The Professional Part 2 by Kresley Cole Page B

involved getting to know him. Like a scholarly investigation.
    Our relationship needed work. Work is what I do.
    Did I want Sevastyan enough to fight for him? Yes. Yes, I did. I’d wanted him since I’d first seen him.
    I had to try.
    I emerged from the cabin just as he was disconnecting a call. With the same mysterious person as before?
    “Are you well?” His way of asking about the letter.
    “Yes. Paxán wrote a beautiful good-bye.”
    Sevastyan nodded. “I’ve just learned that much of the danger has lessened. Word of the bounty’s expiration has spread, and Berezka has been secured. Your father’s funeral will be held there in two weeks.”
    “I see.” I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “Are we going back there now?”
    “Not yet. I’ve rented a car for us to head south to Paris. There’s a secure property in the city.”
    “But if the danger is dwindling . . .”
    “I trust the information about Berezka—but not enough to risk your life.”
    “Who’s giving you the intel? One of the brigadiers?”
    “A man named Maksim.”
    At the mention of this name, something tugged at my memory. “How do you know him?” When Sevastyan didn’t answer, I said, “Let me guess. You met him in the north. By chance.”
    “Something like that,” he said, twisting that thumb ring like a son of a bitch. Like my shady Siberian. “I’ve known him for most of my life. I do . . . trust him, up to a point, at least.” Twist, twist, twist.
    “Uh-huh.” I didn’t feel like he was outright lying, but he was definitely skirting around the truth. And for right now, I was just too drained to call him on it.
    When he told me, “I’ll get your bag,” and set off for the cabin, it was almost a relief.
    Once we were in the car, a Mercedes sedan much like his own, Sevastyan paused before starting off. Without looking at me, he squeezed the gearshift, rubbing his other palm over the wheel.
    Finally he spoke: “A good man would reason that you were confused last night, traumatized, and couldn’t be held accountable for your actions. A good man would release you back to your old life, now that everything has changed.”
    “But you don’t consider yourself a good man?”
    He faced me, enunciating the words: “Not in the least, pet.” His answer sounded like both a promise and a threat.
    How to respond to that? He’d basically told me he was a selfish bastard who wouldn’t ever be letting me go. Just as he’d informed me last night, while petting me so divinely.
    I let the conversation rest—but I wouldn’t for long. Paxán’s letter had just highlighted my own misgivings. I needed more from Sevastyan.
    Yet what was I prepared to do to get it?
    He put the car in gear. As we drove away from St. Petersburg, I gazed up at him, realizing I was starting off on an expedition into the unknown. With this trip, with this man.
    I was a bystander in both cases—waiting for Sevastyan to switch gears or signal with a blinker, to open up or show some hint of trust.
    And all the while, the hazard lights flashed over and over. . . .

Chapter 30

    “A mazing,” I breathed as I gazed out over Paris from the covered balcony of Sevastyan’s town house.
    His “secure property” was a four-story mansion from the turn of the century, with a to-die-for view of the Eiffel freaking Tower, the pinnacle of all my travel dreams. It soared, the top disappearing into a low bank of rain clouds.
    “I’m pleased you like it,” he said from the spacious open-plan sitting area. If Berezka had been all that was opulent, this place was nearly as lush, but the interior was more modern. In front of a crackling fire, he poured a glass of red wine for me.
    I couldn’t help but sigh at him, all dressed to perfection in a three-piece charcoal suit. Seeing him like this made me glad I’d dressed up today. This morning, he’d told me Paris was only a few hours away, so I’d forgone my most comfortable clothes for thigh-highs, kitten