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I shake my head at the thought. Where the hell did that come from?
“Sir,” a young woman says when I round the corner toward the stairs. She has long blonde hair wound in elegant twin braids down the front of her shoulders. Her eyes remain at her feet demurely.
“What is it, Olesya?” I know the name of everyone working for me. I make it a point to.
“The chef said to let you know they’re ready to set the dining room as soon as you give the word.”
Nodding, I walk around her. “Tell him to stick with the plan. I’ll be sitting down with my guest at six on the dot.” That gives Galina some wiggle room if she’s dragging her feet. I have faith Ulyana will check on her without my asking if she isn’t out of her room in the next ten minutes.
Turning the corner into the spacious dining room with its mahogany walls and waxed floors, I freeze. The heavy wooden table has been arranged with a gold and blue runner, as well as copper place settings. There are only two chairs, and one of them is filled.
“Dobriy vecher, Arsen,” Galina says, flashing me a tight smile.
Her Russian is almost flawless, apart from the slightest hint of an American accent. And the way it rolls off her tongue catches me off guard.
What is she doing here already? My eyes dart around, a habit I can’t control—Once my nerves go off, I need to make sure nothing else will surprise me. Enemies can be anywhere when you’re vulnerable.
Galina is leaning forward in her chair, elbows on the table, hands clasped beneath her chin. Her eyes glint with humor. She knows she surprised me and is reveling in it. Gathering myself, I take a second to look at her. None of my guesses earlier on how she’d dress were right. Galina has chosen a silky green asymmetrical gown that exposes her smooth shoulders while hinting at the dip of her waist. Her long hair is wound into a messy bun, with thin strands framing her face. It creates a casually sexy look, as if she just rolled out of bed and ended up here.
“That dress wasn’t in your closet,” I note. I know everything that was in her room.
She shrugs. “When you told me we were having dinner, I asked Ulyana if she could help me out. She brought me this.”
Ulyana went shopping for her without telling me? I’ll be chatting with her about that later. “It suits you,” I say.
“I don’t see how.” She narrows her eyes. “Green isn’t the color prisoners normally wear. I should have chosen orange, I think.”
“You’re my guest.” I emphasize the last word before sitting across from her.
“I know you want me to believe that. I don’t know why. I wouldn’t think you’d care if I felt welcomed or trapped. It’s all the same in the end.”
“You’re wrong. I do care.”
She recoils dubiously. The door on the other side of the room opens; in marches an array of servers, each carrying glasses or carafes of wine. Baskets of bread, silver trays of freshly churned butter, discs of oil and balsamic, follow suit. Finally, the main meal makes up the tail. My chef, Danil Yorvich, stands proudly with a plate in each hand. He’s a rotund man with reddish hair gelled back like a helmet. It creates a contrast with the rich emerald green apron stretching over his muscular trapezoids. He jokes that he never goes to the gym because baking bread is hard work already.
“Dinner is served,” he states, carefully placing the food in front of Galina, then me.
The strong aroma of marinated flank steak, creamy garlic potatoes, and sauteed spinach makes my stomach clench. I’m starving, but I didn’t notice until now. I’ve been distracted by … other things all day. “Thank you, Chef,” I say.
He beams, then nods at Galina. She nods back, watching him and the others leave the room. When we’re alone, she doesn’t touch her food. She focuses on me intently, jumping back into our conversation.
“Why do you care how I feel? Worried I’ll get the wrong impression and think you’re a bad guy? Spoiler alert: I already think that, Arsen.”
“That’s you being stubborn and choosing not to hear what I have to say.”
“Fine. I’m listening.”
Lifting my glass, I breathe in the tang of the wine before taking a sip. “Drink first.”
“I’m not thirsty.”
“Are you worried I poisoned it?”
Galina slides her glass toward me pointedly. Grinning at her honesty, I take her glass, tossing back a mouthful. She frowns slightly, then drinks a bit of the wine.
“Satisfied?” she asks.
Laughing at her antics, I break off a piece of bread. Dipping it in the oil, I watch the yellow liquid soak into the crust as I talk. “As I warned you last night, Yevgeniy is interested in you. Not just you, but your mother as well.”
