Page 2 of Hostage with Benefits'
The man led me up a curved staircase, his hand not quite touching my elbow but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. We stopped at a door at the end of a long hallway.
“You will stay here,” he said, pushing the door open.
The room was nicer than my apartment, which was a depressing realization. A large bed with crisp white linens. A sitting area near wide windows that probably had a view in daylight. A door that presumably led to a bathroom.
“The windows do not open,” he said. “The door will be locked from outside. If you need anything, there is an intercom by the bed.”
I nodded, still clutching my Trader Joe’s dumplings I hadn’t let go of all this time.
“My frozen stuff is going to melt,” I said, because it seemed like the only normal concern to voice in this extremely abnormal situation.
He stared at me for a beat, then held out his hand. “I will put it in the freezer.”
I hesitated, then passed him the bag. Our fingers brushed, and I noticed how warm his hands were despite his cold demeanor. He checked the contents, brow furrowing at the realization I’d really handed him a bag of frozen dumplings.
“This was going to be your dinner?”His tone made it sound like a personal offense.
“Yup,” I said. “Before the kidnapping course correction to my evening plans.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat. “I will send up proper food.”
“Thanks. Very considerate for a kidnapper.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You will call your father now.” He pulled a phone from his pocket. I assumed it was so that the call couldn’t be traced.
My stomach dropped. I hadn’t spoken to my father in eight months, and our last conversation had been an awkward “happy birthday” and that was it. If this guy wanted to threaten my father, I wasn’t the best way to do that, but I didn’t really have to teach a mafioso how to do his job, right?Right?
“He won’t care,” I said quietly. “Whatever you’re hoping to accomplish by using me as leverage… it won’t work.”
Mikhail’s expression shifted subtly.
“We will see,” he said, dialing a number and holding the phone out to me.
The call connected after four rings. My father’s voice came through, speaking rapid Russian.
“Dad,” I said in English. “It’s Natalia.”
A pause. Then, “Natasha? Why are you calling from this number?”
I glanced at Mikhail, who was watching me with unnerving intensity. “I’ve been kidnapped by someone who says you stole from him.”
Another pause. Then a string of Russian curses.
“Put him on,” my father said finally.
I handed the phone to Mikhail, who took it without breaking eye contact with me. They spoke in Russian, fast, harsh words I couldn’t follow due to the speed. I caught my name once or twice, but nothing else.
What I did understand was the way Mikhail’s expressiondarkened, the way his knuckles whitened around the phone. Whatever my father was saying, it wasn’t what Mikhail wanted to hear.
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“Your father says he needs time to acquire what belongs to me,” he said, voice carefully neutral.
“And what exactly did he take from you?” I asked.
“That is not your concern.”
“It became my concern when you threw me over your shoulder in a parking lot.”
