Conflicted (Undercover #2) by Helena Newbury Page B

pounding ball in my throat as I waited for a shot to ring out. Despite the instructions, I grabbed Luka’s hand and squeezed it tight. He squeezed back.
    Seconds later, we reached the building and trooped inside. I let out a long sigh of relief. Looking out through the cracked windows, I could see the yacht. It looked very small and vulnerable out there on its own. Luka had been right—it wouldn’t have been safe to leave me there.
    As the fear receded a little, I became aware of the cold. Luka had been right—it was freezing. And very, very, creepy. The sooner we got out of there, the better.
    Soon, we heard a car. Luka gave me a meaningful look. I looked down at myself as if checking my appearance. I was still trying to play the new girlfriend, eager to make a good impression—and, weirdly, part of me did actually want that. The rest of me was scared as hell that Luka’s dad would see straight through my cover. Unlike his son, he wouldn’t be blinded by feelings.
    A car door slammed. New guards entered, exchanging nods with our own guards. They all stood to attention and I could see the fear in their eyes. The same dread that Luka inspired in civilians, this man inspired in criminals. And then he was walking into the room, his long coat flapping like a cape.
    “Luka,” said Vasiliy Malakov. “It’s been too long.”

 
     
     
     
     
     

     
     
    I could see immediately where Luka got his build from. Vasiliy was almost as tall as his son, almost as wide and, despite being in his fifties, he seemed to have retained most of his muscle. He was almost like a prototype for Luka—not quite as big, not quite as handsome (Luka must have inherited his gorgeous eyes and cheekbones from his mother) but still a man that made you stop and look, even at his age.
    He embraced Luka and kissed him on both cheeks. Then he turned to me. “And you are?” he asked me in Russian.
    I had to remember to blink and look uncomprehending.
    “She doesn’t speak Russian,” said Luka quickly, in Russian. “She’s American.”
    I got the sense the Vasiliy had seen enough in his lifetime that very little would surprise him, but that did the trick. He turned and stared at his son as if he’d said I was radioactive. “You brought an American here?! To a meeting?! ”
    “She’s okay,” said Luka stiffly. “She’s fine.”
    His dad shook his head. “You couldn’t keep your dick dry for one night?”
    “It’s not like that! She’s not just—” Luka took a breath to calm himself. “I like her.”
    His dad sighed and laid his face in his palm. “Luka, Luka...an American?! She is not suitable for you.” He glanced at me. “She’s pretty enough, I grant you. I’d want to jump between her legs if I was a little younger.”
    “Father!” snapped Luka.
    I willed myself not to blush. I didn’t want them to know I understood Russian.
    Vasiliy sighed again. “You shouldn’t have brought her here. What have you told her?”
    “Only that it’s guns. She can keep quiet.”
    They’d been talking in Russian for a long time. I tried to look uncomfortable, as if I was wondering what was going on. Luka caught my look. “My father is asking all about you,” he told me in English, forcing a smile onto his face. “He says you’re exactly what I need.”
    I smiled at the lie and then smiled at his father.
    “Why did you tell her that?” asked Vasiliy in Russian. “Sometimes, I worry there’s too much of your mother in you. Soft like butter.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to dump her, when you get back to Moscow. I can’t have an American sniffing around.”
    I felt myself tense and tried to hide it.
    “She’s not sniffing—” Luka began.
    But his father interrupted him. He put a big, fake grin on his face and grabbed hold of me, kissing each cheek in turn. “Welcome!” he said in English. “So rude of us to talk in Russian. I apologize. Luka has been telling me all about you. You must call me Vasiliy.” Then,