Page 12 of Hostage with Benefits'

“I maintain a perfectly healthy weight for someone surviving on my levels of income and anxiety.”

He frowned. “Your job and the deadline are giving you anxiety now?”

“No, it’s fine now. I have time to finish everything.” I surprised myself with how easily I dismissed it.

“Good.” He looked pleased. “There are more important things for you to do than work right now.”

“Like what? Being a good hostage?”

“Like enjoying breakfast.” He reached for the coffee pot, refilling my cup. “And perhaps getting to know your host.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now? You’rehostingme?”

“Would you prefer I call it kidnapping?”

“I’d prefer it if you were honest, yeah.”

Something in his expression shifted. “Then I will be honest. I have business to attend to today. You are free to explore the house, but donotleave the building. The security system will alert me if you try.”

“What kind of business does a kidnapper have this early in the day?”

“The kind that ensures you remain my only hostage.” He stood, straightening his already perfect suit. “Make yourself at home, Natalia.”

The way he said my name, rolling the syllables with that accent,made my insides liquefy. I watched him leave, appreciating the view of a man in a wickedly well-tailored suit despite myself.

Make myself at home. In my kidnapper’s mansion. After sleeping with him. Sure. Perfectly normal fucking Wednesday.

I found the kitchen by following the scent of freshly baked bread. Galina stood at a massive island counter, flour up to her elbows, muttering in Russian.

She looked up when I entered. “Ah, Miss Petrova. Good. You help.”

Before I could protest, she’d shoved an apron at me and positioned me beside her at the counter.

“I don’t really cook,” I started to say.

“Not cook. Bake different.” She demonstrated kneading the dough. “Like this. You try.”

I mimicked her movements, surprised when she nodded approval.

“You have good hands for this. Strong.” She looked at me, assessing. “But too thin. American girls don’t eat enough.”

“I eat plenty,” I protested.

“Today breakfast, yes. But before? No. I can tell.” She poked at my ribs through my shirt. “We fix this fast.”

For the next hour, she worked me like a sous chef, all while interrogating me about my life, my job, my apartment, my family.

Galina narrowed her eyes at me. “You think this is normal kidnapping? If normal, you be in basement, no nice bed.”

“I’m aware of the luxury hostage accommodations, thank you.”

“Not hostage.Guest.” Her tone suggested this distinction was important to her.

“Guests can leave whenever they want, Galina.”

She waved a flour-covered hand dismissively. “Details. Important thing is, Mr. Volkov likes you.”

“Because I’m useful leverage against my father.”

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