expected a stereotypical mafiya kingpin, I felt likeI’d lucked upon this reluctant don, one who’d rather tinker with clocks.
I could overlook a lot.
“You were right, Sevastyan; I understand things better now.” I held his gaze. “And I am so glad you forced me on that plane.” For more than one reason . . .
I thought I saw his eyes growing heated, but he looked away, steering me along an art-lined hall. We must be heading down the other wing.
When we stopped in front of a set of white double doors, he said, “This is your suite.” He opened them to reveal a huge sitting room, just as lavish as Paxán’s office, but more feminine.
The décor was definitely intended for a chick. A really rich Russian chick. “It’s so lovely. But, um, where do I sleep?”
With an exhalation, he started across the spacious area, leaving me to follow. We passed an adjoining study with a snazzy new Mac, then a media room with a wall-stretcher TV, before we reached the bedroom.
Stepping inside, I muttered, “This—is—the—tits.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” I twirled in place, taking in the massive four-poster bed, the hand-painted armoire as big as an elevator, the draperies with silk tassels the size of my forearm. Underfoot, oriental rugs warmed more shining marble. Above, intricate carved molding was gilded with gold. Jade green—my favorite—was the accent color.
“Paxán didn’t decorate this for me, did he?”
“Of course. You’re his daughter. He took great pleasure trying to imagine what you would like.”
“And you knew green is my favorite color.”
He inclined his head.
This reminder of his prying into my life didn’t grate as much as it had before. “At least some good came from your spying, huh?”
Ignoring that, he said, “There are garments for you in the closets.”
“Plural closets?”
“Naturally.”
“Oh. Who picked out the clothes?”
“A stylist. She is on call for you, should you need anything else.”
Near an extravagant display of welcome flowers, I saw a leather folio and several gift boxes. Inside the folio was a selection of credit cards and a list of phone numbers for Kovalev, the estate manager, the stables, my stylist, housekeeping, the kitchen. “Should I wait to open these presents with Paxán?”
With a raised brow, Sevastyan said, “Something tells me there will be more to follow.”
Inside the first box was a smartphone that looked like it’d been transported back from the future. I’d be able to call Jess with my proof of life a week early—and eventually my mom as well. Though what I would tell her about all this, I didn’t yet know.
The other boxes—from stores like Cartier, Harry Winston, Mikimoto, and Buccellati—were all filled with dazzling jewelry: a triple-strand pearl choker, sapphire earrings, an emerald drop fringe necklace with a matching bracelet. That bracelet was so heavy and substantial, I could deflect bullets with it, à la Wonder Woman.
Turning to Sevastyan, I joked, “There must be a million dollars’ worth of jewelry here.”
When he held up his palms in a what’re-you-gonna-do? gesture, I cried, “Oh, my God. There is!” I inhaled a shaky breath.This situation was too wild—and overwhelming. I now lived in a palace. I truly was not going back to school tomorrow; instead I’d be playing chess with my billionaire father.
This was my “new life” for the “foreseeable future.”
I crossed to a set of balcony doors, opening them for fresh air. I drank in the sight as a mist began to fall over manicured gardens and landscaping lights came to life all across the property.
When Sevastyan joined me at the balcony rail, that feeling of connection swept me up again. But he was all coolness toward me.
“What’s that building?” I asked him, indicating a two-story manor catty-corner to this wing. As with the lake folly, its colors and architecture complemented this palace. There was a sleek
I could overlook a lot.
“You were right, Sevastyan; I understand things better now.” I held his gaze. “And I am so glad you forced me on that plane.” For more than one reason . . .
I thought I saw his eyes growing heated, but he looked away, steering me along an art-lined hall. We must be heading down the other wing.
When we stopped in front of a set of white double doors, he said, “This is your suite.” He opened them to reveal a huge sitting room, just as lavish as Paxán’s office, but more feminine.
The décor was definitely intended for a chick. A really rich Russian chick. “It’s so lovely. But, um, where do I sleep?”
With an exhalation, he started across the spacious area, leaving me to follow. We passed an adjoining study with a snazzy new Mac, then a media room with a wall-stretcher TV, before we reached the bedroom.
Stepping inside, I muttered, “This—is—the—tits.”
“Pardon?”
“You’ve got to be shitting me.” I twirled in place, taking in the massive four-poster bed, the hand-painted armoire as big as an elevator, the draperies with silk tassels the size of my forearm. Underfoot, oriental rugs warmed more shining marble. Above, intricate carved molding was gilded with gold. Jade green—my favorite—was the accent color.
“Paxán didn’t decorate this for me, did he?”
“Of course. You’re his daughter. He took great pleasure trying to imagine what you would like.”
“And you knew green is my favorite color.”
He inclined his head.
This reminder of his prying into my life didn’t grate as much as it had before. “At least some good came from your spying, huh?”
Ignoring that, he said, “There are garments for you in the closets.”
“Plural closets?”
“Naturally.”
“Oh. Who picked out the clothes?”
“A stylist. She is on call for you, should you need anything else.”
Near an extravagant display of welcome flowers, I saw a leather folio and several gift boxes. Inside the folio was a selection of credit cards and a list of phone numbers for Kovalev, the estate manager, the stables, my stylist, housekeeping, the kitchen. “Should I wait to open these presents with Paxán?”
With a raised brow, Sevastyan said, “Something tells me there will be more to follow.”
Inside the first box was a smartphone that looked like it’d been transported back from the future. I’d be able to call Jess with my proof of life a week early—and eventually my mom as well. Though what I would tell her about all this, I didn’t yet know.
The other boxes—from stores like Cartier, Harry Winston, Mikimoto, and Buccellati—were all filled with dazzling jewelry: a triple-strand pearl choker, sapphire earrings, an emerald drop fringe necklace with a matching bracelet. That bracelet was so heavy and substantial, I could deflect bullets with it, à la Wonder Woman.
Turning to Sevastyan, I joked, “There must be a million dollars’ worth of jewelry here.”
When he held up his palms in a what’re-you-gonna-do? gesture, I cried, “Oh, my God. There is!” I inhaled a shaky breath.This situation was too wild—and overwhelming. I now lived in a palace. I truly was not going back to school tomorrow; instead I’d be playing chess with my billionaire father.
This was my “new life” for the “foreseeable future.”
I crossed to a set of balcony doors, opening them for fresh air. I drank in the sight as a mist began to fall over manicured gardens and landscaping lights came to life all across the property.
When Sevastyan joined me at the balcony rail, that feeling of connection swept me up again. But he was all coolness toward me.
“What’s that building?” I asked him, indicating a two-story manor catty-corner to this wing. As with the lake folly, its colors and architecture complemented this palace. There was a sleek
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