Maelstrom

Chapter 29: 20+ Questions

I was disconcerted. Once again I'd lost my focus, forgotten who I was and whom I was with, and had just been enjoying myself. Perhaps I needed to get out more.

"How did you know I would go out the back?" I countered. I noticed that I'd crossed my arms defensively over my chest, and I forced my hands slowly into my lap. He clocked the internal struggle and gave me that knowing grin.

"You looked a little wild-eyed when I told you I'd had you followed," he explained. "And you were pretty quick to offer to meet me somewhere rather than leave with me." He patted out a staccato beat on the table with his long-fingered hands. "Given what little you know about me ... I would have gone out the back if I were you."

"So you don't blame me for thinking I was about to get whacked?" I asked.

"'Whacked'?"

I blushed again. "Whatever you people call it."

"My people?"

Somehow I was getting even redder. I pressed my hands to my flaming cheeks. "You're not making this very easy, you know."

He reached across the table and pulled my hands down, holding them in his own. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I find I quite enjoy making you blush. It's charming, and very unexpected from someone who usually seems so poised." He released my hands as the server arrived and began putting our food on the table.

We thanked him, and I started on the bruschetta; my face was still too hot for me to try the soup.

Alkaev regarded me thoughtfully. "You seem to have come to some very interesting conclusions about me," he remarked. He twirled spaghetti slowly onto his fork, ignoring the spoon on the side of the plate. "Aside from what you saw a couple of weeks ago, what else do you even know about me?"

I took a moment to take stock of what I knew about Alkaev, and what I could reasonably be expected to know. "You own the club I work in," I began. "You seem to have bought it not too long before I started working there since many of the employees don't seem to know you and occasionally talk about someone named Julian, as in 'Julian's office'." I took another bite of bruschetta to stall. "You speak Spanish and French as well as English and, I assume from your name, Russian. You have two personal bodyguards, but you also replaced all the old Asylum bouncers with your own people. You still have a bit of a tan, so I'm guessing that you're not from New York, or maybe you just got back from an amazing vacation. You normally wear beautiful suits and ride around in a town car, but you also seem quite comfortable in old jeans on a very fast motorcycle. Your first name is Ivan ..." I pronounced it the Russian way – "eeVAHN" – rather than "EYEvan," the way Stefano and Lt DiMarco and everyone else said it; he smiled.

"... and though you've only had me followed for the past couple of weeks, you've been watching me for much longer."

I had no idea where that last bit had come from, but was gratified when he shifted in his chair, seeking relief from a position that was suddenly less comfortable.

Ivan's voice was thick when he spoke. "Okay. And what would you like to know about me?" he asked.

If this were a porn film or a romance novel, I would have known immediately how to answer, but since this was real life, I was at a loss. As inappropriate as some of the things I wanted to know about him were, I also didn't want to start grilling him like a cop in an interrogation room. I took a sip of water to buy myself time.

I met his eyes again. God, he was so beautiful. "Favorite color?"

His mouth twitched. "Blue," he replied smoothly.

"Favorite sandwich?"

"Reuben."

"Least favorite word?"