Chapter 9: Devil’s Lair: Chapter 9

Holding Slava’s hand, I approach the dining room, my knees all but knocking together. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I am. Just the thought of seeing Nikolai again makes me feel like a rabid honey badger has taken up residence in my stomach.

It’s the mafia question, I tell myself. Now that the idea has occurred to me, I can’t get it out of my mind, no matter how hard I try. That’s why my breath quickens and my palms grow damp each time I picture the cynical curve of my employer’s lips. Because he might be a criminal. Because I sense a dark, ruthless edge in him. It has nothing to do with his looks and the heat that flows through my veins whenever his intense green-gold gaze lands on me.

It can’t have anything to do with that because he’s married, and I would never poach another woman’s husband, especially when a child is involved.

Still, I can’t help wondering how long Nikolai and his wife have been together… whether he loves her. So far, I’ve only seen them together briefly, so it’s impossible to tell—though I did sense a certain lack of intimacy between them. But I’m sure that was just wishful thinking on my part. Why wouldn’t my employer love his wife? Alina is as gorgeous as he is, so much so they almost look alike. No wonder Slava is such a beautiful child; with parents like that, he’s won the genetic lottery, big time.

I glance down at the boy in question, and he looks up at me, his huge eyes eerily like his father’s. His expression is solemn, the exuberance he displayed when we played together gone. Like me, he seems anxious about our upcoming meal, so I give him a reassuring smile.

“Dinner,” I say, nodding toward the table we’re approaching. “We’re about to have dinner.”

He blinks up at me, saying nothing, but I know he’s filing away the word, along with everything else I’ve said to him today. Young children are like sponges, absorbing everything adults say and do, their brains forming connections at dazzling speed. When I was in high school, I babysat for a Chinese couple. Their five-year-old spoke zero English when I met her, but after a few weeks of kindergarten and a dozen evenings with me, she was almost fluent. The same thing will happen to Slava, I have no doubt.

Already, by the end of this afternoon, he was repeating a few words after me.

No one’s in the dining room yet, though Pavel gruffly told me to be down here at six when he brought the fruit-and-cheese tray to Slava’s room. However, the table is already set with all manner of salads and appetizers, and my mouth waters at the deliciousness waiting for us. While the afternoon snack quenched the worst of my gnawing hunger, I’m still starving, and it takes all of my willpower not to fall ravenously on the artfully arranged platters of open-faced caviar sandwiches, smoked fish, roasted vegetables, and leafy green salads. Instead, I help Slava climb up onto a chair that has a child’s booster seat on it, and then I begin pointing out the names of the different foods in English. “We call this dish salad, and the green thing inside it is lettuce,” I’m saying as the click-clack of high heels announces Alina’s arrival.

I look up at her with a smile. “Hello. Slava and I were just—”

“Why hasn’t he changed?” Her dark eyebrows pull together as she takes in the child’s appearance. “He knows we change for dinner.”

I blink. “Oh, I—”

She interrupts with a stream of rapid-fire Russian, and I see the boy’s shoulders tighten as he slinks down in his seat, as if wanting to disappear. Apparently realizing she’s upsetting her son, Alina softens her tone and eventually gets what sounds like a chastised apology out of the child.

She faces me. “Sorry about that. Slava knows better than to come down like this, but he forgot in all the excitement.”

My face burns as I realize that “like this” means his normal casual clothes, which are no different from the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt I’m wearing. Nikolai’s wife, on the other hand, has changed into an even more glamorous dress—a silver-blue ankle-length gown—and looks like she’s on her way to a Hollywood premiere.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like a fanny-pack-wearing tourist who’s stumbled into a Parisian fashion show. “I didn’t realize there was a dress code.”

“Oh, you’re fine.” Alina waves an elegant hand. “It’s not a requirement for you. But Slava is a Molotov, and it’s important that he learn the family traditions.”

“I see.” I don’t see, actually, but it’s not my place to argue with family traditions, however absurd they may be.

“And don’t worry,” Alina adds, taking a seat across from Slava. “If you wish to dress properly as well, I’m sure Kolya will buy you some appropriate clothing.”

Kolya? Is that what she calls her husband?

“That’s not necessary, thank you—” I begin, only to fall into a stunned silence as I catch sight of Nikolai approaching the table. Like his wife, he’s changed for dinner, his high-end designer jeans and button-up shirt replaced by a sharply tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and skinny black tie—an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place at a high-society wedding… or the same movie premiere Alina’s planning to attend. And while an average-looking man could easily pass for handsome in a suit like this, Nikolai’s dark, masculine beauty is heightened to an almost unbearable degree. As I take in his appearance, my pulse goes through the roof and my lungs constrict, along with lower regions of my—

Married, Chloe. He’s married.

The reminder is like a slap in the face, yanking me out of my dazzled trance. Forcing a breath into my oxygen-deprived lungs, I give my employer a carefully restrained smile, one that doesn’t say that my heart is racing in my chest and that I’m wishing like hell Alina didn’t exist. Especially since his striking gaze is trained on me instead of his gorgeous wife.

“You’re late,” she says as he pulls out a chair and sits next to her. “It’s already—”

“I know what time it is.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he responds to her, his tone coolly dismissive. Then his gaze flicks to the boy at my side and his features tighten as he takes in his casual appearance.

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” I say before he can also reprimand the child. “I didn’t realize we needed to get dressed up for dinner.”

Nikolai’s attention returns to me. “Of course you didn’t.” His gaze travels over my shoulders and chest, making me acutely conscious of my plain long-sleeved T-shirt and the thin cotton bra underneath that’s doing nothing to hide my inexplicably erect nipples. “Alina is right. I need to buy you some proper clothes.”

“No, really, that’s—”

He holds up his palm. “House rules.” His voice is soft, but his face could’ve been laid in stone. “Now that you’re a member of this household, you must abide by them.”

“I… all right.” If he and his wife want to see me in fancy clothes at dinner and don’t mind spending the money to make it happen, so be it.

Like he said, their house, their rules.

“Good.” His sensual lips curve. “I’m glad you’re so accommodating.”

My breath quickens, my face warming again, and I look away to hide my reaction. All the man did was smile, for fuck’s sake, and I’m blushing like a fifteen-year-old virgin. And in front of his wife, no less.

If I don’t get a handle on this ridiculous crush, I’ll be fired before the end of the meal.

“Would you like some salad?” Alina asks, as if to remind me of her existence, and I shift my attention to her, grateful for the distraction.

“Yes, please.”

She gracefully ladles a serving of leafy green salad onto my plate, then does the same for her husband and son. In the meantime, Nikolai extends the platter with caviar sandwiches toward me, and I take one, both because I’m hungry enough to eat anything residing on bread and because I’m curious about the notorious Russian delicacy. I’ve had this type of fish roe—the big orange kind—in sushi restaurants a couple of times, but I imagine it’s different like this, served on a slice of French baguette with a thick layer of butter underneath.

Sure enough, when I bite into it, the rich umami flavor explodes on my tongue. Unlike the fish roe I’ve tasted, Russian caviar appears to be preserved with liberal amounts of salt. It would be too salty on its own, but the crusty white bread and mellow butter balance it perfectly, and I devour the rest of the small sandwich in two bites.

Eyes gleaming with amusement, Nikolai offers me the platter again. “More?”

“I’m good, thank you.” I’d love another caviar sandwich—or twenty—but I don’t want to seem greedy. Instead, I dig into my salad, which is also delicious, with a sweet, tangy dressing that makes my taste buds tingle. Then I try a bite of everything on the table, from the smoked fish to some kind of potato salad to grilled eggplant drizzled with a cucumber-dill yogurt sauce.

As I eat, I keep an eye on my charge, who’s eating quietly beside me. Alina has given Slava a small portion of everything the adults are having, the caviar sandwich included, and the boy seems to have no problem with that. There are no demands for chicken fingers or French fries, no sign of the typical pickiness of a four-year-old. Even his table manners are those of a much older child, with only a couple of instances of him grabbing a piece of food with his fingers instead of his fork.

“Your son is very well-behaved,” I tell Alina and Nikolai, and Nikolai lifts his eyebrows, as if hearing it for the first time.

“Well-behaved? Slava?”

“Of course.” I frown at him. “You don’t think so?”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” he says, glancing at the boy, who’s diligently spearing a piece of lettuce with his adult-sized fork. “I suppose he conducts himself reasonably well.”

Reasonably well? A four-year-old who sits calmly and eats everything served to him with zero whining or interruptions of adult conversation? Who handles utensils like a pro? Maybe this is a thing in Europe, but I’ve certainly never seen it in America.

Also, why hasn’t my employer given his son’s behavior much thought? Aren’t parents supposed to worry about things like that?

“Have you been around many other children his age?” I ask Nikolai on a hunch, and catch his mouth flattening for a second.

“No,” he says curtly. “I haven’t.”

Alina shoots him an indecipherable look, then turns to me. “I don’t know if my brother has told you this,” she says in a measured tone, “but we only learned of Slava’s existence eight months ago.”

I choke on a pickled tomato I’ve just bitten into and break into a coughing fit, the spicy, vinegary juices having gone down the wrong pipe. “Wait, what?” I gasp out when I can speak.

Eight months ago?

And did she just call Nikolai her brother?

“I see this is news to you,” Alina says, handing me a glass of water, which I gratefully gulp down. “Kolya”—she glances at Nikolai, who’s wearing a hard, closed-off expression—“hasn’t told you much about us, has he?”

“Um, no.” I set the glass down and cough again to clear the hoarseness from my voice. “Not really.” My new employer hasn’t said much at all, but I’ve made all sorts of assumptions, and wrong ones at that.

Alina is Nikolai’s sister, not his wife. Which means the boy is not her son.

They didn’t know he existed until eight months ago.

God, that explains so much. No wonder father and son act like they’re strangers to each other—they are, for all intents and purposes. And I was right when I sensed a lack of lover-like intimacy between Nikolai and Alina.

They aren’t lovers.

They’re siblings.

Looking at the two of them now, I don’t understand how I could’ve missed the resemblance—or rather, why the resemblance I did notice didn’t clue me in to their familial relationship. Alina’s features are a softer, more delicate version of the man sitting in front of me, and though her green eyes lack the deep amber undertones of Nikolai’s stunning gaze, the shape of her eyes and eyebrows is the same.

They’re clearly, unmistakably siblings.

Which means Nikolai is not married.

Or at least not married to Alina.

“Where is Slava’s mother?” I ask, striving for a casual tone. “Is she—”

“She’s dead.” Nikolai’s voice is cold enough to give frostbite, as is the look he levels at Alina. Turning back to face me, he says evenly, “We had a one-night stand five years ago, and she didn’t tell me she was pregnant. I had no idea I had a son until she was killed in a car accident eight months ago, and a friend of hers found a diary naming me as the father.”

“Oh, that’s…” I swallow. “That must’ve been very difficult. For you, and especially for Slava.” I look at the boy at my side, who’s still eating calmly, as if he has no care in the world. But that’s not the case at all, I know that now. Nikolai’s son has survived one of the biggest tragedies that can befall a child, and however well-adjusted he seems, I have no doubt the loss of his mother has left deep scars on his psyche.

I’m an adult, and I’m having trouble coping with my grief. I can’t imagine what it’s like for a little boy.

“It was,” Alina agrees softly. “In fact, my brother—”

“That’s enough.” Nikolai’s tone is still perfectly level, but I can see the tension in his jaw and shoulders. The topic is an unpleasant one for him, and no wonder. I can’t imagine what it must be like to find out you have a child you’ve never met, to know you’ve missed the first years of his life.

I have a million questions I want to ask, but I can tell now’s not the time to indulge my curiosity. Instead, I reach for more food and spend the next few minutes complimenting the chef—who, it turns out, is indeed the gruff, bear-like Russian.

“Pavel and his wife, Lyudmila, came with us from Moscow,” Alina explains as the man-bear himself appears from the kitchen, carrying a large platter of lamb chops surrounded by roasted potatoes with mushrooms. With a grunt, he sets the food on the table, grabs a couple of empty appetizer plates, and disappears back into the kitchen as Alina continues. “Lyudmila is under the weather today, so Pavel is doing all the work. Normally, he does most of the cooking and cleaning, while she serves the food. Her main job, though, is looking after Slava.”

“Are they the only two people living here besides your family?” I ask, accepting a lamb chop and a scoop of potatoes with mushrooms when she extends the platter toward me after giving a decent-sized portion to Slava—who again digs in without fuss.

“They’re the only people residing in the house with us,” Nikolai answers. “The guards have a separate bunker on the north side of the estate.”

My heart jumps. “Guards?”

“We have a few men securing the compound,” Alina says. “Since we’re so isolated out here and all.”

I do my best to conceal my reaction. “Yes, of course, that makes sense.” Except it doesn’t. If anything, the remote location should make it safer. From what I could see on the map, only one road leads up the mountain, and there’s already an impenetrable-looking gate there, not to mention that ridiculously tall metal wall.

Only people with powerful, dangerous enemies would think it necessary to hire guards on top of all those measures.

Russian mafia.

The words whisper through my mind again, and my heartbeat intensifies. Lowering my gaze to my plate, I cut into my lamb chop, doing my best to keep my hand steady despite the anxious whirling of my thoughts.

Am I in danger here? Did I jump from the frying pan into the fire? Should I—

“Tell us more about yourself, Chloe.”

Nikolai’s deep voice cuts into my nervous contemplation, and I look up to find his tiger eyes on me, his lips curved in a sardonic smile. Once again, I have the disconcerting sensation that he’s seeing straight into my head, that he knows exactly what I’m thinking and fearing.

Pushing the unsettling feeling away, I smile back. “What would you like to know?”

“Your driver’s license says you reside in Boston. Is that where you grew up?”

I nod, spearing a piece of lamb chop. “My mom moved us there from California when I was a baby, and I grew up in and around the Boston area.” I bite into the tender, perfectly seasoned meat and again have to give props to Pavel—it’s the best lamb chop I’ve ever had. The potatoes with mushrooms are amazing too, all garlicky and buttery, so good I could eat a pound in a sitting.

“What about your father?” Alina asks when I’m halfway through the lamb chop. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” I say, patting my lips with a napkin. “My mom never told me who he is.”

“Why not?” Nikolai’s voice sharpens. “Why didn’t she tell you?”

I blink, taken aback, until it dawns on me what he must be thinking. “Oh, she didn’t hide the pregnancy from him. He knew she was pregnant and chose to walk away.” Or at least that’s what I’ve gathered based on the few hints my mom had dropped over the years. For whatever reason, she hated this topic, so much so that whenever I pushed for answers, she’d take to bed with a migraine.

Nikolai’s tone softens a fraction. “I see.”

“I think he wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility,” I say, feeling the need to explain. “My mom was only seventeen when she had me, so I’m guessing he was very young as well.”

“You’re guessing?” Alina lifts her perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Your mom didn’t even tell you his age?”

“She didn’t like to talk about it. It was a difficult time in her life.” My voice tightens as another wave of grief washes over me, my chest squeezing with an ache so intense I can barely breathe through it.

I miss my mom. I miss her so much it hurts. Though I saw her body with my own eyes, a part of me still can’t believe she’s dead, can’t process the fact that a woman so beautiful and vibrant is gone forever from this world.

“Are you okay, Chloe?” Alina asks softly, and I nod, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears stinging my eyes.

“Are you sure?” she presses, her green gaze filled with pity, and in a flash of intuition, I realize that she knows—and so does Nikolai, who’s watching me with an unreadable expression.

Somehow, they both know my mom is dead.

A rush of adrenaline chases away the grief as my mind leaps into overdrive. There’s little doubt now: They had me investigated prior to our interview. That’s how Nikolai knew about my lack of posts on social media, and why Alina is looking at me this way.

They know all sorts of things about me, including the fact that I lied to them by omission.

Thinking fast, I give a visible swallow and look down at my plate. “My mom…” I let my voice break, like it wants to. “She died a month ago.” Allowing the tears to flood my eyes, I look up, meeting Nikolai’s gaze. “That’s another reason I decided to go on the road trip. I needed some time to process things.”

His eyes glint a darker shade of gold. “My deepest condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you.” I wipe away the moisture on my cheeks. “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. It’s not something I felt comfortable casually bringing up in an interview.” Especially since my mom was killed and the men who did it are after me. I really hope Nikolai doesn’t know about that.

Then again, he wouldn’t have hired me if he did. It’s not the sort of thing you want around your family.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Alina says, a genuine expression of sympathy on her face. “That must’ve been difficult for you, losing your only parent. Do you have any other family? Grandparents, aunts, cousins?”

“No. My mom was adopted from an orphanage in Cambodia by an American missionary couple. They were killed in a car accident when she was ten, and none of their family wanted her, so she grew up in foster care.”

“So you’re all alone now,” Nikolai murmurs, and I nod, the squeezing ache in my chest returning.

Growing up, I’d never minded the lack of extended family. Mom had given me all the love and support I could’ve wished for. But now that she’s gone, now that it’s no longer the two of us against the world, I’m painfully aware that I don’t have anyone to rely on.

The friends I’d made in school and college are busy with their own, infinitely less fucked-up lives.

Realizing I’m drifting dangerously close to self-pity, I pull my gaze away from Nikolai’s probing stare and turn my attention to the child at my side. He’s finished his potatoes and is now industriously working on his lamb chop, his little face the very picture of concentration as he struggles to cut a bite-sized piece of meat using a fork and knife that someone left by his plate. Not a dull bread knife, either, I realize with a jolt.

An actual sharp steak knife.

“Here, darling, let me,” I say, grabbing it from him before he can slice off his fingers. “This is—”

“Something he needs to learn how to handle,” Nikolai says, reaching across the table to take the knife from me. His fingers brush over mine as he clasps the handle, and I feel it like an electric shock, the warmth of his skin igniting an answering furnace inside me. My insides tighten, my breath quickening, and it’s all I can do not to yank back my hand as if scalded.

At least he’s not married, an insidious little voice whispers in my head, and I shush it with vengeance.

Married or not, he’s still my employer and thus strictly off-limits.

Biting my lip, I watch him hand the knife back to the child, who resumes his dangerous task.

“You’re not worried he’ll cut himself?” I can’t keep the judgment out of my voice as I stare at the little fingers wrapped around a potentially lethal weapon. Slava is handling the knife with a reasonable degree of skill and dexterity, but he’s still too young to be dealing with something so sharp.

“If he does, he’ll know better next time,” Nikolai says. “Life doesn’t come with a safety lock.”

“But he’s only four.”

“Four and eight months,” Alina says as the boy succeeds in cutting a piece of lamb chop and, looking pleased with himself, forks it into his mouth. “His birthday’s in November.”

I’m tempted to keep arguing with them, but it’s my first day and I’ve already pushed the envelope more than is wise. So I keep my mouth shut and focus on my food to avoid looking at the child wielding a knife next to me… or his callous, yet dangerously attractive father.

Unfortunately, said father keeps looking at me. Each time I lift my gaze from my plate, I find his mesmerizing eyes on me and my heartbeat jumps, my hand tingling at the recollection of what it felt like to have his fingers brush against mine.

This is bad.

So bad.

Why is he looking at me like that?

He can’t be attracted to me as well… can he?