The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(13)

His expression turned even colder. “You wouldn’t have allowed it? Only two weeks here, and you’ve assumed the role of princess so f*cking easily.”

I shook my head hard. “Paxán gave me two choices: sign up for something permanent with you, or see you leave. You tell me nothing about yourself, but expect me to make a commitment like that? I barely know you.”

“You know enough. You know there was something between us.”

Was. “Damn it, if you’d stop and let me explain—”

He whirled around on me. “I understand perfectly. You want me to make you come. You crave for me to f*ck you, but only if it ends there. Beyond sex, anything with me doesn’t appeal to you.”

I pinched my forehead. “That’s not fair!” I didn’t feel like I was being backed into a corner; I was being tossed headlong. “I never asked for any of this, never asked for this kind of pressure!”

“This discussion is over. The situation has been made crystal clear to me.” He opened his car, slid his big frame behind the wheel, then slammed the door in my face.

Corner, meet Natalie. “You *!” As he started the engine, I banged on the window with the bottom of my fist and launched my boot into the side of the car. ABC, baby! Always Be Crazier. “You rip me out of my life and then expect me to live up to your expectations?” Another kick. “Well, f*ck you!” I leaned down so my head was level with his. “Go find some submissive bimbo who’ll give you what I obviously can’t.”

He cast me a cruel smirk. “Planning to, pet.” The engine revved, and he was gone.



I looked like a bucket of f*ck.

Felt like one too. Outside, another dreary, rain-filled day was coming to a close, dusk falling upon Berezka. Inside, I sat before my mirror, pinching my cheeks, scowling into the glass.

To brighten my outlook, I’d dressed in a royal-blue peplum top that looked sassy with a skirt of superfine merino wool and slouchy leather ankle boots.

It hadn’t helped my outlook. Not even a little.

Deeming my appearance good as it’s gonna get, I set off for Paxán’s study to discuss some things with him.

My paleness and dark circles shouldn’t surprise me, considering the last thirty or so hours of sleeplessness, confusion, and fury. Since Sevastyan had sped off yesterday morning, I’d run the gamut.

Dinner last night had been a miserable experience. I hadn’t realized how much I would miss his company. No, he hadn’t spoken to me much over the last two weeks, but at least I’d felt his presence, his palpable strength and protection.

Both Paxán and I had been out of sorts. Though he always politely turned off his cell phone during meals, last night he’d checked every message, every ring. He hadn’t seemed to know what to do with himself, so unused to any conflict with the man he considered his son.

I’d felt a pang, wondering how much more Paxán could be expected to deal with. Aside from danger and unrest, he now had to live with this drama between his daughter and his enforcer?

Not to mention the tension between Filip and me. The guy must’ve heard I’d had a falling-out with Sevastyan, because he’d showed for dinner. Too bad that he’d been uncommunicative and drunk. Which had seemed to perplex Paxán.

After dinner had been just as miserable. All night I’d watched for Sevastyan’s return. He hadn’t come home, had probably spent the night in some other woman’s bed.

At dawn, I’d clutched my balcony rail, anger ripping through me. He’d expected me to make all the right moves, all the time—though I had no reference to guide me. That anger had a way of clarifying my thoughts. I’d screwed up; he’d screwed another, removing himself from any chance of reconciliation.

He’d axed his limb off my decision tree. Which was a kind of decision.

With one decision down, I’d formulated others. Hence my meeting with Paxán this evening.

As I tromped down the stairs, I wondered if I’d see Sevastyan. I figured he’d be back today, if for no other reason than his undying loyalty to his boss.

Speak of the devil—I reached the gallery leading to Paxán’s study just as Sevastyan did. On his way there as well? “You’ve returned?” My voice was scratchy, and I sounded as exhausted as I knew I looked.

“I still work with him,” Sevastyan said in a low tone when we both slowed to a stop, as if by silent agreement. “I won’t be kept away right when he needs me most.”

Finally we were on the same page. “We need to talk.”

Sevastyan canted his head at me, much as he had at that bar the first night I’d met him. His pupils dilated, his eyes lit with more than simple interest.

Realization hit me. “You think I want to talk about . . . you and me? That ship has sailed.”

He narrowed his gaze. “You are angry with me?”

Utterly pissed! But I needed to keep a lid on it, to calmly state my new proposal.

“You have a lot of nerve, Natalie.”

“I’ve got . . . I’VE got nerve?” There went the lid. “Listen up, manwhore, you don’t get to talk to me like that anymore. You revoked that privilege with your behavior yesterday.”

“My behavior? You’ll have to enlighten me.”

“When you heard something out of context, flew off the handle, and headed out to bury your relationship sorrows—balls deep—in another woman.”