Where did you learn how to braid hair?”
“My brother has a stepchild. My niece. She’s three years old and has long blonde hair. I’m one of her favorites. So I learned. It’s not hard. “
Ugh, that’s adorable. Dammit.
He quickly gathers the hair at the nape of my neck, sending little tingles down my spine. It’s the sexiest thing a man has ever done to me, which is really pretty pathetic if you think about it.
I like the feel of his warm hand on the back of my neck. Separating the hair into strands, and with a tenderness that belies the way he’s been until now, he plaits my hair. When he’s done, he surprises me by giving it a little tug.
“Hey! What was that?”
“For talking back to me earlier.” He leans down, not quite touching me, but so close that the warmth of his breath tickles my neck. “Don’t do that again. Behave yourself, Vera. Remember, I’m your husband. You should show your husband some respect.”
Before I can gather up my thoughts or somehow slow the rapid beating of my heart, he’s gone, and I’m left wondering.
. . Is Markov flirting with me? Or was he serious?
I can’t look at him because I’m afraid that if he sees my eyes, he’ll somehow know that that little threat made me all kinds of hot and bothered. My God.
I go to get clothes out of my bag only to find that he’s already unpacked and layered everything in the drawers. “You unpacked for me?”