Finally, I can make out his features. Time stops. My heart skips a beat. Deep in my core, a clenching sensation reminds me that not only does my pussy love a handsome bad boy, she also really needs a toilet.
“Mmph,” I mumble. Even with the tape loose on one side, I still can’t speak. I glare daggers at my captor, wondering what in the hell a man who looks likethatis doing kidnapping a woman like me. Any woman, for that matter.
Dark hair and brooding blue eyes beneath a fringe of lashes that don’t belong on a man. A sharp nose and high cheekbones like a model’s, but he’s clearly no model. Not with that physique. Tattoos cover the backs of his hands and creep down the sides of his neck into his black shirt collar. One of his earlobes is adorned with an ebony earring.
Under different circumstances, I’d be very interested in striking up a conversation with this man—like, if he hadn’t kidnapped me. Right. He thinks I’m someone else. A Russian actress living in a swanky part of Los Angeles.
“I’m going to help you out of the trunk now. Are you going to fight me?” he says.
I shake my head. I want nothing so much as to get out of this fucking trunk. I’m embarrassed at the way I’m shaking, at how one strap of the red gown has slipped down over my shoulder, threatening to expose my entire boob. With a pang of regret, I loosen my grip on the shiny patent leather heel. Strong arms scoop me up. I have the oddest impression of safety, when clearly, I am very much in danger.
“Good. If you try to fight me, run away, or scream, you will not like what happens next. Understand?” He sets me on my feet and displays a gun hidden beneath his jacket.
Stunned, I can only stare at the weapon. Then drag my gaze up to his unfairly handsome face. He reaches over and snatches the tape off my face with stinging force. I flinch. The instant my lips are free, I snap, “My name isn’t Alisa, and I really need to pee.”
My captor’s dark lashes flare wide with surprise.
3
NIKOLAI
Blyat. Fucking hell.Da tvoyu zh mat.There aren’t enough curse words in any language to describe the feeling of such a monumental fuck-up.
I stole the wrong woman.
Alissa Morozov is still out there. For all I know, she did get on that plane and is already in Vegas walking down the aisle with Maxim. Cold sickness pools in my gut. I screwed up. Monumentally.
You’re always the screw-up, the black sheep of the family.I stare at the furious stranger in the wrinkled red silk gown, her brown curls a tangled mess, the side of her face chafed from being pressed against the rough lining of the car’s trunk. Barefoot. Her shoes—Alisa’s, I guess—lie helter skelter.
I spike my hand through my hair and glance around the gas station that looks like it was abandoned thirty years ago. Only the lone car filling up at the pump marked CASH ONLY indicates it’s open.
“Well? Are you going to let me go?”she says.
There’s still a way to salvage this. I have to force her to marry me. A stranger. I can win. I can prove that I’m not the incompetent loser my brothers think I am. But only if this justifiably angry woman goes along with my insane plan.
“No,” I grit out.
“What, I’m supposed to piss myself here in this parking lot?” she demands. “I need a bathroom.”
“Such language.” I whip out a switchblade and flick it open. Her eyes widen. “Turn around.”
“I won’t scream. Promise,” she says.
“Good, because if you do I’ll cut your throat and stick your body back in that trunk. No one will ever find you.” With a few deft movements, I slice through the thick plastic binding her hands together. “Get your shoes.”
She bends over the trunk, giving me a fantastic view of her ass lovingly outlined in red silk. My cock stirs. Yeah—I can work with this. I’m still in the game. I can win control of the Orlov faction, but I’ve got to convince her to marry me and have my heir. Coerced marriages aren’t enforceable, and if Maxim gets wind of a loophole he can exploit, he’ll do it without hesitation.
Once she has the high heels on, I grab her elbow.
“Slow down,” she complains after two steps. “I can’t walk in these things.”
With a grunt of annoyance, I scoop her into my arms. She’s solid and soft. Her breast presses against my chest.
“What are you—?” she barks.
“Carrying you. Obviously. I don’t suppose you have other shoes?”
“I did, back at the Morozov house. You know, where you kidnapped me?”