Fuck. He really needed vodka.

Alex strode into his apartment, throwing his keys and wallet down onto the couch as he passed it, heading straight for the booze cabinet that held all his favorite and most expensive brands. He pulled out some Grey Goose and splashed it into a shot glass. Knocked it back.

He could feel Katya behind him, a tall, silent presence.

He hadn't wanted to explain the rest of his proposition until they were home, mainly because he was still turning it over in his head himself.

You have to be in on that game. Then you can get that proof.

Another shot. The vodka burning in his throat.

Then you can put a bullet in his head.

How many times had he thought that? How many times had he fantasized about that very thing? About taking a gun and putting it against Conrad's head and blowing him the fuck away. A hundred times. A thousand. A million. Too many times to count.

But Alex hadn't. Because killing the bastard would mean that what he'd done to Alex mattered. And it didn't matter. It had happened so long ago and he was over it. Had buried the memories under so much sex and drugs and money he could barely remember what happened.

So why are you making it matter now?

He wasn't sure. Only that something in Eva's eyes had hit him hard. Woken something up. And he didn't like the feeling in the slightest. As if someone had ripped away the wallpaper over a crack in the plaster, exposing just how deep that crack went.

All the way to his soul.

Why the hell had he decided he'd do this again? He didn't want to join Conrad's fucking game. He didn't want to investigate whatever the hell went on there.

He didn't care about that shit, not anymore.

Yet in the face of the fury he'd seen in Eva's eyes, he found he couldn't say no. He was the gambler after all, so it made sense that he be the one to go. And protesting too much would only make the whole business matter even more.

But that wasn't why he was going. He was going because Eva the recluse, the damaged, who didn't leave the city, who barely even left her apartment, had offered to go and he hadn't. And for the first time in probably a decade, he'd felt ashamed of himself.

Bad things had happened to her, things that had left their scars, and even so, she'd offered. She'd been willing to put everything on the line for something that didn't even have anything to do with her. Something that was to do with his fucked-up family. With his father.

And the thing she'd woken inside Alex was the latent sense of responsibility he'd thought had died long ago.

This was his problem to deal with. A problem he'd let slide for far too long.

Alex tightened his grip on the Grey Goose bottle and turned.

Katya stood in the middle of the room, tall in her black suit, pale blond hair tightly braided down her back, her hands behind her. She looked like a soldier on a parade ground, waiting for inspection, her expression impassive.

Except her eyes betrayed a hint of something. Hope maybe.

Who was this Mikhail to her? A friend, she'd said, but Alex didn't believe that for a minute. The lines of her face had softened briefly the moment she'd said Mikhail's name, which meant he was more to her than a mere friend. Her lover; Alex would bet anything on it.

"You said you were going to explain, sir," she said in that uninflected way of hers. "About Mikhail. About what you wanted from me."

"Ah yes, I did say that, didn't I?" He poured himself a third shot, then shoved the bottle back in the cabinet, strolling over to the couch, pulling his tie off with one hand, the shot glass held in the other. He put the vodka down on the coffee table and sprawled out onto the couch, undoing the top buttons of his white business shirt to give him some breathing room.

Katya's gaze followed him, impassive, patient. Waiting.

Jesus, sometimes he really hated that expressionless calm of hers. It irritated him intensely, especially when the unease inside himself felt so damn difficult to choke down.

"I'll help you get him out," he said, reaching languidly for his vodka and taking another sip. "I have money. I have contacts. And since I'm pretty sure the Russian government isn't going to be rushing to help you out, you'll probably need both."

"The Russian government would be very unhappy if they knew I was even considering a rescue."

"So we'll keep it quiet. You've met Zac Rutherford. He has the means to help you in a significant way without anyone finding out anything."

She was silent for a moment; nothing showing on her face. Then she said, "You mentioned I had to do something for you."

"I did." He leaned back against the couch cushions. "There's a game I'm considering joining. In Monte Carlo. I will need your services for the duration."

"When is it?"

"In a week."

A ripple of expression crossed her features, like the movement of wind on still water. Then it was gone. "That may be too late. That may be the-"

"The only chance you have. By all means you can leave now, head off to Moscow or wherever the hell you need to get to. But what are you going to do when you get there? Do you have contacts to help you? Money?"

"I have friends back home I can call on," she responded stiffly.

Maybe she did. But he'd read the file that Zac had given him. About her life in military schools, about her father, General Ivanov, a higher-up within the Russian government. Alex was betting any contacts she'd had before she left Russia were long gone now and those who were still around wouldn't be going on any rescue mission that wasn't sanctioned by the government. Her father held too much power. No one would want to go against him.

"And these friends would no doubt love to follow you on a little jaunt to Chechnya on an unauthorized rescue mission." He took another sip of the vodka, relishing the burn. "I'm sure that would make them very popular with the government, not to mention your father."

Her posture became rigid. "This has nothing to do with my father."

"So he'd turn a blind eye to anyone stupid enough to help you?"

She didn't respond, her shoulders stiff with tension. Her gaze shifted so she was looking out of the window behind him. "What do you want from me?"

Alex drained the shot glass and put it back on the coffee table, then settled back against the couch cushions.

As he looked at her, so tall and straight and immovable, the idea that had occurred to him in the limo now seemed ridiculous. He'd decided that if he was going to fucking Monte Carlo, he wasn't going alone. But he also didn't want his backup/protection to be obvious, because that was a weakness he wasn't ready to reveal to anyone, let alone Conrad South.

Katya hanging around in her black suit and shades, looking her usual lethal best, would betray the fact that Alex was afraid.

Katya hanging around in a dress and high heels, with his arm around her waist, now that was different. She could be a stand-in for his latest lover and no one would question it. People might recognize her as his bodyguard, it was true, but once she was wearing a gown and some flashy jewelry no one would care. They'd probably even think the whole bodyguard thing was a fake, especially if he and Katya were observed in public being physical with each other.

Of course he didn't have to take a bodyguard at all, but Zac had been insistent on Alex keeping some backup. That whoever had targeted Tremain was still out there and Alex could very well be in the line of fire. Well, he was fine with thatas long as said backup was done his way.

He tilted his head, surveying her. With her height she'd be able to carry any kind of gown off beautifully, and he was sure there were curves under that severe black suit of hers. She was fair too, which meant her skin would be pale, no perma-tan for his Russian ice princess, that was for sure. With her green eyes and blond hair she'd look amazing in a green gown. Or blue. Or white ...

His gaze settled on her throat. Her shirt was buttoned all the way to the top, the jacket she wore over the top obscuring her shape. Not even an inch of skin beneath that collar was visible.

Abruptly he got up off the couch and prowled over to where she stood. She blinked as he came closer, a crease forming between her brows. "You haven't answered my question, sir."

"No, I know I haven't. I want to see something first." He stopped right in front of her.

"See what?"

His heart was beating rather faster than normal, which was strange. And he was aware of her scent all of a sudden. Not perfume, because she never wore perfume, but the fresh scent of something citrusy, like oranges. Her shampoo maybe or soap? Whatever it was, he liked it.

He lifted a hand and before she could move undid the buttons that held her suit jacket closed.

"Sir, I-"

"Keep still. I need to see something."

Her frown deepened as her jacket fell open, but she did as she was told, the perfect soldier.

He leaned back, running his gaze over her, and yes, he was right; there were definite curves there. The white cotton of her shirt pulled tight over full breasts, the hem tucked into her black pants revealing narrow hips. Long legs too, which made her very definitely his type. At least enough to fool the press and anyone else who happened to see them together.

"What are you doing, sir?"

"One second."

Alex quickly flicked open the first couple of buttons at her throat.

She took a startled breath, the sound sharp in the silence of the room. He glanced up at her face, and for the first time since he'd met her he read shock clear in her eyes. Shock that quickly gave way to confusion. But she didn't say anything, so he didn't stop, undoing one more button, the fabric parting to reveal smooth, white skin.

Beautiful. Perhaps this would work after all.

His heartbeat sounded even louder in his head, and though there was no reason at all to touch her, he couldn't help himself, gently laying a finger on the pulse at the base of her throat. Her skin felt warm and that pulse was beating fast. As fast as his.

She'd gone very, very still, but he felt her swallow, felt her pulse beat even faster.

The air around them had thickened, becoming dense with tension.

"Sir..." Her voice was soft, but he could hear a faint husky edge in it. The kind of edge a woman's voice always held when she was aroused.

Interesting. No, scratch interesting. This was downright fucking intriguing.

"Keep still a moment. I'm testing something." He moved his finger, unable to resist the temptation, stroking her and watching as goose bumps rippled over her skin in response.

Ah yes, so there was chemistry between them, and pretty damn strong chemistry. Excellent. Sexual chemistry would make everything much more convincing.

Katya moved, taking a quick step back, leaving him standing there stroking empty air. She didn't adjust her clothing, but a faint strip of color stained her high cheekbones. "I think you're mistaking me for someone else, sir," she said, her voice not quite level. "If you wanted a companion, I'm quite sure you could find another woman more suited to the job than I am."

He lowered his hand, the warmth of her still glowing on his fingertip. "There are no other women more suited to the job than you are, Katya."

"I'm not going to-"

"Let me tell you which job I mean first, before you jump to any wild conclusions."

Her mouth snapped shut, her shoulders straightening.

His own heartbeat continued to beat like a drum. Christ, he was almost on the point of getting hard, which was weird, because these days it took a lot more than the brush of a woman's skin to get him there. It must be the vodka, surely.

Alex ignored the feeling, turning away and strolling back to the couch, sprawling down on it again. "Like I said, I am going to need you at this Monte Carlo game. But this time the job will be a little different from what you're used to."

"How different?"

He met her green gaze. Held it. "I don't want people thinking you're my bodyguard, Katya mine. I want people thinking you're my lover."

At first she couldn't quite understand what he meant, because she was still finding it difficult to breathe, let alone listen to what he was saying. Her throat burned where he'd touched her; in fact, she could have sworn she'd felt the outline of his fingerprint on her skin. Each whorl and each ridge. Like a fingerprint lock keyed to a particular person.

He's unlocking you ...

Katya blinked, trying to orient herself. She was breathing fast, like after a very hard workout, and her heart rate was up. Way up. There was also a curious tightness to her skin and an adrenaline spike that had raced through her system the moment he touched her, then settled right down low in her abdomen, a pulsing ache that her body knew even if her brain refused to process it.

Sexual desire.

She'd never had sex before, but she knew intellectually what it was all about. And even if she hadn't, three months shadowing Alex St. James had certainly taught her more about sex and seduction than she'd ever wanted to know.

Except ... she'd never felt desire before, at least not for a particular person. Not even Mikhail.

Her mouth was dry. She swallowed, trying to recall what it had been that they were talking about. Something along the lines of not being a bodyguard. Being his lover instead.

He was sprawled out on the couch in front of her with the kind of muscular, indolent grace reserved for lions or panthers. His shirt was open at the throat, his black hair hanging over one eye, stubble lining his strong jawline. He looked like he always did, as if he'd had one too many late nights with one too many women.

She'd always despised his utter lack of self-control and yet found it secretly fascinating at the same time. He didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him, and that held a certain curiosity for her, especially since she cared rather a lot about pleasing people.

Now, as he sat there on the couch, surely half-drunk from the vodka he'd had, something smoky and dark in his blue eyes, it wasn't contempt or derision she felt.

He's sexy.

She shut the thought down.

"And why do you want people thinking I'm your lover?" Her voice sounded like nothing was wrong, and that was good. That was very good. Her training was useful for something then.

He smiled, his mouth curving in that practiced, seductive way. "It's very simple. I don't want to look as though I need a bodyguard. It's a weakness. And I can't afford to show any kind of weakness at the gaming table. Especially not at this particular gaming table."

Her jacket wasn't buttoned the way she liked it and she was very conscious of how her own shirt was open at the throat. And of how his gaze seemed to keep dropping to that patch of skin left bare by the fabric. It was strange to be so aware of her body when she wasn't anywhere near naked, and for some reason it made her angry. "Why do you need me then?" she asked bluntly, forcing away the anger. "Do you need any protection?"

"It's not as if the threat to my life has gone away just like that, darling. And I have reason to believe that this game could be somewhat ... hazardous."

"And what exactly does pretending to be your lover entail?"

His smile deepened. "You've seen my lovers. You know what to expect."

Oh yes, she had seen them. Hanging off his arm, leaning in to receive kisses. Touches. Caresses. He was a physical man and didn't seem to care who knew it.