Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (10 page)

W
e’ve been walking
for a while now, traipsing down the alleyways and narrow cobblestone streets of Le Marais. Historic buildings and elaborate architecture loom overhead, like aristocratic faces casting condescending glares down upon me. This place, this city, is too beautiful to house such evil. Pavlenko’s large palm is pressed supportively against my back, gently steering me along and keeping me upright. I don’t know how long we’ve been traveling, scurrying away in the soft, waning light of late afternoon. Something tells me that we’re not making a straight beeline for our destination — that he’s guiding us on a serpentine path intentionally to throw off any potential spies or followers. I try to put this thought far from my mind. I simply can’t compute that right now, not when I’m already so overwhelmed. I’m still trying to come to terms with what happened last night and today. Trying not to think about Maggie and what horrible fate has caught up with her.

To Paris’s credit, nobody even seems to notice or care how out of place we look. Granted, Pavlenko does look more the part than I do, navigating the streets with familiarity, dressed more appropriately. But I’m surprised that no one has stared at me yet — I know I must look dreadful after my night in hell. Especially since I’m wearing white, and it must show every bit of dirt on me.

Happy tourists shove past us, their children carrying fuzzy backpacks shaped like animals. Local Parisians are less enthusiastic about the surrounding scenery, as it forms the familiar backdrop to their everyday lives, and the tourists only clog up the sidewalks for the natives trying to get things done.

But we are neither tourists nor natives. For although we are headed toward what I assume is Pavlenko’s apartment, I get the distinct sense that this city is not his true home. He does not belong here anymore than I do, even if his French is nearly perfect and he’s found a career here. I can tell that these picturesque streets filled with laughter and light are contrary to his own nature.

There’s something darker about him, something dangerous. The guns certainly lend credence to this impression. And the fact that Boris knew him. It sent a shiver down my spine. Should I even be trusting my rescuer at all?

My feet are aching by the time we reach a tall, white architectural masterpiece that looks like it could effortlessly house a king or queen. I guess it’s his apartment building. Pavlenko nods to the doorman, who wordlessly lets us in. The man gratefully doesn’t allow his eyes to linger on my disheveled appearance. I wonder if he knows more than he lets on, and if his training includes being discreet in the face of strange encounters. He’s probably opened these doors for hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. Some of them had to have looked at least as odd as me.

We head directly to the elevator — a welcome sight, especially compared to my sixth floor walk-up. Once the sleek metal doors are shut, Pavlenko presses the button to take us to the very top floor of the building. He looks down at me with a grim, worried expression, as though he’s just waiting for me to wither away right before his eyes. I hate when people think I’m fragile, but in this case… it’s not an inaccurate assumption.

There’s a ding and the doors slide silently open again.

“Come,” he says, softly taking me by the arm to lead me down the hallway, which has glossy wood flooring and stark white walls. There are framed still life paintings and artfully sculpted sconces illuminating the hall with a friendly glow. We stop in front of an elaborately carved white door. Pavlenko unlocks it and leads me into his flat.

I am surprised to see that it doesn’t vary all that sharply from my own little apartment, except that this one looks slightly more lived-in. The furnishings are simple, but upon a second glance, I can tell that the quality is much, much higher than what I have. I’m still too tired to really focus hard on my surroundings, but the black, velvety sofa Pavlenko situates me down on is soft and luxurious underneath my legs.

“You’re injured,” he comments, looking at my bloodied knees. I frown for a moment, not even sure how I got this way. Then I remember being flung across the room, my knees scraping on the dirty concrete floor. I’m used to slight injuries; they’re a part of my life as a gymnast. Nothing to worry about. But I have to admit that my knees do look pretty grisly. Definitely worse than your garden-variety skinned knee. Still, I don’t want Pavlenko to hover over me and treat me like some broken-down doll.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” I tell him, but he doesn’t buy it.

“I’ll get you cleaned up,” he says. “Stay put.”

I’m in no position to balk at any order he gives me. After all, he did just save my life. And as soon as he walks away toward the kitchen, my stomach lurches. I realize with a jolt that I don’t want to be alone. No — more than that — I cannot
bear
to be left alone right now.

“Please don’t leave me,” I whimper quietly, ashamed of my own weakness.

He instantly turns around, a soft and pitying look in his gray-green eyes. His jaw twitches, ever so slightly. I can tell he’s struggling to contain some overbearing emotion, something pressing to overflow and take control. He comes back and kneels in front of me.

“I’ll be just around the corner. You need to sit here and rest. I promise I will only take a moment,” he assures me. There’s not even the slightest hint of a sharp edge to his tone. Gone is the severe, uptight man who introduced himself to me at that gymnastics banquet back in North Carolina. And no longer is he the hardened killer that rescued me from a horrific fate I could scarcely imagine.

He doesn’t belittle me for my weakness, nor infantilize my fear.

I nod reluctantly and swallow hard. Just the idea of sitting here alone for only a few minutes makes me feel nauseous, after those lonely hours in that dark cell. I never want to be alone again. But I can do it. He’s not going anywhere, I remind myself.

“Good girl,” he says, going to the kitchen. I sit nervously, my eyes darting around the room, fearful that at any moment Will is going to slink out from behind a piece of furniture and capture me again. But Pavlenko comes back after only a minute or so, carrying a damp rag and a bottle of what looks like rubbing alcohol.

“This might sting a little,” he says apologetically, crouching down. He dampens the rag with alcohol and gently dabs at my knees. I inhale sharply at the sudden pinch of pain. There’s a lot more blood to clean off than I expected, and I start to feel slightly woozy. I’ve never been very good at dealing with blood. I’ve got a weak stomach, which I consider a huge embarrassment. It’s such a cliché — the fragile young woman who faints at the sight of blood.

When he’s finished, he stands up and surveys me with his hands on his hips.

“How do you feel?” he asks gravely.

I pause for a moment, biting my lip. There are so many things I want to say. I feel abused. I feel betrayed. I feel broken inside. Instead, I just say, “I feel like I need a bath.”

“That place they kept you was filthy,” he agrees. “I will run you a bath here, if you don’t mind. I promise I’ll give you as much privacy as you need.”

He turns to leave and I instinctively reach out to grab his wrist. He looks down at my hand first, his eyes slowly raising to meet my gaze. I struggle to find the words I need.

“No… stay with me,” I plead. “I want to take a bath but… I don’t want to be alone.”

Pavlenko looks like his mind is in turmoil over this. Finally, he concedes. “Okay. I will stay in the bathroom with you, but I won’t look,
klyanus
.”

He gently helps me to my feet and leads me down a little hallway to his bedroom. He seats me on his smooth, simple gray bedspread while he goes into the adjoining bathroom to start a bath, leaving the door open so I can see that he’s still there. I am astounded by his tenderness, his patience with me. I had him all wrong when I first met him, when I felt like I was so small and insignificant versus his tall, broody gorgeousness.

Now I feel like I’ve seen more of his true sides, the part that really is a hero. Boris had said that to Maksim, that they were rebuilding an empire that he’d eliminated... And that thing about the French woman... My heart breaks, thinking about Maksim saving a woman from those brutes, only for Boris to track her down. I wonder if it’s weighing on Maksim’s conscious as well...

I look around at his simplistic bedroom. Everything is neat and orderly, almost to a military standard. He has everything he needs, and not much more than that, but instead of looking shabby or empty, the room just looks neat. It reflects the fact that he works hard and doesn’t expect much from his life outside of work. In a way, it makes me a little sad for him — while this place is comfortable enough, there isn’t much personal touch.

He walks over, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and helps me into the bathroom. He shifts his weight awkwardly when I stand looking at the claw foot tub filled with lightly scented water. Steam rises from its slightly pinkish surface. I wonder what kind of soap or oil he’s put in the water. It almost makes me smile, the thought of this muscular, imposing man keeping frilly bath accoutrements on hand.

“I’ll stand over here and face away,” he says, a twinge of nerves in his voice.

“Okay. Thank you,” I answer softly. He steps away and faces the doorway while I gingerly strip out of my white dress, panties, and bra. I glance back over my shoulder anxiously to make sure he’s still not looking. He isn’t. Of course.

I carefully climb into the hot bath, wincing when the scented water reaches my wounded knees. I see Pavlenko almost turn around at the sound of my pained gasp, but he catches himself in time. Sinking down into the warm water, I close my eyes and sigh. I lower myself completely until my hair is totally submerged, my face barely poking out of the water. I stare at the smooth white ceiling, the miniature chandelier dangling far above me. I’m so exhausted, so overwhelmed. All I want is to soak in this fragrant bath and let the water wash away all traces of my horrible experience. But I know better than to expect that. It will take more than a hot bath to scour those dark memories from my mind. My body, however, is relieved to finally get some physical comfort. Still, my stomach growls, and I realize that I haven’t eaten since those crepes last night at the Champ de Mars.

With Maggie. My heart plummets and I feel tears burning in my eyes. Guilt floods my thoughts. I hate myself for being safe and sound here while my friend is out there enduring unspeakable horrors.

“Olivia,” says Pavlenko, and I jump a little at his voice.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to order us some food. What would you like?”

I sit up and pull my knees up to my chest, biting my lip. “Oh, I don’t know. I-I can’t think of anything like that right now,” I admit weakly. He nods, still facing away from me.

“I understand. I’ll take care of it,” he says, taking a cell phone out of his pocket. He dials a number and places an order entirely in rapid French while I simply stare at my own toes wrinkling in the water. For the next half hour we remain this way, Pavlenko standing guard at the door while I curl up in the tub. Finally, the food arrives and he goes to retrieve it, leaving me alone for the first time since he rescued me. But only after asking if I was okay.

“There’s a robe hanging for you on the back of the door,” he instructs. “I’ll set up our meal in the living room. Take your time. As long as you need. I will wait for you.”

Once he’s gone, I slowly rise out of the now-lukewarm water and wriggle into the gigantic, Pavlenko-sized white robe. The sleeves are comically long, falling several inches past my hands, and the bottom of the robe drags the floor. I feel like a kid playing dress-up, but I refuse to put on my white dress again. After the events that transpired while I was wearing it… I want nothing more than to burn it.

I trot out to the living room to see a full, impressive French meal arrayed on the coffee table, complete with croissants, jam, cream, cheese, fruit, olives, and a tray of thinly sliced meats. My stomach growls at the smell and sight of it, and without a single word I immediately sit down and start eating. Pavlenko watches me silently, sizing me up, like he’s still worried I might totally break down and fall apart any second now.

I can’t blame him for thinking it. I’m not totally positive I won’t.

“How are you feeling now? Any better?” he questions.

I swallow the grape I just popped into my mouth. “Better. Thank you for saving me. Thank you… for everything.”

“It’s my duty,” he replies simply.

“But what about Maggie?” I ask, the guilt that’s been lurking in the back of my mind surging forward. “I don’t know where they’ve taken her. I don’t know if she’s even alive.”

His face darkens, his handsome features settling into the hard lines of a marble statue.

“I will find her. I promise you that,” he says heavily.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I answer, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. The situation doesn’t seem particularly hopeful. Who knows what kind of “buyer” Will had lined up for Maggie? She could be halfway across the world by now. Or worse.

He sets down his cup of tea and reaches across to take my hand firmly. His striking eyes blaze into mine when he says, “I swear to you, I will find her. I will bring her back.”

“But how? How is any of this possible? How did you even find
me
?” I ask, leaning forward. For a split second, his eyes dart down to my chest and I realize that the oversized robe is hanging loosely, leaving my cleavage clearly visible. I immediately blush.

“I was not always the way you see me now. I walked a much different path many years ago, and sometimes my feet… they lead me in that old direction if I let them. I will find her, Liv. You can trust in me to do that,” he affirms, his voice low and intense.

“Monsieur Pavlenko, I do trust you,” I tell him earnestly, after a long pause.

He squeezes my hand gently and nods. “Call me Max.”