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What must Sevastyan think about my advanced degree? Had he felt even a twinge of guilt when he'd unenrolled me?

"Just be careful around him, Cuz."

The same advice Sevastyan had given me about Filip. "Why?"

He gazed away. "The man's got some . . . serious issues."

"Tell me."

In a lower voice, Filip said, "He's been to prison and seems proud of it. He's got these two dome tattoos on his arm, which is mafiya code for doing two stints. One of those times was in a bloody Siberian prison camp. It does things to a man."

I was speechless. I'd seen those markings on his arm and had had no idea what they signified.

Yet knowing more about Sevastyan's checkered past didn't diminish my attraction for him. In fact, Filip's revelation had just given Sevastyan layers, making me want to peel them away one by one. Once I returned to my suite tonight, I'd fire up that Mac and learn more about the tattoos. Hell, about this entire new world.

"And don't even get me started on his bizarre relationship with alcohol."

"What do you mean?" I asked, though I'd already seen evidence of this. Last night, Sevastyan had consumed a drink, but only after abstaining from it again and again.

"Just watch him tonight. You'll see. But enough about him. Look, if you need anything, you come to me." Filip patted my hand on his arm. "You're Kovalev's daughter, and I owe that man my life."

"You do?"

He nodded. "I was in a bad place six months ago when my dad died suddenly. Kovalev gave me a lifeline."

"I'm sorry for your loss, and I really appreciate your offer."

I heard laughter and voices drifting from the room at the end of the foyer. I was eager to join the others, but just outside the doors, Filip stopped me.

"I'm so glad you're here, Natalie. It's nice to have someone else around who's Westernized. And who doesn't hold it against me that I've never been to prison!" He laid his hands on my shoulders and smiled down at me, a move that would make most women proffer their panties. "Kovalev has to go into the city tomorrow afternoon. Let me show you around the place--"

Before I could pull away, the doors opened, revealing the Siberian on the other side. My heart leapt--had he been coming for me?

He stopped in his tracks, expression growing lethal. What'd I do now? Then I realized it looked like Filip and I had been about to . . . kiss. I swung my head around to take in the immense dining room and the other guests already inside. About thirty brigadiers.

And all their eyes were on Filip and me, every conversation stalled.

I guessed it was pretty bad when dozens of Russian gangsters got scandalized by one's behavior. But I hadn't done anything.

At least, not with Filip.

When Sevastyan's fists balled, I marched away from both men. Squaring my shoulders, chin lifted, I made my way to Kovalev, my heels sounding abnormally loud in the silent hall.

He was standing at the head of a lengthy table that was covered with dazzling candles, china, and silver. He glanced uncertainly from me to Filip, so I gave him a ready smile. "This is incredible, Paxan. Thank you." My guiltless demeanor seemed to defuse the situation; conversations resumed.

When Kovalev pulled out the chair to his right for me, he said under his breath, "Anything amiss?"

I murmured back, "Not at all."

Filip followed, taking a seat beside me. With a laugh, he muttered, "That was awkward, huh?"

When Sevastyan returned to the table and took the seat opposite me, his face was his usual unreadable mask, but that muscle in his jaw was twitching.

Kovalev introduced me to the rest of our dinner companions, more than two dozen men in their twenties and thirties--Yuri, Boris, Kirill, Gleb, then I started losing track. They were a rough-looking lot, but they all appeared to hero-worship Kovalev. Only two other women were seated, Olga and Inya, long-term girlfriends of a couple of the brigadiers.

After introductions, what seemed like an army of servers began conveying platters, while others poured vodka into glittering crystal shot glasses. Though I wasn't used to being on this end of service, I forced myself to relax.

"A toast," Kovalev called, drink in hand. "To my lovely daughter. Who found me against all odds, who toiled and fought to get what she wanted."

Filip called, "The apple didn't fall far from the tree."

When the dinner guests raised their glasses, I did the same, then brought it to my lips to sip--

Everyone shot theirs, then turned to me. I recalled it was considered rude to put a glass with alcohol back on the table. With a shrug, I downed mine too, and cheers broke out. I couldn't help but grin, glancing at Sevastyan, who simply stared at me.

I could've sworn he'd been jealous of Filip earlier, but if he gave a damn, then why hadn't he bothered to come get me from my room in the first place?

In any case, I refused to let him ruin this for me. Here I was at an authentic Russian banquet, drinking vodka with my father's extended . . . clan. I was in the land of my birth, ensconced in a former tsar's home.

I gazed up, marveling at the frescoes above us. This absolutely looked like the dining room of a tsar. I realized I'd never felt history like this. Which took some of the sting out of my involuntary withdrawal from school.

Tonight, my good mood was bulletproof.

Another toast followed: "Za vas, Natalya Kovaleva!" To you. This time I got my shot down in time with the table. I savored the burn, pleasantly warmed.

When a zakuska--a spread of miscellaneous appetizers--was served, Filip leaned over. "This is called a za-kus-ka."

Sevastyan said, "Natalie studied Russian--I'm sure she knows what it is."

I cast him a quick look of appreciation. Having every dish explained to me would've gotten old.

Filip's affable mien never faded, even as he said, "It's merely etiquette, Sevastyan. To be welcoming to a guest--escorting her from her room and such."

Thanks for reminding me.

The two men stared each other down. The tense moment was broken by another serving: oysters topped with plentiful caviar from the Volga Delta. Then a fish course followed.

I took a bite of heavenly baked sole, making a sound of delight; Sevastyan's eyes were on me.

I shot another vodka; his eyes were on me.

I listened to a story Filip seemed determine to whisper to me; Sevastyan clenched a fist beside his plate. He could assure me that there was no us all he wanted to, but . . .

Actions speak louder than words, Siberian. And his focus on me was warming me as much as the vodka.

When servers brought yet another dish, Kovalev announced, "In honor of Natalie's home of Nebraska."

It was corn souffle! I grinned at him. "I love it." I was beginning to sound crazy tipsy.

Then I felt Sevastyan's dark gaze on me yet again. Was he remembering the cornfield? Pinning me in the dirt? Meeting his eyes, I downed another shot.

Kovalev turned to Sevastyan. "You're not eating, Aleksandr?"

He straightened. "Perhaps I'm feeling the trip."

&

nbsp; Filip quipped, "Or your age."

With his quiet intensity, Sevastyan said, "I hold my own."

In a merry tone, Kovalev said, "There now, lads." He turned to me. "I think our clever Filip sometimes forgets the Siberian was a bare-knuckle prizefighter for many years."

I raised my brows. When I'd first seen Sevastyan, I'd guessed he was a fighter. That would explain the scars on his fingers, his broken nose. I recalled the many times I'd seen Sevastyan ball his fists. For a fighter, that must be the default factory setting.

When I thought of all the men who'd struck that noble face of his, I wanted to touch him, to smooth my fingers over his skin. I was trying to imagine him in the ring, dealing pain, when another course appeared.

Dessert. There were baked apples, fruit pastels--a kind of Russian Turkish delight--and sirniki, a cheese pancake with a side of honey for dipping. As soon as my first pastel touched my tongue, I rolled my eyes with bliss.

After dessert, drinks reigned and laughter grew boisterous. It was bad etiquette not to finish an opened bottle of vodka, so everyone politely pounded shot after shot--well, everyone except for Sevastyan. After the toasts, his glass went untouched.

Paxan recounted hilarious tales of his attempts at leisure. Sailing? The boat was now an artificial reef. Breeding horses? He'd find that wily escaped stallion one of these days.

I laughed until my eyes watered, admitting that I'd thought he would have white tigers and a bear--and a diamond-encrusted toilet, which made Kovalev double over.

The guy named Gleb taught me a Russian tongue twister. Everyone laughed at my buzzed rendition, but I was a good goddamned sport, so I feigned a quick curtsy. I saw that even Sevastyan's customary scowl had changed to a look of something like fascination, as if I were a creature he'd never seen in the wild before.

Every time I grew convinced I couldn't break through his icy reserve again, he'd show hints of the man beneath the enforcer facade. . . .

I wished I could freeze time--couldn't remember when I'd last had such a fun night--but before I knew it, a grandfather clock struck midnight.

Paxan stood. "Well, my friends and family"--he smiled at me and Sevastyan--"you'll have to excuse me."

A chorus of "One more drink!" rang out.

He shook his head. "Take pity on an old man! And continue--that's an order." Sevastyan and I rose at the same time, both intending to walk Paxan out.


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