The Hacker by Renee Rose

6

Natasha

What. The actual. Fuck?

I hear the front door close and then the Land Rover start up. Seriously? Dima’s literally running away right now?

My face burns as I find my way to my feet and rearrange the stupid cocktail dress back down my hips. My ass tingles and smarts from Dima palm, and that part still makes my tummy flip flop with excitement.

I’ve never orgasmed from being fingered before, and that was singularly the most erotic sexual experience I’ve ever had. Not that I have all that much sexual experience—I still live with my mom, after all.

I stand there, stunned, rewinding and reviewing our encounter. He thought it was a mistake.

Why?

What about getting some obviously much-needed sexual relief from me could be a mistake. Unless…

There was someone else.

But how could there be? I’ve never seen him with a woman. He rooms alone in the penthouse suite. Did he leave a woman back in Russia? Maybe he can’t go back because he’s wanted there.

It would explain why he treats me like a wicked temptation—something he wants but can’t have. Someone he borderline-resents for attracting him.

I’m not yours to tempt.

For some reason, the thin gold band he wears on his pinky finger floats up in my mind, and my stomach twists. Call it women’s intuition. A gut instinct—whatever.

I suddenly know that it was given to him by her. Whomever she is.

And I hate her for being the one who holds his heart.

Anger toward Dima bubbles up, and I stomp into the kitchen to clean up the pancakes. I throw the ones I’d saved for Dima into the trash. He can damn well fend for himself. Going into an angry cleaning frenzy, I scrub the kitchen until it’s spotless, not that it wasn’t clean before I cooked breakfast.

Then I head upstairs and take a shower.

Of course, I still don’t have any clothes to change into, a fact that is really starting to irritate me. Why couldn’t I get stuck in a cabin in a pair of yoga pants and a comfy t-shirt? Why did it have to be a body-hugging cocktail dress that restricts my movements and breathing?

I put the damn thing back on and stomp downstairs. I’m really out of temper now.

I’m usually the pleaser in any group—the one trying to make sure everyone’s comfortable and happy, but after being humiliated by Dima, anger is my go-to. It’s either that or cry, and I’m not going to give him that satisfaction.

I check on Nikolai again. He’d been sleeping when I finished cleaning the kitchen, but he’s awake now.

I bring him a glass of water with a straw and hold it to his mouth, so he can sip.

“Are you hungry at all? The doctor said you could have broth or juice today and soft foods starting tomorrow.”

“Nyet.”

“Okay, tell me when you are. Should I bring a television in here or something?”

“Nah. I’m going to sleep some more. After you tell me what happened.”

“Pardon me?” I pick up the pressure cuff and arrange it around his arm, watching the dial

“What did Dima do?”

I hate that my face gets hot. It’s impossible for a redhead to hide a blush. “Nothing,” I snap, the memory of what we’d done turning my core molten again. I shove the erotic thoughts away and bury them under my anger. “He left. I don’t know where he went.” I write the blood pressure down on the piece of paper the vet gave me then take Nikolai’s temperature.

“Was he a mudak?” Nikolai asks as I beam the scanner at his forehead.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Total dick.” His temperature isn’t elevated, so I don’t write it down. I turn away from Nikolai, fidgeting with the equipment.

I could ask Nikolai about the other woman. About the ring.

“Um… does Dima have a girlfriend?”

“No. Definitely not.”

Huh.I turn. “Why definitely not?”

Nikolai closes his lids, his head falling back on the pillow. “That’s Dima’s story to tell,” he says.

Gah. “So he is unavailable?”

Nikolai’s gaze is musing. “Is that what he told you?”

“More or less.”

Nikolai shakes his head. “Fucker.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” I’m not usually bold or pushy, but I feel like I’m hanging onto my sanity by a string here. I have to fight to regain some equilibrium.

“I guess he thinks he is,” Nikolai mumbles. His lids are drifting closed.

I sigh and watch him as he drifts into sleep. And then I have no idea what to do with myself. I go over to make up the other side of the bed—where Dima slept.

Like an idiot, I lower my face to his pillow and breathe in his clean masculine scent.

Nikolai doesn’t stir. Seeing him there, so pale, his clothes cut away for the surgery, the remaining tatters still a crusty, bloody mess, his hands swollen with fluid retention from the IV, I’m shaken by another wave of guilt. Of fear.

What if Nikolai dies? If I’m responsible for costing Dima the one person he loves most in the world? I hate that I was so gullible. That Alex used me to do this.

I crawl into the bed beside Nikolai and pick up his hand without the IV in it. Using the very light touch used for lymphatic drainage, I start to massage out the fluid, up his arm and in the direction of his heart. It may not be much, but I can do this one thing for him. Maybe it will help.

Dima

When I’m in the Land Rover, I plug Natasha’s dead phone into the charger. I disabled tracking on it back at the vet’s place last night, but I’m pissed at myself for not looking at it sooner. If my head were in the game, I wouldn’t have gone to bed last night without reading every message she has on there and thoroughly investigating every source of information I could get from it.

The trip to the closest store takes twenty-five minutes. It’s a gas station/convenience store for hikers and campers, so it features some random shit like mosquito repellent, hats, and t-shirts. I get milk, eggs, bread, and other basics, then grab a few of the t-shirts. I’m still in my undershirt, which is stained with Nikolai’s blood. When the clerk stares at it, I look down and grimace. “Hunting accident,” I tell him.

When I get back in the vehicle, the phone has charged enough to come on, and I check her calls and texts.

One text from Alex at six this morning, one phone call an hour ago. The text is simple, it just says, Are you all right?

I listen to the voicemail. “Natasha, I need to know if you’re all right. Fuck! Please let me know as soon as possible.”

Mudak. I want to cut off his balls and shove them down his throat.

I text back the single word, yes.

I doubt he’ll be dumb enough to accept that since it could easily—and did—come from someone else, but no response might make the asshole itchier.

Then I realize I might be able to get more out of him, and I add No thanks to you.

I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do about him. About the Feds. Or a better question might be, what they plan to do about us. I had a camera running in that hotel room, so everything was recorded. If Alex claims it was self-defense and Nikolai pulled a gun first, I can prove him wrong.

But my gut says he was as derailed by what happened last night as we were. The kid is young, and he made a split-second decision that ultimately was a bad judgment call. I don’t think he knew what he was doing. I don’t know—there was something sort of off-the-books about the whole thing.

I drive back to the cabin. As I pull up and get out, a sickening thought occurs to me. Natasha could’ve tried to run. She didn’t have a vehicle, but she could’ve been ballsy or desperate enough to try to hike out of here to find another cabin or hitchhike on the main forest road.

I didn’t think about it when I left because it’s fucking Natasha, and she’s blinded me again with my desire for her. I would say it’s not like her to get feisty and run—she accepted Ravil’s edict that she come here to nurse Nikolai with total grace—but if she has, I know whose fault it is.

Mine.

I’m the one who’s been a total bastard to her.

I forget the groceries and sprint for the door, throwing it open and stalking inside. I quickly scan the living room with a sweeping gaze. No sound in the kitchen. I jog to Nikolai’s room, and then I freeze, my heart choking my throat for a different reason.

Natasha is in bed with my twin.

Holding his hand.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

The serenity on her face instantly evaporates, and I hate myself for making her glare. “I’m working this fluid retention out of his arm. What’s your problem?”

I shake my head, backing up. “Nothing,” I mutter. “No problem.”

My chest constricts. She’s working the fluid retention out of his arm. Of course she is. Natasha is a healer—that’s what she does. She’s nothing but kindness and generosity.

I’m the prick who makes her suck my dick and then bails.

But no.

She might not be so innocent. I need to abandon all my own personal opinions of her and dig into data. Data doesn’t lie.

Swallowing hard, I go back out to the Land Rover and bring in the groceries. As I put them away, Natasha comes into the kitchen.

“I can do that,” she says in a low voice.

I turn to look at her but don’t answer. I don’t want to accept her sweetness. On one hand, this is punishment. She’s here to serve, to make up for the incident she played a part in causing. But I can’t stand to receive her help. Because I know if I do, I’ll want more.

So fucking much more.

I’ll want everything.

And I can’t do that.

I continue putting things away, and she joins me without an invitation.

“Nikolai woke up for a little while. He didn’t want any broth or juice.” The vet said Nikolai’s IV has electrolytes and nutrients in it, in addition to his meds, so I’m not worried about him not being hungry.

I still don’t answer. I hate her for trying to make conversation. I hate myself for being such an asshole.

“This shirt is for you. They didn’t have any shorts or pants.” I toss the smallest t-shirt in her direction. “There’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, too. And a comb. Do you use a comb?” Gospodi, why does it feel so intimate to ask her about her hair care? It’s not like we’re moving in together. She’s my fucking prisoner.

She holds up the basic white shirt which has a boat on it and the words, I’d rather be fishing. “Wow. This will look great on me. Thanks,” she quips drily.

I try not to look her way because if I do, I’m going to be examining—for the umpteenth time—how hot she looks in that curve-hugging dress she’s been wearing for the past eighteen hours. The one I peeled up her hips a few hours ago. The one she said she wore for me.

She’s a goddamn torture to me in it. Hopefully the ugly shirt will remedy it.

“Do you still have my phone?”

“Yes.” I don’t look her way. I heat a frying pan to cook a few eggs. I wasn’t hungry this morning, but now I’m even crankier than when I left.

“May I have it?” She walks close to me—way too close—and holds out her hand.

I don’t look her way. “No.” I drop some butter in the pan.

I hear her little intake of breath. The ripple of shock that goes through her. “Why not?” she demands. There’s a note of defensiveness there.

“Because I need to search it. And yes, your date has called and texted to make sure you’re all right.” I crack three eggs and drop them into the butter then salt the hell out of them.

I expect a reaction about the date thing, but I don’t get one. Instead, she puts her hands on her hips and considers me. “When you’re done searching, may I have it?”

I hesitate, then remember my fears of her running. “No.”

She draws in a measured breath like she’s trying to keep her temper. I’ve never seen her mad, and for some reason, the idea gets me hard. What is it that’s hot about an angry woman? Just that flare of passion that men imagine can be changed to sexual charge? Or is the desire to tame her—to take control? To master her and make her beg?

“Why not? Do you think I’d call someone for help? Do you think I’d try to run? Where would I even go? I live in your building—it’s not like I could hide.”

“And your mother is conveniently out of the country at the moment.”

Her gasp of shock couldn’t be faked. But then, I don’t trust my judgement when it comes to her. She pulls a spatula from the drying rack. For one second, I think she plans to use it as a weapon against me, but she angles it toward my eggs and lifts her chin.

Aw fuck. She’s looking out for my eggs, which are getting crispy around the edges. I hate how considerate she is. It makes it so damn hard to fight the part of me that wants all in with her. I flip the eggs and reach for a plate.

“Really, Dima?” The hurt on her face appears genuine as well. “I would think you know me better than that. My mother and I do as Ravil bids. We turned a blind eye when he kept Lucy there against her will. Pretended we didn’t speak English. I gave her massages, and my mother provided her medical care. We treated Oleg’s bullet wound without asking any questions. I would think you would trust us by now.”

“It was my trust in you that got us into this, wasn’t it?”

She turns away. “I didn’t know he was a Fed, and I wasn’t a party to his infiltration plan.” Her voice is quiet but stubborn.

I should tell her I believe her. Because I’m mostly sure I do.

But again, I can’t trust my judgment. I need to look at the data. Follow trails. I need to be sitting behind a screen—the only place I know how to live.

“So I’m a prisoner here.” It’s a statement, not a question.

I walk past her to sit at the long rustic farm table to eat my eggs. “Maybe think of it more as detention. You’re here as a consequence. We’re still examining the finer points of what happened.”

“You do that.” She picks up the t-shirt and toiletries and walks out in her bare feet. “You won’t find anything on me.”

I crane my neck to watch her climb the stairs.

I sure as hell hope she’s right.