Chapter 32: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 32

I’m in the middle of painstakingly comparing the Bing translation of the Russian article to the Google version in the hopes of making sense of three particularly confusing sentences when a soft chime sounds and a videocall request pops up, with Nikolai’s picture in it.

My heart rate shoots up, my breathing quickening uncontrollably. It’s like he’s the proverbial devil, summoned by my thoughts—or my research. Is that possible? Does he somehow know I’m reading about him at this very moment?

Is that why he’s calling so late? To fire me for snooping?

No, that’s crazy. He probably just landed, saw on the videoconference app that I’m online, and decided to check in.

Pulling in a shaky breath, I smooth my hair with my palms and click “Accept.”

His gorgeous face fills the screen, making my heart pound harder. “Hi, zaychik.” His voice is soft and deep, his gaze mesmerizing even through the camera. In general, the quality of the video is insane; it’s like a movie in HD. I can see everything, from the artful swoops in the abstract painting hanging on the wall a few feet behind his chair to the forest-green flecks in his amber eyes. He must’ve just arrived because he’s still wearing the shirt and tie I saw him leave in, but instead of looking tired and rumpled, as a normal person would after a transatlantic flight, he’s the very picture of effortless elegance, every glossy black hair in place.

Realizing I’m staring at him like a star-struck groupie, I force my vocal cords into action. “Hi.” My throat is still a bit raw from smoke, but I’m hoping he ascribes the raspiness in my voice to the late hour. “How was your flight?”

His sensuous lips curl in a warm smile. “Uneventful. Why are you still awake? It’s past midnight over there.”

“Just… not sleepy.” Especially now that I’m talking to him. Getting this call was like downing five shots of espresso; even my tiredness is gone, replaced by a jittery sort of excitement—one that’s only partially related to what I was reading.

As I suspected, the Molotovs are filthy rich and a huge deal in Russia. “One of the most powerful oligarch families” is a Google-translated quote from one Russian article, and there are plenty of mentions of Nikolai and his brothers—and before that, of Vladimir, their father—in the Russian press. I even found a photo from last year in which Nikolai is sitting next to the Russian president at some black-tie event in Moscow, looking as cool and comfortable as at his family dinners.

What I didn’t find, to my huge relief, is anything about the Molotovs being mafia or having criminal affiliations, though maybe I just didn’t dig deep enough. Even with the help of web translation tools, it’s hard to come up with the right search terms in Russian, and there’s surprisingly little written about Nikolai’s family in English—a passing mention on CNN of a pipeline in Syria laid by one of their oil companies, a paragraph on Bloomberg about a new cancer drug developed by one of their pharmaceutical companies, a line about Vladimir Molotov in a New York Times article discussing the enormous wealth in Russia. There are no Wikipedia entries on them, nothing in the tabloids. They don’t even appear on any Forbes lists, though several Russian billionaires do, and the Molotovs sound even richer.

Of course it’s possible I couldn’t find anything because of all the Molotov cocktail references clogging up search results. I’ll have to ask Nikolai or his sister if they’re any relation to the Soviet foreign minister the homemade explosives are pejoratively named after.

At my reply, Nikolai frowns into the camera, looking concerned. “You didn’t have another nightmare, did you?”

I shake my head with a smile. “I just haven’t gone to sleep yet.”

Maybe it’s the lack of any alarming discoveries in my search, or the simple reality that he’s not here to make my body hum with physical awareness, but I feel calmer talking to him tonight… safer. After all, it’s possible that my experiences over the past month have shredded my nerves, leading me to see danger where none exists, and all the supposed red flags—his bullet wound scar and busted knuckles, the guards and all the security measures—have innocuous explanations. In fact…

“Were you ever in the military?” I ask impulsively, and more tension leaves my shoulders as Nikolai nods, a faint smile dancing on his lips as he leans back in his chair.

“My family has a long history of distinguished service to the country, and my father insisted my brothers and I follow the tradition. All three of us enlisted at eighteen and served for several years.” He tilts his head, regarding me thoughtfully. “Were you wondering about this?” He touches his left shoulder.

“I was,” I admit sheepishly. I’m beginning to feel like an idiot for letting my imagination run wild before. “What happened? Were you shot?”

He nods. “A sniper sent a bullet my way. Luckily, he missed.”

“Missed?”

His white teeth flash in a grin. “I’m not dead, am I?”

“No, thank God.” Still, my chest squeezes as I picture that scar and the pain he must’ve experienced as the bullet tore through his flesh. “Did it take you long to recover?”

“A few weeks. I was only twenty at the time, which helped.”

“Still, I can’t imagine it was fun.” Unable to resist the temptation, I ask, “Do you keep up with your training to this day? Like… fighting and stuff?”

I’m trying to be subtle, but he sees right through me anyway.

Grinning wickedly, he holds up his hands, turning them to show the bruised knuckles to the camera. “You’re asking about these, I assume? That’s from sparring with a few of my guards. They’re from my former unit, and we go at it once in a while—at least when Pavel can’t oblige me.”

I grin back at him, so relieved I could cry. Of course his guards are his army buddies; that makes so much sense, and speaks volumes about his character. “Was Pavel in the army with you as well?” I can easily picture the man-bear in army fatigues, toting an M16 and maybe carrying a tank on his shoulders.

To my surprise, Nikolai shakes his head. “He actually served with my father. He enlisted at fourteen, and they let him, since he was already his current size and looked all of twenty-five.”

“Oh, wow. So he’s known your family since before you were born?”

“Long before,” Nikolai confirms. “My father hired him straight from the army, and he’s been with our family ever since.”

“Lyudmila too?”

“No, they’ve only been married for about ten years.” He laughs. “Alina just about had a fit when he first introduced Lyudmila to us. I think my sister was under the impression that Pavel was her exclusive property.”

My eyes widen. “She had a crush on him?”

“Not precisely, no. I think she thought of him more as a second father.” His smile fades, and something bleak flickers in his eyes before his lips take on their usual darkly sensual curve—that cynical, seductive smile that, I’m now realizing, hides his true emotions. Leaning closer to the camera, he says softly, “Enough about them. Tell me about your day, zaychik. What did you and Slava do while I’ve been gone?”

Right, that’s why he’s calling: to get a report on his son. Concealing an irrational pang of disappointment, I put on my tutor hat and fill him in on our activities and the progress Slava’s making. He listens attentively, interrupting occasionally to ask follow-up questions, and as our conversation continues, I realize I have to revise yet another negative opinion I had of him.

Nikolai does care about his son. A lot.

I caught a glimpse of it this morning, when Slava and I lay there on the bed, and I see it now in the way his face softens when I talk about the boy. I don’t know why he refuses to protect his son from such obvious dangers as a sharp knife, but it’s not because he doesn’t love him. He does—though judging by the way he is around Slava, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has trouble admitting it.

I think Nikolai wants to be closer to his son but doesn’t know how.

I think… he may be a good man, after all.

Alina’s warning intrudes on my mind again, but I push it away. She was high, and there’s clearly tension between brother and sister, some kind of history I’m not privy to. Besides, I don’t know what she thinks is happening between me and Nikolai, but love is nowhere on the table. Sex, maybe—I’m realistic enough to admit that my determination not to sleep with my boss is proving to be no match for the powerful attraction between us—but love is a whole other game. I’d be an idiot to fall in love with a man like Nikolai, who’s undoubtedly used to the most beautiful women in the world throwing themselves at him. If we slept together, it wouldn’t mean anything to him—and I can’t let it mean anything to me.

Better yet, we shouldn’t sleep together.

That way, nobody gets hurt.

We talk about Slava for another twenty minutes before the late hour catches up with me and a yawn overtakes me in the middle of a sentence. I stifle it right away, but Nikolai isn’t fooled.

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?” he murmurs, eyeing me with concern. “You should’ve said something, zaychik. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m just…” Another uncontrollable yawn interrupts my words, and I cover it with the back of my hand before giving him a rueful smile. “Okay, yes, it’s sleepy time for me. How are you so awake? You must be jet-lagged on top of everything.”

The green flecks in his eyes gleam brighter. “I don’t need much sleep.”

Of course he doesn’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was part superhuman—that would explain those extraordinary good looks he shares with his sister.

“Well, goodnight anyway,” I say, fighting another yawn. “And good luck with whatever business you have there.”

“Thank you, zaychik.” His smile holds a tender note. “Sleep well. I’ll call you tomorrow evening.”

He hangs up, and as I put away the laptop, I’m cognizant of my heart beating in a new, uneven rhythm, my chest filled with a warmth I don’t dare examine.