I remembered one time when I’d been written up for public intoxication after a football game; I’d been mentally yelling at myself to sober up, willing myself to recover my wits so I could talk the cop out of the expensive citation. Stop chuckling, Nat, and answer the nice officer! Not OSSIFER, dumbass! Do NOT touch his shiny, shiny badge, do not—DAMN IT, NAT!

I felt like that now: under the influence.

Sevastyan affected me in a way I couldn’t shake. I was experiencing a bewildering attraction to him, some inexplicable connection.

And no matter how bad an idea it was, I kept wanting—metaphorically—to touch his badge.

No, no, no—I needed to concentrate on getting information out of him. “Do you keep your promises, Sevastyan?”

“To you and your father alone.”

“You promised me answers.”

His hands tightened on the wheel, those sexy rings of his digging into the leather. “Once we are on the plane.”

“Why not now? I need to know more about my parents.”

He didn’t deign to respond, just monitored the rearview mirror with that wary alertness.

I remembered his earlier demeanor, checking the street through my bedroom blinds. “What’s up with this paranoia? We’re in Lincoln, Nebraska; the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened here was when this Russian ass**le kidnapped an unwitting co-ed—in her robe.”

The speedometer hit triple digits.

“Are we . . . are we being followed?”

Another glance into the rearview. “Not at present.”

“Which indicates we might have been in the past—or perhaps could be in the future?” This was too bizarre. “Am I in some kind of danger?” Questions about my parents and past faded as dread about my immediate future surfaced.

With reluctance, he said, “Kidnapping for ransom is always a fear.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t buy that. What you just described sounds like a chronic problem, or a theoretical one. Yet you broke into my house and demanded that we leave in five minutes, which sounds like an acute problem. So what happened between the time I saw you in the bar and the time you entered my home?”

Sidelong glance. “I think you have your father’s cunning.”

“Answer me. What happened?”

“Kovalev called and gave me the order to get you on a plane. Which means it’s as good as done.”

A sudden thought struck me. “How long have you been my bodyguard, Sevastyan?”

“Not long,” he hedged.

“How—long?”

He hiked his broad shoulders. “A little over a month.”

And I’d never known. “Have you been following me around? Watching me all this time?”

A muscle ticked in his wide jaw. “I’ve been watching over you.”

Then he would know me better than I could even imagine. So what would a man like him think of me?

When he turned off the highway at an obscure exit, I cried, “Wait! Where are we going? There’s no airport out this way. Not even an executive one.”

“I had to arrange an alternative departure point.”

Alternative? I’d promised myself that if I didn’t like his answers, I’d flee into the arms of a security guard. I’d gotten few answers, and now had serious doubts about running into any guards.

After a few miles, he turned onto a dirt road that bisected a cornfield. We drove and drove until a clearing appeared ahead, what looked like a crop-duster airstrip. At one end, a jet awaited, beacon lights flashing, engines radiating heat in the night air.

To take me to Russia. This was all . . . real.

Sevastyan parked near the jet, but didn’t open his door. “I understand you have questions,” he said in a milder tone. “I’ll answer any I can when we’re in the air. But you must believe me, Natalie, you won’t regret taking this step. You’ll enjoy your new life very much.”

“New life?” I sputtered. “What are you talking about? I happen to enjoy my current life.”

“Do you, pet? You sought him,” Sevastyan said. “Relentlessly. Something was driving you.”

I glanced away, unable to argue with that.

“And now you’ll never have to work again, can buy anything you like. You can travel the world, see all the places on those postcards on your refrigerator.”

My dream. “This is a lot to take in, and I don’t like making big decisions under pressure.”

“Will it suffice for you to know that Kovalev is a good man, and he wants to make up for all the years he’s missed with you?”

“If our situations were reversed, could you take this step?”

He nodded easily. “When I first started working for Kovalev’s organization, I trusted that my life would be better with him in it. I’ve never regretted my decision.” He must’ve seen I was still unconvinced. Exhaling with frustration, he ordered, “Just stay here.”

He climbed out of the car and crossed to the jet with long-legged strides. The pilot—a tall, muscular blond in a uniform—met him at the bottom of the stairs, gesturing and speaking heatedly. I caught the cadences of Russian, but couldn’t make out the words over the humming engines.

Out of habit, I surveyed the man, noting that his well-worn belt was cinched tighter than its regular notch and his shoes were meticulously polished. Recent illness? Lots of downtime? Then I saw his hands, saw the same kinds of tattoos that marked Sevastyan’s fingers.