she’d thought lived beneath her bed.
She was calmer when she opened her eyes, but the big ox with the suggestive grin and large pistol strapped to his belt was still staring at her.
“I heard we had company,” he drawled, strolling into the room. “I’m Marcus Smith, Mr. Fowler’s newly promoted chief of security. ’Cause I’m so good at what I do. And your name, little lady?”
Little lady? She was five feet, seven inches tall. Of course, everyone must seem little compared to this brute. She fixed her gaze squarely in the center of his chest. “Anastasiya Belov.”
“She’s a gift from our benefactor for a job well-done,” Fowler explained. “He’s impressed that we were able to neutralize the strike force.”
“I’m the one who’s impressed.” The man called Marcus Smith reached out and twined his thick, grubby fingers into the long curls of hair that fell across her left breast. “Nice. Prettiest damn thing I’ve seen in weeks.”
Tasiya curled her toes inside her boots to keep from bolting.
But, surprisingly, Boone Fowler saved her the trouble.
“Hands off, Marcus.” He shoved the big man back a step. “She’s not that kind of gift.”
Tasiya winced at the pinpricks of pain that danced across her scalp before Marcus let go of her hair, but she refused to cry out. This was nothing. Her father might be suffering much worse than this. She could endure a few unwanted gropes for his sake.
But apparently Boone Fowler intended to follow his instructions to the letter. “The note says we’re not to touch her. Our contact wants her in pristine condition for himself. And since his people are funding our operation, I don’t want to jeopardize that relationship. Yet. We have business to attend to, anyway. Or have you forgotten our purpose?”
Marcus bowed his gaze like a chastized child. “I haven’t forgotten. I just thought maybe, since you seemed so pleased with my performance lately, that—”
“Keep it in your pants for a few days, okay? We’ll use her to free up some manpower to increase security patrols and interrogations.”
Keep it in your pants? Another strange Americanism. She might not understand the words, but she had no problem recognizing the lechery in Marcus Smith’s eyes, or the blame she read there for being reprimanded by the boss.
“I’m sure you can find other ways to entertain yourself. After all, I intend to break every one of Cameron Murphy’s team. I want them begging to do my bidding when we make that videotape and broadcast it.”
Breaking someone seemed to have a reviving effect on Marcus Smith’s mood. He was smiling as he looked up again. “Murphy’s men have been pretty stubborn so far. But I like a challenge.” He glanced down at Tasiya, giving his statement a double meaning. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve to try, if need be. This old pirate hideout is proving to be a very resourceful place.”
Fowler nodded, pleased with the answer that Tasiya couldn’t quite understand. “I don’t care how you get the job done. I just want results.”
“You’ll have them before we shoot the video next week.”
Tricks? Video? Were these the sort of things she was supposed to report to Mostek?
She hadn’t yet come up with an answer when Boone Fowler stepped beside her and demanded her attention. “I’ve got thirty men here who all need to be fed three square meals a day. When you’re done with that, in the evening, we’ve got seventeen prisoners. You’re to take them bread and water. Marcus will show you your room, the kitchen and larder, and the route you’re to take when you feed the prisoners.”
Three square meals versus bread and water? Compassion had her looking up into those cold, dark eyes. “Only one meal for the prisoners?”
Those dark eyes sneered. “Rule number one around here, Ms. Belov. Never question my orders.”
“No, sir.” Tasiya covered the unexpected flare of sympathy for someone besides her father by quickly lowering her gaze. “I just wanted to be clear on my duties.”
“You’re not stupid, are you?”
She had no trouble comprehending the insult. But she ignored it and made an excuse. “English is not my first language, sir. I only asked because I wanted to make sure I understood correctly. Three meals for your men. One meal for the prisoners.”
“In between, you can clean my office and the latrine. But I don’t want you in here without myself or a guard present. As a matter of fact, I don’t want to see you anywhere but your room, the kitchen or making your rounds to the prisoners unless you have a guard and my permission.” He bent his knees and brought his face level with hers. “Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you’re dismissed.” He straightened and returned to his seat behind the desk.
Tasiya swallowed her anger and the urge to blurt out that he wasn’t a god. And that if he was as smart as he seemed to think he was, he’d realize he had a traitor in his midst. Standing in his office. A black-haired sheep in wolf’s clothing, to put a twist on one of those childhood stories her father had read to her.
Fowler was a lot like Dimitri Mostek. Full of himself and high on power. No qualms about being cruel and manipulative. The only thing lacking were the lusty overtures, and she had a sick feeling that Marcus Smith would be adding that dimension to this living hell.
“This way, sugar,” said Marcus, turning sideways in the doorway instead of stepping aside, so that her shoulder had to brush against his chest as she exited into the hallway.
Crinkling her nose at the whiff of stale tobacco and sweat, Tasiya clutched her bag tight against her stomach and hurried past him. She fixed an image of her father’s loving face firmly in her mind as she followed Marcus Smith down a spiral staircase of worn, warped stone to the doorless closet off the kitchen that would serve as her home for the next few weeks.
Chapter Two
“Please, Minister,” Tasiya whispered into the phone, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping on her call. She trimmed the wick on the kerosene lantern on her two-drawer dresser, dimming the light so as not to draw attention to her presence in the room.
By the end of the night, she vowed to at least find a blanket to hang across the arched opening so she could change her clothes without the curious eyes of Marcus Smith or anyone else ogling her. “I want to talk to my father. If he’s not safe, I have no reason to do this for you.”
“Anastasiya. Darling.” Mostek’s cultured voice tried to seduce her even across the ocean that separated them. “I like it so much better when you call me Dimitri.”
Tasiya swallowed her gag reflex and her pride. “Please… Dimitri. Let me speak to my father.”
“Very well.” Tasiya drifted toward the corner of the twin-size bed that took up half the room. She sank onto the hard mattress, hugging her arm around her waist while he spoke to someone on his end of the line. But Dimitri still had a few more words for her. “That wasn’t so difficult, was
