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

“Amazing,” 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 heels, a pencil skirt, and a fitted blouse of deep purple silk.

For the last five days, we’d driven ever southward toward Paris, giving me a passenger-side view of southern Russia, Poland, Germany, and northern France.

At night, we’d stayed in lavish hotels and made love for half of the hours we’d allotted for sleep. Though he’d taken me again and again, he always treated me like porcelain.

Over these days, I’d seen more of his fascinating contradictions. He knew wines, spoiling me with rare vintages, but didn’t drink with me. When we dined in fine restaurants, he was such a gentleman, his table manners impeccable—yet I knew he was always carrying a very ungentlemanly pistol in a holster.

In addition to Russian, English, and Italian, he spoke fluent French and had a good grasp of German—but I could barely get him to communicate with me about anything meaningful.

He refused to open up. With every mile we’d put between us and Russia, distance had accumulated between Sevastyan and myself. I was beginning to see that Paxán was right: something was broken inside Sevastyan.

The grief we shared hadn’t brought us closer; in fact, we’d avoided all mention of Paxán and Berezka. . . .

When he stepped through the balcony doors, I accepted the wine, asking, “Is this place really yours?”

“I bought it from a Saudi prince.” That would explain the heavy security, the private entrance. A guard and servants were already installed here.

“Sounds expensive.”

A hint of amusement. “I have money of my own, milaya.” Our first day on the road, he’d told me that when things settled down, we would need to discuss my inheritance, but I was in absolutely no hurry. Since then, we hadn’t talked about expenses or money until now.

He joined me at the railing, the situation reminding me of the first time I’d looked out from my balcony at Berezka. Except that now, Sevastyan wasn’t physically standoffish. He pulled me in front of him, my back to his front, and wrapped his warm arms around me. Resting his chin on my head, he locked me tight against his torso.

“When did you buy it?” I asked.

“Not long ago.”

Another vague answer to put with the rest of them. I bit my tongue. Sometimes I bit it so hard it bled.

Since that night on the boat, there’d been no progression of emotions—or intimacy.

He’d claimed me again and again, praising me, bringing me untold pleasure. After each time, he’d let me explore his body as intently as he’d explored mine. Nights of breathless discovery. I would drift off to sleep with my hands still caressing him.

But he never took me as he so clearly needed to. I’d find his gaze on my wrists—because he needed them bound. He’d nuzzle my ni**les, suckling them, but never grazing them with his teeth or pinching them up to the point of pain.

Yesterday, at a gas station in Germany, he’d been on the phone—again—so I’d wandered inside and made a purchase: a hard-core bondage magazine (it was just sitting in a rack of mags next to the motor oil!).

Once we’d gotten under way, he’d absently asked, “What do you have there?”

So I’d turned to a page I’d dog-eared while waiting for him, holding up one of the many pictures that had piqued my interest: a naked woman bound by her wrists and ankles to what looked like a padded sawhorse.

She’d worn these really cool nipple clamps; they’d looked like someone had placed one conductor’s wand above the peaks, then another below, tightening the slim bars together with screws on the ends. Recalling how hard Sevastyan had pinched my ni**les in the banya—and how I’d loved it—I wanted to be clamped like that. At the mere thought, my ni**les had stiffened.

Once Sevastyan had registered what he was seeing, his pupils had dilated, his knuckles gone white on the steering wheel. Voice hoarse, he’d asked, “Is that what you think you want?”

I’d nodded. “You have a lot of experience with scenes like this, right?”

“Enough for both of us, so that we never have to descend to that level again.”

Descend? “You should know—since apparently you’re the only man I’ll ever sleep with—that I want to try just about everything once. My curiosity demands it.”