Page 21 of Seduction (Wicked Vows)

My cheeks heat with a sudden realization of what he’s implying. “Do you think just because I’ve lived a sheltered life that I’m going to fall for the first hot guy I see as soon as I leave my parents’ home?”

His brows snap together. “Nyet.” It seems even when he’s trying to speak English, his Russian still makes an appearance. “I did not think that about you.”

Oh dear God. The memory of what I said earlier comes back in a rush…how he could take what I’ve said. I spoke too freely. Divulged too much.

I told him I don’t wear clothes to bed.

I told him he looked like Jason Bourne.

I should have kept my damn mouth shut.

Also? Who the hell am I kidding? He’s not just the first hot guy I’ve met, but he is sexy as hell and exudes every vibe of the dominant nature that makes me crazy. He’s the hero of a romance novel in real life, the classic Byronic hero.

If I’m Jane Eyre. . . he’s my Mr. Rochester.

I can’t think like that. I won’t allow myself.

But I have to admit I love hearing him speak.

I cannot allow myself to have a crush on this guy. He works for my father, and anybody who works for my father must be a dick.

Though he’s giving me an earnest look, the sharp cut of his jaw and the deep timbre of his voice remind me that he is no boy. “It is my job to protect you. You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman. But you’re my boss’s daughter. If I so much as touched you, he would kill me.” His eyes, a striking shade of steel blue, hold mine with an intensity that underscores his solemn vow.

He continues speaking, outlining the boundaries he must never cross, the lines drawn so rigidly by duty and honor. Yet, I’m still caught up in his earlier words—beautiful, intelligent woman. He said it with such natural conviction, as if stating something as undebatable as the sky being blue. No underlying charm, no playful smirk to soften the edges of his professionalism. Just plain fact.

Blood thunders in my ears, a relentless drum that makes it difficult to focus on anything but the man in front of me. His presence is commanding, his commitment palpable, and it sends a flurry of butterflies through my stomach. I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice, to appear as unaffected as he is disciplined. But it’s a formidable challenge, when every fiber of my being reacts to the proximity of him—this man who might see me as more than a duty…

He glances at his phone, the light casting a glow on his steely features. “I’m sorry we started off this way. It’s time that I told you the truth. I speak English as well as anybody here. Maybe then I can… communicate more effectively with the American.” The way he says communicate more effectively sends chills down my spine. The underlying threat in his tone is unmistakable.

I swallow hard. “Markov, you need to leave him alone. He’s in the program with me.”

The flash of his eyes is almost predatory and makes my heart quicken with a mix of fear and anticipation.

“He’s hot for you, and he’s a dick. I’ll take care of it. Now get up and ready so we’re not late.”

I shake my head in disbelief, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and alarm, when I glance at the time. “Oh my God! We have to be there in ten minutes!”

“Do you need more time than that?” His question comes casually, as if our earlier exchange hasn’t altered the dynamics of our relationship. It’s so strange that all of a sudden he’s speaking English. I can hardly wrap my brain around the sudden shift. Part of me is relieved-- now, I actually have an ally here, one I can communicate with.

But can I trust him? Doubt gnaws at me, unsettling my thoughts. There I go again, thinking like we’re in a romance novel.

We have no relationship beyond the professional. There is no foundation of trust or affection. He works for my father and is my bodyguard. Period. End of story.

But is anything really that simple?

“Okay, listen. I can get ready in ten minutes, but for future reference, I typically need a little more than that.” I gesture in my hair. “My hair alone can take ten minutes. “

“Why?” He looks genuinely confounded.

“It goes all frizzy when I sleep. I can’t walk out in public like this.”

He shakes his head. Even though he speaks English, it still feels like he has a language barrier.

“You could braid it? I’ve heard my sister say that helps.” He averts his eyes for a moment as if he shouldn’t have said that. Huh.

“Well, I don’t know how to braid it. Not on myself anyway. And that would make me look so young. I’m already basically the youngest one in the program. . .”

Markov scowls. “We have no time to argue details. Look, I can braid it for you. And you don’t look young. You come off too collected and mature to look like a child. That American, though, he looks like a child. Do you have a hair tie?”

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