His father dead by his own hand ... Like Mama ...

"Sir, I..." she began, then stopped. What could she say? She had nothing to add and certainly didn't want to get into comparing their losses. From the sounds of it his father had been weak like her mother, and there was nothing Katya could say to that.

Yet she was aware of a dull, sympathetic anger inside her.

He was betrayed too....

"You don't know what to say?" Alex finished for her. "Well, you don't have to say anything. And you don't have to be sorry. My father's life was complicated and..." Another hesitation. "I guess you could say he chose the easy way out. Anyway, that's got nothing to do with what's going on with this poker game." The words were level, but she could hear the undercurrent of anger beneath them. It was obvious Alex's father's death had hurt him.

Like your mother's death hurt you.

Katya's jaw firmed. No. She was not hurt and she did not grieve. Not anymore. "I understand," she said.

"I don't think you do. But it doesn't matter. My father's long gone and I barely knew my stepfather. In fact, I haven't seen my family for nineteen years."

"I haven't seen mine for five." The words came out before she could stop them, and the look on his face sharpened.

"Why not?" he asked.

She wasn't prepared for the shift in focus, though she should have expected it. But it was too late to avoid the question now, especially when he got that searching look in his eyes. Except ... it didn't look like he was hunting for a weakness this time, only being curious.

"My father is a soldier and a government man," she said, reluctant. "And he refused to help me find Mikhail, even when I begged him to. He told me that the needs of our country outweighed the life of one man and I should forget him."

She still remembered the iron in her father's voice, the stony expression in his brown eyes.

He'd always taught her that loyalty was more important than anything else. More important than love or hate. Yet he'd been prepared to put politics ahead of the lives of his countrymen, his ambition ahead of loyalty. That knowledge had been the first crack in the bedrock of her unthinking obedience to him.

"Outweighed the needs of his daughter too," Alex said quietly. And it wasn't a question.

Katya ignored the unease that bit deep at the softly worded statement. "No, my needs were not relevant. He was supposed to be loyal to his fellow soldiers. And he wasn't. He put his own political ambitions ahead of lives."

"Is that why you left Russia?"

The dull anger in her chest sharpened. "Yes. If he wasn't going to help Mikhail, I would find someone who would."

"And Mikhail is that important to you?"

"Loyalty is important to me. But what has this got to do with the poker game?" The change of topic was graceless, but she didn't care. Exchanging the truths of their lives with Alex was even more uncomfortable than the games he played with her.

If he was disappointed with her change of subject, he gave no sign. "Tremainthat's my stepfathershoved a pair of silver dice into Gabe's hand after he got shot."

"Silver dice?" She stopped. "Oh, the ones on your table?"

"Yes."

She studied his face. There was no expression at all on it. "What is their significance?"

"The Apocalypse game is by invitation only. And those dice are the invitation."

"And why is this game important? What do you hope to find?"

"Conrad South is one of my father's old college buddies. He has links to the casino my father used to own. Links with my stepfather. Something's going on with them and whatever it is has hurt my friends." He paused. "Has hurt my sister."

The woman Gabriel Woolf was involved with. The woman Alex hadn't seen in nineteen years if what he'd said was true. "But I thought you didn't..." Katya stopped, knowing what she was about to say was harsh.

His expression was impenetrable. "I didn't what? Say it, Katya."

"Forgive me, but why should you care? I thought you didn't have any loyalties to anyone."

Unexpectedly he looked away. "Yeah, well, I thought I didn't either. Turns out I do after all." He let out a breath. "But don't worry. Playing in Conrad's fucking game is for my own selfish needs too. I wouldn't want you to start thinking I actually gave a shit."

She frowned at him. That was a lie; she was sure of it. "And what are your needs?"

"That's my business." There was no room for argument in his voice. "All you need to know is that Conrad probably isn't after my blood, so I doubt that woman was going to kill me. I suspect what she wanted was information."

Katya didn't argue. The conversation she'd overheard the woman having in the ladies' room had been enough to prompt Katya into action to protect her employer. But the woman herself hadn't seemed dangerous. Then again, sometimes it paid to be over-cautious, especially if you were unsure of the situation. "So if Mr. South isn't after your blood, why do you need me?"

"Because someone connected to him might be. Especially when I turn up at this game and they figure I'm after some answers. They took a gun to my stepfather in order to protect their secrets; I don't imagine they'll think twice about doing the same to me."

She turned the information over in her head. It all seemed very vague. "And what answers do you hope to find at this poker game? You didn't answer me."

Alex lifted one shoulder in a simple, elegant movement. "That's because I don't know yet. We have this reception in two days to meet the other players. Perhaps we'll find out more then. At the very least we'll find out what kind of situation we're walking into."

"We, sir?"

His gaze settled on her. "Yes. We. You'll be attending."

Someone fumbled with the door handle to the office all of a sudden and Alex tensed. "Come here, Katya," he ordered curtly.

She was already moving, responding to the order automatically, coming over to where he stood near the desk.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But there's only one reason I bring a woman into this office and it isn't to talk."

Before she could respond, he reached for her, jerking the hem of her dress up to her hips. Then he gripped her, turning her so the edge of the desk pressed against her thighs, and pushed her down over it, pulling her leg up around his lean waist.

She had no time to prepare. No time to protest. One moment they were talking about the poker game; the next she was on her back over the desk, the wool of his tuxedo pants brushing against her inner thighs, his arms braced on either side of her head, his eyes dark as he looked down at her.

The door opened, the sounds of the party going on outside rushing in. And then a startled, "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. St. James, I-"

"Fuck's sake, Marc," Alex said. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"Yes, of course," came the other man's voice. Then the sound of the door shutting, the noise of the party once again muted.

Alex didn't move. Staying exactly where he was, his hips pressing between her thighs, his hands braced beside her head, staring down at her, a strangely intense expression on his face.

And for some reason she didn't move either. Because it felt like she was drowning in a flood of sensation. The press of his body between her legs. The brush of the prickly wool of his pants. The hard wood of the desktop beneath her. And heat. So much heat.

Her breath was starting to get short, coming faster, her mouth drying, her heartbeat accelerating wildly. And she was beginning to ache. Down between her thighs, in her sex. A pressure slowly building. It was ... God ... unfamiliar, overwhelming. Too much.

All she needed to do would be to lift her hips, flex them a little, and that would bring her into contact with his zipper. She could press herself against him, relieve that ache.

His breath caught as if he'd read her exact thought, his gaze shadowed as he looked down into her eyes.

The tension between them became dense, like they were fathoms deep underwater.

She didn't speak and neither did he. They stared at each other.

He was getting hard; she could feel it, the heat of him like a furnace she wanted to get closer to. Burn herself on. And God, she wanted to move. Tilt her hips just so and her clitoris would be pressing against all that hardness. All that heat.

Her thighs began to tremble, her breathing coming faster, sharper.

Get up. Move away. Stop this now before it's too late.

But she didn't do any of those things. She lay still instead, caught on the edge of something intense. Something that would change her if she moved, if she did what her body was desperately urging her to do.

She couldn't do that, though, couldn't cross that line. And yet ... she couldn't move away either. Because this feeling, this exquisite, unbearable ache, was unlike anything she'd ever experienced and she just couldn't bring herself to end it.

He knows you want him now.

Of course he knew. Perhaps he'd even known before this. It didn't matter now, though, because now there was no hiding it. The fact that she hadn't protested or made a move to stop him had announced it as clearly as if she'd said it out loud.

But she wasn't alone. He felt it too.

His eyes glittered a deep, intense blue, red staining his perfect cheekbones, and he was looking at her like a starving wolf looks at prey. Hungry. Almost ... desperate.

She'd never seen him look at any woman that way before.

And still he didn't move. As if he couldn't bear to tear himself away from her and the heat that was building between them.

This was power. This was strength. She could feel it inside her, growing. And she knew that if she wanted to take it, she could have it. And that she could use it over him.

"Alexei..." His name in Russian, half a prayer, half a plea.

Abruptly he cursed, a vicious sound in the silence of the room, and shoved himself away from her, taking a few steps, then turning so his back was to her. The tension poured off him in waves, his shoulders tight. "I'm sorry," he said in a rough voice that didn't sound like his. "I'm sorry about what happened up in the bedroom. And I'm sorry about now."

Katya pushed herself up on the desk, her arms trembling, her thighs aching. Dizzy at the sudden break in the atmosphere. "I don't-" she began thickly.

"You go up to bed if you want," he interrupted, his hands moving as he adjusted himself. God, he had been hard for her. "I'm going to stay down here for the party. Don't wait up for me."

Then he strode to the door, pulled it open, and went out.

She sat on the desk after he'd gone, waiting until the weakness in her arms, in her legs, had faded. Until the painful ache between her thighs had subsided and her breathing had normalized. It took a lot longer than she'd expected.

Afterwards she let herself out of the office and back into the club.

It was noisy and even more packed than it had been before. And she knew she should stay, that it was her job to do so. But for the first time in two years, she couldn't face being with her client. Sitting in close proximity to him for another few hours, her body gripped by this strange hunger.

It was better to put some distance between them. Give her some time to remember her place. Remember who she was and what she was supposed to be doing.

Being his bodyguard, not his lover.

No matter how much the thought of that intrigues you.

Katya did not let herself think about that. Instead she threaded her way through the crowd and out of the packed bar, returning to Alex's private apartment.

She made herself up a bed on the long black velvet couch in the lounge area, changing out of her green dress and into a tank top and shorts to sleep in.

But even after she'd turned the lights off and settled down to sleep, she couldn't seem to relax.

Because regardless of how many times she told herself she wasn't interested, that her job was more important, that he was a client, her body had woken up and it was hungry.

It wanted Alex.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The Four Horsemen was in an old, historic building near Monte Carlo's famous casino. There was a piazza out front full of expensive sports cars, glossy limousines, and parking valets ready to do their jobs.

The car Marc had organized for them drew up to the wide, sweeping steps of the building. On the lintel overhead, the stone figures of War, Pestilence, Famine, and Death rode into battle, swords held aloft.

Alex didn't look up, but he felt like one of them all the same. Except he didn't have a sword. Or a horse. His only armor his confidence. His success. And the strength he made sure he projected.

It was all a sham, every single iota of it. But that had never stopped him before and it didn't stop him now.

He hadn't seen Conrad South in nineteen years, yet Alex wasn't sixteen anymore. The kid who'd been brought into the casino by his father to watch for card counters had been fourteen, in his first year at high school, his head full of the bright future that lay ahead of him. Whether to be a lawyer like his dad or to follow his true passion and study math.

And then his father had told him about his other life. About a mysterious place where people played games of chance, where fortunes were lost and won. Where people cheated and where Alex's brilliant memory and affinity with numbers were needed to stop it.

He'd been so thrilled to be asked. To be trusted with his father's big secret. To be drawn into this fascinating other world. It had been like being sworn into a special club, and Alex would have done anything to stay a part of it. To prove to his dad that the trust he'd given his son wasn't misplaced.

And as it turned out, you did do anything.

Yeah, he had, his body payment for the debts his father had incurred while running his fabulous casino. Debts Conrad had paid out of his own money and subsequently demanded recompense for.

"Your father won't know," Conrad had whispered to Alex in that cold, echoing bathroom. "It'll be our little secret. You're doing a good thing, son. You're helping him. Remember that."

Oh, Alex had remembered it all right. That had been what he'd clung to in the aftermath.

Until his father had killed himself and Alex had had nothing to cling to anymore.

But no, he wasn't thinking about that now. Those minutes in the men's bathrooms of the Lucky Seven casino were only a dim memory. A memory that had no meaning. That didn't touch him.

The car door slammed and he turned on the step, his breath fogging in the cold night air. Katya was coming toward him, a shimmering vision in the golden gown he'd insisted she wear tonight.