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I turn around to find the waiter, but my dad stops me.
“After we meet the president.”
I groan as he drags me by the arm toward the ballroom, where a receiving line spills out into the corridor. Inside, the crystal chandeliers draw my gaze upward toward the gilded ceiling of gold paneling. As we grow nearer, I catch a glimpse of a man standing at the front in formal military attire.
He’s tall with graying hair and a cold, calculating stare. As people greet him, he shakes their hand, but he doesn’t say a word, nor does he smile at anyone.
But he exudes power, giving off a don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I’ll-kill-you vibe. And it makes me want to run in the opposite direction.
“That’s Grigor Kurochkin, the president of Andarusia,” my dad says to me in hushed tones.
The receiving line dwindles quickly, and soon we’re next. There’s a tall woman beside the president, and I’m starting to wonder if there’s something in the Baltic gene pool that makes everyone as tall as a giraffe.
Her blonde hair is done up in a bun, and not a strand is out of place. A black, strapless gown highlights her svelte figure. Makeup? Immaculate. Nails? Perfect and sharp, like claws.
But when the people in front of us finish their greeting, they move away, revealing two more figures. A petite, blonde girl, a few years younger than me, and a boy, his hair a shade darker than his sister’s.
He looks to be my age, but his gorgeous, chiseled face is set into a cold look, making him seem older than his years. When he turns his icy blue eyes onto me, it sends a jolt of fear through every nerve ending. I shudder.
How can a boy with the face of an angel frighten me more than Lucifer himself? And with just one look.
He is a dark prince with the power to swallow me whole.
“President, thank you so much for hosting us tonight,” my father says. “I’d like to introduce my daughter, Willow, who just arrived from the States.”
The president extends his hand to me, forcing me to tear my gaze away from the devilish stranger. I accept his handshake, but I’m not sure whether to say hello or hold my tongue.
There’s something dangerous about this family, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“May I present his lovely wife, Olga, and their children, Anastasia and Aleksandr.”
I shake hands with each of them, their grips firm and cold. But when I get to Aleksandr, I hesitate.
He reaches for my hand, and as soon as his skin connects with mine, it sends a tantalizing shiver up my entire arm. I suck in a sharp breath. His touch is warm, unlike the other members of his family. Hot, even.
Aleksandr brings my hand to his mouth and places a kiss atop my knuckles. His lips are soft as he lingers there for a moment, his eyes assessing me.
With his head bowed, I get a glimpse of his thick, sandy hair, and I want to reach out and run my fingers through those enticing waves.
“Aleksandr attends the President’s Academy of Olininburg, where you’ll be going to school,” my dad interjects. “Perhaps he can show you around, if he isn’t too busy?”
He drops my hand, and when he does, it leaves me bereft and longing for his touch once again.
I haven’t had a boy excite me this much since… well, never.
Aleksandr smirks at me. “Perhaps.”
His voice makes my back stiffen. His English is clean, sounding British with only a trace of a Russian accent. And it’s brimming with dark promises.
My dad takes that as our cue, and he ushers me away from the president and his family. I glance back over my shoulder at Aleksandr, but his attention is focused on the next person in line.
As though he’s already forgotten me.
Instead of heading to our table, my dad leads me around the room, introducing me to all sorts of dignitaries whose names I’ll never remember. The schmoozing and the ass-kissing are more than I can stand, and my heels are killing me. I shift from foot to foot while standing at my father’s side, arms crossed.
He puts his hand on my back to lead me to his next networking opportunity, but I shrug him off. I skulk behind him as we approach another white dude in a suit, and when we do, the couple he’s talking to disperses into the crowd.
“Hans Müller.” My dad extends his hand with a warm smile.
