vocal experts in Moscow years ago, to lose his accent. He knew it wasn’t perfect, but he had assumed in the years since he’d been living here that it was almost undetectable. How had she picked up on it? “Yes, I am,” he said, doing his best to stretch the vowels out and keep his voice even.
What was he going to do with her? Even if she wasn’t sent to kill him, he couldn't have her running back to her group and tell them all that Jarrod Jacobs was a Russian. The thing was that he didn’t fully believe her story; he couldn’t believe her story. If he believed her, then he was going to torture and potentially kill an innocent girl. Although women were regarded as property in the Solntsevskaya Bratva, he had only killed those who deserved it.
If he was being honest with himself, he killed men and women differently for a reason. There was a distinction between him using his knife on men and thrott ling women with his bare hands.
And if he was being completely honest, he had to admit that there was a definite thrill to be gained from holding a woman’s throat in his hand and crushing the life from her body.
But to kill a girl who’s only crime had been coming to the wrong apartment at the wrong time? Even he couldn’t convince himself it was a good idea. He would have to interrogate her to be absolutely certain that she was who she claimed, but he couldn’t make the decision to end her life until he got to that point.
As he stood above her pondering the chance that he might spare her, she breathed in and said, “Mister Jacobs? Are you still here?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“You’re not really from here, are you?”
“No, I am not.”
“You’re not going to let me go, are you?” she continued. Her voice trembled with pent up emotion.
“No, I cannot,” he replied and turned to leave the room. He heard a small noise, an echo of a sob and turned back. She had her face away from him, but the quiver in her limbs betrayed her emotion. She was doing her best not to cry. Dimitri did not want to let her tears influence his choice regarding her fate, he despised women who cried, so he simply left the room and clicked the lock shut.
On the other side he turned back again and leaned his forehead against the carved wood. He heard her sobs from the other side and felt his chest tighten in response. Deep in his gut he was responding to this girl on a level he didn’t recognize and it made him feel unstable and a bit out of control.
Unable to process his confusion, he straightened his back and rapidly walked down the hall to his office to check for further information regarding the concierge’s travel plans. If only his friend was here, this wouldn’t be an issue. Captivity had turned Dimitri’s mind to mush and he no longer had the skills he had once possessed, the ability to discern danger and the decisiveness to carry out what needed to be done without hesitation.
Chapter Eight – Columbia
Her throat hurt and her arms were sore. These were the first thoughts surfacing as Columbia regained consciousness. The last thing she remembered was kissing Stuart in his truck, so why did she hurt? Had Debbie caught them and dragged her from the cab of the truck to kick her ass?
It came back to her in a slow drip of information. The stupid plan to confront Jarrod Jacobs, the stupid need to impress Stuart, Stuart touching her arm and recoiling...and being attacked from behind in the kitchen of the multimillion-dollar penthouse she’d snuck into.
She opened her eyes but only the smallest sliver of faint light appeared at the bottom of her vision. She was blindfolded, and she was tied down. She felt a surge of panic flood through her body but controlled the desire to twist and scream against her captivity.
She tested her bonds, stretched against her bound wrists and determined she was tied at the feet as well. She listened and thought she must be alone, but where? How had she moved from the kitchen to wherever
What was he going to do with her? Even if she wasn’t sent to kill him, he couldn't have her running back to her group and tell them all that Jarrod Jacobs was a Russian. The thing was that he didn’t fully believe her story; he couldn’t believe her story. If he believed her, then he was going to torture and potentially kill an innocent girl. Although women were regarded as property in the Solntsevskaya Bratva, he had only killed those who deserved it.
If he was being honest with himself, he killed men and women differently for a reason. There was a distinction between him using his knife on men and thrott ling women with his bare hands.
And if he was being completely honest, he had to admit that there was a definite thrill to be gained from holding a woman’s throat in his hand and crushing the life from her body.
But to kill a girl who’s only crime had been coming to the wrong apartment at the wrong time? Even he couldn’t convince himself it was a good idea. He would have to interrogate her to be absolutely certain that she was who she claimed, but he couldn’t make the decision to end her life until he got to that point.
As he stood above her pondering the chance that he might spare her, she breathed in and said, “Mister Jacobs? Are you still here?”
“Yes,” he replied.
“You’re not really from here, are you?”
“No, I am not.”
“You’re not going to let me go, are you?” she continued. Her voice trembled with pent up emotion.
“No, I cannot,” he replied and turned to leave the room. He heard a small noise, an echo of a sob and turned back. She had her face away from him, but the quiver in her limbs betrayed her emotion. She was doing her best not to cry. Dimitri did not want to let her tears influence his choice regarding her fate, he despised women who cried, so he simply left the room and clicked the lock shut.
On the other side he turned back again and leaned his forehead against the carved wood. He heard her sobs from the other side and felt his chest tighten in response. Deep in his gut he was responding to this girl on a level he didn’t recognize and it made him feel unstable and a bit out of control.
Unable to process his confusion, he straightened his back and rapidly walked down the hall to his office to check for further information regarding the concierge’s travel plans. If only his friend was here, this wouldn’t be an issue. Captivity had turned Dimitri’s mind to mush and he no longer had the skills he had once possessed, the ability to discern danger and the decisiveness to carry out what needed to be done without hesitation.
Chapter Eight – Columbia
Her throat hurt and her arms were sore. These were the first thoughts surfacing as Columbia regained consciousness. The last thing she remembered was kissing Stuart in his truck, so why did she hurt? Had Debbie caught them and dragged her from the cab of the truck to kick her ass?
It came back to her in a slow drip of information. The stupid plan to confront Jarrod Jacobs, the stupid need to impress Stuart, Stuart touching her arm and recoiling...and being attacked from behind in the kitchen of the multimillion-dollar penthouse she’d snuck into.
She opened her eyes but only the smallest sliver of faint light appeared at the bottom of her vision. She was blindfolded, and she was tied down. She felt a surge of panic flood through her body but controlled the desire to twist and scream against her captivity.
She tested her bonds, stretched against her bound wrists and determined she was tied at the feet as well. She listened and thought she must be alone, but where? How had she moved from the kitchen to wherever
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