The Bodyguard And The Virgin (Russian Alpha Erotic Romance Book 1) Read online

  The Bodyguard

  and the

  Virgin

  The Bodyguard and the Virgin

  By

  Kendall Duke

  Published by JT Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Kendall Duke

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder.

  Printed in the USA by JT Publishing

  All material is intended for adult purchase and purview.

  “Jules, I have to leave tomorrow morning. Come give your dear old dad a hug before I go, eh?” My father’s English is almost perfect. Almost no accent. You could almost believe he was going on an innocent business trip, if you didn’t know him.

  But I did. “Sure Dad,” I said, and went over to hold him close for a minute. To be honest, I was surprised he remembered to say goodbye; I couldn’t count the times he had disappeared from my life without a word. My mother died when I was five, and he did what he could—considering who and what he was. But I knew my father didn’t think about me most of the time. If I were him, maybe I’d be thinking about other things too.

  “See you in a week, Jules.” He always called me Jules. I used to hate it, but now I knew it was the closest he could come to real affection. He waved me away with his hand, the gesture reminding me of where I really stood in the grand scheme of things, and I walked down the long hallway and up the stairs to my bedroom. Our house was cavernous, a completely ridiculous size for two people. We lived in the suburbs outside of Washington, DC, in Fairfax County, in a gated housing complex called Dogwood Den. I’ve never lived anywhere else. For my whole life, I attended a private school with only fifteen other students, all with fathers in the same business as mine, and making friends was hard. Everyone else left and went back to Russia at some point, but not us. I watched my class-mates come and go for years, until I took to being alone and got used to it.

  It hurt sometimes that he didn’t really care about me—not in that paternal way I saw on television, or would occasionally see from other fathers when I happened to be out and about. I tried to cut him some slack though.

  My father is what you’d call a bag-man in English. That’s a little derisive, though, because my dad is the bag-man, the biggest fish in a very small pond of mostly dead fish. He came to America with my mom when I was only six months old and settled here, slowly rising through the ranks of the Russian mafia. I don’t think there were a lot of options involved. Once you’re in with the Russian mob, that’s kind of the end of your career choices. My mom was American, though, and so they must’ve realized she could be used to legitimize my dad, and for all I know, once she died my existence may have done the same thing.

  My dad was rarely home. I used to have a sitter, a Russian woman called Vera who refused to teach me the language or really talk to me at all. I doubt Vera was her real name. She stopped coming when I turned twelve, and I spent most of my days and nights by myself. The house was a fortress. Once I was locked in, I was locked in, and that was that. I didn’t mind as much, now that I was in community college. I’d fought tooth and nail with my father to be allowed to go to school, and he’d finally agreed to let me go somewhere local during the day. He wasn’t being protective of me. He didn’t want me slipping up and revealing anything to strangers if I went somewhere far away. The mob didn’t take too kindly to that sort of thing.

  I thought my dad loved me, as much as he could; he wasn’t really the loving type. He’d moved on from my mother in record time, and I’d gotten used to his performance as a father. I knew he was doing his best. I’d gotten used to being called Jules and being alone and whatever else. I’d hoped to make some more friends at college but my classes were mostly full of commuters, people with fully formed lives and social skills. In high school I’d once practiced flirting with boys to get some of the attention I never got from my dad, but that was of no interest to me now, and hadn’t been in years. I barely talked to anyone but him, and that was fine with me.

  All of that was about to change. In a very big way.

  ~~~

  I came home from my last class the next day exhausted and excited. I sighed contentedly as I parked the car; I had three papers to write, and it gave meaning to my life to have projects to focus on and pour my attention into. I really enjoyed school. The gathering darkness greeted me as I walked from the driveway to the front door, the automatic lights rippling as they detected the motion of my legs. I pulled my jacket closer around my body; it was October now, and cold in the twilight. Stars were just beginning to twinkle overhead.

  I stepped into the house and reached up to turn off the security code… And no light was blinking on the little green screen. Had I forgotten to turn it on? That seemed unlikely, since I’d been doing this for…seven years, going on eight. I shrugged my shoulders, guessed that I’d stayed up a little later than I meant to reading the night before, and headed back towards the kitchen.

  And stopped dead in my tracks.

  The house was deliberately anonymous, in many ways; my father knew, in spite of his longevity in his position, that he might have to move at any moment. Everything was tan, beige, brown, or cream. Easily replaceable at the nearest IKEA or Sears. Nothing that would keep the house from being rented in an instant, fully furnished, to someone else.

  This rule was absolute except for two rooms: my little bedroom suite with the adjacent bathroom, and the kitchen. As I aged, I replaced the bland furniture, dishes, bedding and carpets with colors and textures that appealed to me. And I always left the kitchen light on. I knew it wasted electricity, but I hoped I used so little elsewhere that this one indulgence wasn’t too harmful in the scheme of things. I left the table light on--the low hanging one I’d picked out of a specialty catalogue two years ago which made the space warm and inviting--and left the brighter overhead turned off. When I got home I might switch them up so I could do some cooking, but I liked the warmth of that light over the table I’d picked out to greet me when I walked through the door. It was my way of making a home for myself.

  My table light was turned off, and the overhead was bright and stark, casting long shadows down the hall towards the door where I stood. Had my father come home early? He never went into the kitchen; that was my domain. Still, this was his house. He rarely came home at all, let alone early from one of his trips… But maybe this time was different. Ignoring the hammering of my heart, I decided to be rational and head towards the kitchen.

  “Hello?” My voice echoed back to me. I stepped inside our large kitchen, a big room that stretched from one end of our huge house to the other, taking up the entire back of the first floor. Crowded around the large island in the center were four men.

  Four very, very large men. Three of them looked up at me and one smiled, his eyes dark beneath the bright overhead light, and then two others slowly joined him. They were wearing pricy suits, no ties. Their jewelry probably cost as much as my car. “Zdrastvuite,” the one in the middle said, his voice like a roll of thunder tumbling through the air towards me.

  “Zdrastvuite,” I said, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. I knew how to say hello. I knew I couldn’t say what I was really thinking, which was: oh shit.

  “Is good to see you. Julia, yes?” The one in the middle was the shortest, if you could use such a word as a description. He was roughly six feet tall, maybe six one; the other three were all at least six four. He had dark hair and eyes, a rakish sort of handsomeness, and a friendly smil
e I wasn’t foolish enough to misunderstand. “We come for dinner, Julia. Where is father?”

  “He told me he wouldn’t be home until next Saturday,” I said, praying they would understand. The people in my father’s circle could be a bit deceptive about how much English they spoke and understood, choosing whichever angle worked to their advantage. He nodded and moved his arm as if welcoming me to my own kitchen. The other men watched me, but it was hard to take in their expressions because of the harsh shadows cast from the light over their heads. One had lovely auburn hair, thick with wavy curls, the kind of color that looks like it came from a box, but I knew it hadn’t. One was a gorgeous blonde, giant, with a charming smile. The fourth was dark—dark shadows, dark hair, dark eyes. He never moved his head, and I could only tell he was watching me by the shimmer under his brow as his eyes tracked me around the periphery. As I moved closer to the kitchen, assuming that they were expecting me to cook for them, the dark one’s face came into stark relief.

  I stopped moving. I just stood there, like an idiot, and gawked.

  I don’t believe in love at first sight—it’s just not possible, given the number of hormones and pheromones and neural tracts involved in what we call “falling in love” (I really like school—a lot). But lust? Yes.

  And I definitely fell in lust.

  His face was stern. Five o’clock shadow across the sharpest jawline I’d ever seen, and high enough on his taut cheek to tell me he had to shave every day—maybe twice a day. Low black arches brows over smoldering eyes. Straight, aquiline nose, with one barely visible bump in the center that told me it’d been broken and re-set, at least once. Stark white scar beneath the left eye, barely visible beneath the shadow cast by epically long eye-lashes. Lips like a goddamn supermodel.

  He didn’t look at me. He almost seemed as though he refused to, although the other men stared at me intently. The one with red hair spoke to me again in Russian, but I had no idea what he said. It snapped me back to reality, though, and I stopped staring at the dark one. “I’m sorry?”

  He looked at the other two more friendly faces and spoke in rapid-fire Russian. “He say, you have no cook?” The first one that spoke smiled pleasantly at me. “He ask you cook alone?”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding as I turned towards the stove. Luckily I’d put on a crockpot earlier, preparing to eat the tender roast inside over several meals. Hopefully it would be enough for them; I didn’t have an appetite any more.

  “You have help?” The harsh sound of the Russian inflected ‘h’ always made me smile. It reminded me of the nights when my father had been home when I was a little girl, the brief moments he practiced his English by teaching me to read. But I directed my smile towards the cabinets and let it fade before I started setting the table.

  “No, no help,” I said. I got everything ready. They were still at the kitchen island, but now all four of them were watching me closely.

  “You have no… No maid?”

  I snorted before I could help it, then wiped the smirk off my face before I turned to them. “No.” I waved my arms in a pale imitation of Vannah White towards the settings on the table. “Would you like to eat?”

  The men turned towards one another and spoke in Russian before the leader glanced at me again. His eyes were shrewd. “You speak Russian?”

  “No,” I said again, preparing the roast. I made a quick salad and pulled some bread out, gathering butter and putting it all on the center of the table. He said something in rapid fire Russian and as I straightened up I saw the dark one glance over at him with a frown, quickly hidden. I smiled awkwardly and waved towards the table again. “It’s just a pot roast, but it should be okay. Is my father joining us?”

  This time the one with the auburn hair spoke, still looking at me, and their leader, still watching me closely, nodded once. His face had temporarily lapsed into what I suspected was his actual expression, grim and serious, but he turned on the charm again. “Your father didn’t tell you we were coming?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t want to call him sir, although it wouldn’t have been out of place. I wasn’t used to speaking deferentially. “He just said he’d be back in a week. Sometimes that actually means a week, but sometimes two or three.” I shrugged and pulled out a chair. They sat down around me, seeming surprised. Was I supposed to serve them and eat at the counter in my own house? Were they just reacting to my father’s absences? I hunched my shoulders forward and made up my mind. Whatever was happening, I wasn’t going to be treated like a servant. I’d eat with them at the table.

  The men sat for a moment, studying me, and then the leader and the man with auburn hair spoke to each other in conversational tones, the blonde looking down at his dinner with satisfaction. The dark one was still watching me from under his lashes.

  “Would you like some salad?” I put a little on my plate and passed the bowl to him. The other men stopped talking and observed.

  “You are American,” the dark one said, staring at me. It was the first time he spoke, and his eyes were locked on my face.

  I felt myself blush. “I am, I guess. My dad is… Well, you must know him. And I was born in Russia, but my mother was American and we came here when I was very young.” I realized I might be speaking too quickly; I was nervous. He was so intense. “So, yes. I am basically American.”

  “I thought you were Russian?” His brows furrowed as he studied my face.

  “I guess… I’m both?”

  “You speak no Russian?” I blushed and glanced down at my plate, then glared at him with defiance.

  “No one taught me,” I said, and he frowned. The others began to speak to each other again, their eyes sliding our way occasionally. He slowly chewed the food in front of him, skipping the salad but passing it along. The others continued talking easily, glancing back at me occasionally. I ate in silence.

  The leader was at least fifty years old; I hadn’t been able to gauge his age earlier, but in better light I could see the lines on his face. The handsome one with the gorgeous auburn hair was younger, probably early twenties; he had the same ability to turn on the charm, giving me a quick smile once in a while, as if to reassure me. He had dimples. I wasn’t fooled; I could tell by the ease he used when he spoke to the leader that he was high-ranking, and therefore, highly dangerous. The blonde didn’t speak much at all, keeping his eyes on his food and occasionally laughing at something the red-head said.

  That left the dark one. The one clutching his fork like a weapon, slowly chewing as he stared at nothing and no one, probably listening to both their conversation and the whole house, prepared to move in an instant. He was obviously the muscle, in spite of his lithe build. He must be a bodyguard for one or all of the other men. And therefore, highly dangerous. Practically a serial killer, as far as these things went.

  So why did he make my knees weak?

  I could ignore the rumbling in my gut, the sweat gathering at the small of my back—I was terrified, and I should be. That was the natural reaction to coming home and finding a couple of Russian mafia bosses waiting in your house.

  So what was this other feeling?

  Every time he moved, I flinched. Every time I felt his eyes on me, I shivered. And it wasn’t fear I felt. It was desire.

  I wanted him. I wanted him instantly and more than I’d wanted anything in my life, besides being able to go to college. I wanted him to do things to me I’d only read about in books, things that were sinful and wrong and delicious and dirty and so, so impossible.

  Because hopefully, he and his mafia dons would be gone from my life in about half an hour.

  Every time he moved, I saw the flex of miles of muscles beneath his shirt. Every sinew, every tendon, was full of cruel strength and wicked precision.

  The things he could do to a body….

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly. The other three stopped speaking and looked at him. “The food is… Is very good.”

  “Thank you,” I said stupidly, and blushed agai
n. I was shaking.

  “Your father is late,” the leader said, and I startled and looked up at him.

  “I’m sure if he’s supposed to meet you, he will.” He hadn’t survived for so long by testing guys like these. “He must be running behind.”

  The man gave me an unctuous smile. “He does this often, eh?”

  “Does what?” I was genuinely confused.

  “He is late?” The man was still testing me, but I didn’t know why, or what he was really trying to find out. The dark one continued to stare down at his plate, chewing slowly.

  “No, never,” I said sincerely. It was true. The catch being that he didn’t make promises about when he would return, but as far as staying out at night or breaking appointments with his ‘clients,’ no. That was unheard of. “He travels—that can be unpredictable, but if he is supposed to meet someone…” I felt the words trailing away from me, and shrugged. If they’d done business with my father before, they knew all of this.

  “You want to call him? On phone?” The leader smiled again, but there was a wariness in his eyes now, instead of the insincerity I’d felt from him a moment ago.

  I almost laughed, then caught myself. The dark one noticed, his opaque hazel eyes flicking towards me, but said nothing. “Sure,” I said. “I should warn you though, he doesn’t answer.”

  “Your father doesn’t answer phone?”

  I shrugged, wiped my mouth with my napkin, and stood up. “Not when I call, no. He’s busy.”

  The dark one suddenly stood up, looming over me. I froze, every nerve in my body sparking with adrenaline. “Your father not answer your call?”

  “No,” I said, and hated the tremor in my voice. “I mean, I haven’t called him much, recently, he’s just, he’s really busy and—”

  “—You live alone? The big house? No one help you, no one watch you?”

  “Watch me?”