Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (88)

Fortunately, the flight doesn’t last much longer. I breathe a sigh of relief as I exit the jet and leave beautiful Marissa behind. Isaak follows me down the steps and leads me to a jaw-dropping restored car that looks like it’s been around since the roaring twenties. I’m not a car girl in the slightest, and I still can’t help ogling over the beautiful cherry-red curves.

“Looks ancient,” he tells me when he sees me gawking. “But she’s all new on the inside.” He pops open the passenger door and ushers me in, then walks around to take the driver’s seat.

The engine purrs to life. Isaak handles it confidently, expertly—not that I would’ve expected anything else. Something about the careless way he controls the steering wheel captivates my attention. It’s so… masculine, I guess. I didn’t know that would do it for me, but it definitely, definitely does.

I make myself look at the window so he doesn’t catch me going gaga over his hands. Scotland is beautiful. Gorgeous in fact. There’s so much raw, natural beauty that it takes my breath away. Honestly, it looks like I’ve stepped into a photoshopped postcard.

Isaak was right about the car, too. It drives smoothly and even though we’re on the road for a long time, I enjoy myself for longer than I’d have anticipated. An hour in, I start to get impatient, though.

“Where exactly are you taking us?”

“My place,” Isaak replies simply.

“What exactly am I expected to do while you’re… doing your thing?”

“There’s a pretty big library here, too,” he says. “And the grounds are quite large. You can explore them if you want.”

“Do I get to explore the city?”

“Not without a chaperone.”

“Jesus,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Typical.”

“I’m not risking your safety just because we happen to be in Scotland. Maxim could have eyes on us right now.”

“Look around, Isaak. There’s nothing but hills, road, and sky.”

“Never underestimate a desperate man.”

I shift in my seat to glance at him. “What makes you think he’s desperate?”

“He knows he’s up against me.”

I shaky my head. “Sometimes, I wonder if that ego is your superpower or your Achilles’ heel.”

He gives me a side smirk, and even that makes my body hot with unnatural desire. Honestly, I need to get a hold of myself, or I’m going to start to lose the plot entirely.

“Ego is part of the job description.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

“By whom?”

“Your mother,” I say, deciding that there’s no point lying about it.

“My mother,” he repeats. “When?”

I shrug. “We talk.”

“How often?”

I raise my eyebrows. “What’s the matter, Isaak? Nervous?”

“Not nervous. Just… uneasy.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s my mother.”

“You’re worried she’ll tell me all your dark, dirty secrets?”

He scoffs. “If you think I’ve trusted my mother with my secrets, then you clearly have a lot to learn about me.”

“She’s your mother,” I point out.

“And your point is… ?”

“Why wouldn’t you trust her with your secrets?”

“Because she has her own, and she’s definitely not sharing. So why should I?”

“That’s the most childish thing I’ve ever heard. Tit for tat with your own mom?”

His smirk gets wider. “It’s complicated.”

“Aren’t all families?”

“Some more than others.”

I can’t help admiring the harsh, perfect lines of his profile. In another life, he could easily have been a model or an actor. He has the looks, he has the presence, and he definitely has that mysterious, broody quality that women find hard to resist. In my case, impossible to resist—no matter what else he does.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on her, you know. She has your back.”

He frowns. “And you know that how?”

“Because she spent the better part of our conversation defending you. Or rather, justifying your behavior.”

He sighs with frustration. “My mother has a beautiful country house about twenty miles south from the manor. I don’t know why I spent so much on it if she’s not going to stay there when she’s in London.”

“God forbid she wants to be close to her sons.”

He doesn’t answer to that. He just stares off into the winding road ahead, looking stoic and aloof.

“Is it that hard for you to get close to her?” I ask when it becomes clear he’s trying to end the conversation. “Or is that just a general rule of yours?”

I notice that his eyes twitch to his arm. The one with the line of scars running from elbow to wrist.

“Oh, I see. It was another lesson your father taught you. Don’t trust anyone? Don’t trust women?”

The hand resting on top of the steering wheel that was so at ease just moments ago is now death-gripping it. His knuckles show white through his skin.