Page 30 of Russian Rescue

“Oleg loves to hunt. This is where he comes to do it. Lots of predatory animals out here, though, like bears and shit, so don’t wander off too far if you insist on pissing outside again.”

Wes walked over to the couch and flopped down. “We sleeping on the couch again, or does this place have beds?”

“One bed. So yeah, you’re on the couch.” I grinned and walked over to the bedroom door and opened it.

“Oh, come on. We’re adults. We can share a bed.”

I glanced over my shoulder to see his cocky grin, and my stupid stomach did the infuriating flip again when I envisioned rolling around in the sheets with him.

“You on the couch. Me in the bed.” I walked in and closed the door, pressing against it for a moment as I tried to shake the imagery from my head.

This is Wes.

But as many times as I tried to remind myself that the sexy man at my side was Wes, my Wes, and not to be touched, every molecule in my body warred against it. The way he looked, and the way he looked at me, ignited primal urges inside me that I fought to control.

“Is there anything to eat here?” Wes called from the living room. “I’m starving.”

“Check the pantry,” I called back. “I’m showering, and then we can figure out dinner.”

“On it.”

After I got undressed, I stretched and checked for bruises. Only a few marks from the fight in the tunnels. Not bad.

I pulled a towel from the closet and wrapped it around me, then dug out an oversized t-shirt and a pair of sweats from the dresser. When I opened the bedroom door, Wes was in the kitchen opening and closing cabinets, and I waited until his back was turned before I tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. The last thing I needed was him making comments about me being naked under this towel, and then me ripping off my towel and jumping him in the kitchen.

I took a shower and tried to take care of business to turn down the heat burning through my body, but it did little to squash the thoughts about Wes that were anything but platonic. Feeling at least slightly satiated, I dried my hair and dressed, then headed out to the kitchen.

Wes stood with a towel draped over his arm, holding a bowl of food for me. “The most gourmet canned food available for you, Madam Piper.”

Chuckling, I took the bowl and thanked him.

“Sorry, it was the best I could do with what we had available. It was this or beans. It’s some Russian version of SpaghettiOs, but it looks pretty similar.”

“This works. I’m not picky.”

I flopped down on the couch, and Wes joined me. We ate our food and chatted over sips from a bottle of vodka he’d found in a cupboard.

“Yeah, I was born in Moscow,” I said as I set down my bowl.

“How did I not know this?” Wes mimicked his head exploding. “I can’t believe you’re Russian.”

I clucked my cheek. “Yep. Lived here until I was five.”

“Wow.”

“My first name was actually Petronia, but when I moved to the States, I was self-conscious about it and asked my adoptive parents to call me Piper.”

“And why did you leave Russia? What happened?”

The painful memories flickered on inside my mind. They weren’t clear at all, but I remembered the bright red blood and how warm it felt on my hands.

“I, uh... I’d rather not talk about this. I don’t even know why I brought it up.”

Wes nodded. “Sure. No problem. Sorry I probed.”

“Don’t be. It’s just... it’s not a happy memory. I don’t really like to talk about it. So, enough about me. Tell me more about you.”

“Me? Boring really. I grew up in suburbia, two-parent home, one little sister, all the opportunities in the world. A happy childhood, really.”