The Master (The Game Maker #2)(61)

“It blows my mind that we’re going from a play-date in the sun to Nebraskan winter.”

Yesterday with him had been sublime. We’d wrestled in the pool, and he’d chased me around, and I’d let him catch me for sex.

Later when I’d prepped marinade for grilling and cooked dessert, he’d stayed in the kitchen to help. He’d asked me to speak more Spanish around him. Easy enough to oblige. But did he have to pick it up so quickly? He’d been reading food packages in Spanish.

Last night he’d taken me down from the tower to go running on the beach. I’d been uneasy at first—until I’d remembered what my running partner was.

Nearly six and a half feet of hard-bodied Russian ruthlessness.

The only thing that could make me hornier from running? Covering miles with him. Luckily, I’d been rewarded with another hit of aggressive, sweaty-man sex. On the beach. Behind a palm tree.

Life could be sweet.

But I remained confused about what was going on between us. How much longer would we be together? My being a weekend date was one thing. Returning to Russia with him was outside the realm of possibility.

So why had he spent so much money on me?

This morning’s message on the mirror had only confused me more. He’d responded to my all the way to Nebraska quip with a cryptic reply: Why stop there?

Máxim lowered his paper. “So you’ve obviously never lived where it snows. Already I know you grew up on the coast.”

I forced a smile. “How’s that?”

“Children in Iowa don’t often tell their mother they’ll sail away.” The search engine had two more variables. “Perhaps you are from Miami. Or the coast of Texas. Maybe Southern California?”

When I shrugged, my new bra rubbed my nipples, and I shivered at the contact. They were still sensitive days after he’d clamped them. Since then, the peaks were constantly hard, visible even now against my red cashmere V-neck.

The devil noticed my reaction and grinned. I told him in Spanish that my revenge would be sweet and unexpected.

He set away the journal. “You should know, I called Vasili off from his investigation of you. He was very disappointed.”

Máxim had? “That explains the man’s behavior earlier.” When he’d driven us to the executive airport in Sevastyan’s Bentley Mulsanne, the bodyguard/driver/right-hand man had glowered at me. As we’d boarded the jet, he’d cast me another surly look before he’d adjourned to the cockpit. Ever protective of “boss.”

I’d asked Máxim, “What will it take to get a smile out of that man?”

“Your real name and ID. That’s all he wants out of life. And possibly almond candies.”

Now Máxim said, “Before then, Vasili had men turn Tampa upside down. You never lived there, did you?”

“I never told you I did. Why did you call him off?”

“Because you’ll confide in me. Soon.”

“You sound assured.” Over the last two days, he’d been making me wonder: what if I recruited Máxim’s help against Edward? This morning in the bathroom, I’d gazed into the mirror to practice what I’d say. I’d attempted to murmur the words, “I’m married to a murderer who wants me dead,” and only air passed my lips. My lungs had seized up, as if a weight pressed down on them.

Máxim said, “I am assured. You’re learning to trust me.”

What if I . . . did? The level of faith that would require . . . I didn’t know if my withered up trust was capable of reaching that level. How could I be expected to run on a limb that was shriveled and broken?

His gaze met mine. “I want what’s best for you. You can trust me.”

I glanced away. That was exactly what Edward had told me when I’d said, “I don’t understand why I have to sign all these papers.”

For so long, I’d followed my rules, trusting no one. I’d remained alone—and alive. I’d been silent—and hidden. How could I fly in the face of that?

Over the years, I’d learned to equate secrecy with survival. In my mind, to willfully break a rule was to call Edward down upon me.

I knew it was crazy. That didn’t make it any less real to me. Had my psyche been damaged by my predicament? I don’t see how it couldn’t have been. No one should have to go through life imagining what a knife wound would feel like. . . .

“Katya?”

“Qué cosa? Huh?” Clearing my throat, I changed the subject. “Vasili is very loyal. How did you meet him?”

The look Máxim gave me told me he’d allowed me off the hook. “Vasili was about to be executed for a mob hit I knew he didn’t commit.”

“Por Dios. How did you know?”

“I was blackmailing the man who ordered the hit. I struggled with the decision to save Vasili or not. It was my first major blackmail scheme, and I was poised to collect many favors from a powerful man. In the end, I anonymously mailed the evidence to Vasili’s advocate. Then Vasili turned around—and somehow tracked down me, pointing out my vulnerabilities. Hat in hand, he asked to work for me. How could I say no?”

“That doesn’t seem very heartless.”

“Perhaps scheming, then? I saved his life once, and he’s protected mine ever since. Forfeiting my gain was the best investment I ever made.” With a heated glance, he said, “At least until you came along.”