Page 3 of Hostage with Benefits'

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You will stay here until the matter is resolved.”

“And how long will that be?”

“As long as necessary.” He moved toward the door. “Use the intercom if you need anything. Dinner will be sent up soon.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed after he left. The reality of my situation was finally starting to penetrate the shock. I was being held hostage in a mansion by a man who looked like he could break me in half without even trying, all because my father, who wouldn’t even notice if I disappeared off the face of the earth, had stolen something valuable.

My laptop was still in my car, parked at Trader Joe’s. My client was expecting completed mockups by noon tomorrow.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket, but there was no signal. Of course.

Pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I allowed myself exactly thirty seconds of panic. Thirty seconds to feel the fear, the anger, and the complete absurdity of the situation.

Then I got up, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on my face. I dried off with a towel and stared at my reflection.

Okay, I told myself.Practical steps. First, don’t get killed. Second, figure out what Dad stole. Third, don’t miss my work deadline.

I walked back into the bedroom and pressed the intercom button.

“Yes?” Mikhail’s voice came through immediately.

“I really need that Wi-Fi password,” I said. “And preferably my laptop from my car.”

CHAPTER 2

There wasnoise outside my door and it was getting closer.

When the door opened, it wasn’t Mikhail standing there but a woman old enough to be my grandmother. She had salt-and-pepper hair pulled into a tight bun and wore a simple black dress with an apron. Her face was a map of deep lines, none of which suggested a life spent smiling.

“Miss Petrova,” she said, her accent even thicker than Mikhail’s. “Dinner is served.”

I blinked at her. “I thought food was being sent up.”

She made a dismissive noise in the back of her throat. “Guests eat at table, not in bedrooms like prisoners.”

“Iama hostage,” I pointed out.

“Mr. Volkov says guest. I prepare dining room for guest.”

Behind her, I could see a younger woman in a maid’s uniform and a man in what looked like security attire hovering in the hallway. The security guy looked uncomfortable; he and I both knew this wasn’t in the kidnapping playbook.

I considered refusing, but honestly, I was starving, and the idea of real food after the day I’d had was too tempting. Plus, there was something almost comical about being force-fed a proper dinner by anelderly Russian housekeeper who seemed to haveopinionsabout hostage protocol.

“Fine,” I said, getting up from the bed. “But I still need that Wi-Fi password. I have work to do.”

The old woman clicked her tongue. “Work, work, work. First, you eat.”

She turned and walked away, clearly expecting me to follow. I did, because what else was I going to do? The security guy fell into step behind me.

The dining room was… a lot. A crystal chandelier, a dark wood table, and paintings on the walls in golden frames. Two places had been set at one end, with candles lit between them. It was like I had been kidnapped into a costume drama set.

“Sit,” the old woman said, pointing to one of the chairs.

I sat.

The younger woman poured water into my glass.

“You speak Russian?” she asked in accented English.

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