Bingo. He could see that Demidov was finally inclined to believe him.
The tight grip in his hair loosened, turning into a gentle caress again. Luke wasn’t sure which was actually worse.
“So you’re here only because you’re a stupid, reckless child,” Roman said, his tone mild.
Inwardly, Luke imagined punching him in the nose with great relish and in great detail. Outwardly, he caught his lip between his teeth and shrugged. “Could you tell me why you kidnapped me?” he asked, trying to ignore the fingers still buried in his hair.
“No,” Demidov said.
“Aren’t you afraid you’ll be the prime suspect in my kidnapping?” Luke said, cocking his head. “There’s the email. There are people who know I went to meet you.” Well, James had seen a photograph of Roman and could likely give his description to the police.
Demidov didn’t look worried in the least. “We had a very public meeting at a very public place, a meeting arranged through official channels.” His voice remained soft, his unnerving, empty eyes fixed on Luke’s curly hair as his fingers ran through it gently. “There are numerous witnesses who saw me leave well before you and get on the flight to Sochi, where I spent the week. The president of Russia himself can confirm my alibi.”
Luke’s eyebrows flew up. Who, exactly, was this man? How could such a relatively young man achieve such power?
Three guesses how, Luke thought, suppressing a shiver. “So are you demanding a ransom from my father?”
Roman gave no response.
“What did my father do to anger you so much?”
No response.
Luke gritted his teeth before remembering himself—remembering his plan. He couldn’t show his anger. He couldn’t throw temper tantrums. He had to be good. He had to somehow soften the guy up.
He had to seduce him if necessary.
Luke felt his cheeks color a little. The task seemed daunting, even impossible. This man couldn’t have gotten to where he was by being susceptible to manipulation. He was dangerous. If he even suspected what Luke was up to…
His stomach twisted into knots.
“At least tell your people to bring me food, please? I feel sick.” Luke looked up at Roman and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. “I’m so hungry.”
Roman’s gaze followed the movement of his tongue. If Luke didn’t feel so shitty, he would have laughed. It looked like Neville, his first boyfriend, had told him the truth for once. The asshole had lied to him for months, hiding that he was married, and when the truth had gotten out—when his wife had turned up at Luke’s flat—Neville actually had the nerve to blame Luke for steering him off the “right path,” claiming that no red-blooded straight man could look at his lips and resist thinking of sticking his dick between them. At the time, Luke had felt so stupid, pathetic, and dirty, but maybe, just maybe, Neville had been right. Maybe.
Luke breathed carefully, painfully aware of Roman’s fingers in his hair, of those cold eyes scrutinizing him. It was impossible to tell what was on the guy’s mind. Although Luke had caught Roman’s gaze lingering on his mouth, his gaydar remained silent. Everything in him screamed to be careful with this man, that a head-on attempt at seduction and manipulation wouldn’t be well-received. He had to keep in mind that the guy, despite his impeccable English, was Russian. While being gay was still far from easy back home, things were much worse in Russia. Although Luke didn’t like to generalize and stereotype, he couldn’t help noticing that anti-gay rhetoric seemed to be ingrained in Russian culture. Every other swear word used by his guards was a homophobic slur, whether it was relevant or not. Luke had never been called a faggot—pidaras—as often as he had been this week, even though he gave the guards no reason to think he was gay. Luke guessed he must be thankful that their homophobic views prevented them from doing anything that would make them faggots, too, but it wasn’t very comforting. He felt ill at ease surrounded by such hostility and disgust toward what he was. If they found out he really was gay, Luke had a sneaking suspicion that it would be a green light for the guards to use him as they pleased: they would rationalize that he was just “asking for it”—and of course using a dirty faggot wouldn’t make them gay.
That was why he had to tread carefully with this man. One wrong move would invite a disaster.
“Please,” Luke said softly. “I’ll be completely cooperative. I’ll do anything you want.” He kept his voice free of innuendo, making sure his expression was earnest. He couldn’t initiate anything—that would be blatantly obvious. His gut told him Roman Demidov belonged to the category of men who got off on power and who liked to see submission, but not necessarily sexual submission. Luke could fake submission. If he could play his cards right, he mightn’t even need to sleep with the guy. The thought of actually having sex with this man, having Roman’s hands on his body while those disconcerting eyes looked down at him, sent a shiver through Luke’s body.