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He lets me go and opens the passenger side door for me.
I jump inside as quickly as possible to avoid looking at him, and as soon as he closes the door, I have two seconds of alone time not to think about how his cock would feel down my throat.
Because I bet it would feel pretty damn good.
We’re silent as we drive through the city. I don’t recognize the streets we’re on, and Mikhail starts pointing things out to me, from popular streets to historic establishments. His voice soothes my nerves, and I relax into the soft leather seat.
“You’ve lived here your whole life?” I ask, glancing at him.
He’s a picture of ease, lounging back with one hand on the wheel. “Mm-hmm. My family is Russian-born, but my sister and I are American. We’ve spent a few summers in Russia, but I’m the only one who’s stayed there long-term.”
“You have a sister?” I turn my body to face Mikhail. “How did I not know that?” I picture a woman just as striking as Mikhail, with chestnut hair down to her waist and a sinister sparkle in her eye as she lures men to her with a sultry smile.
He chuckles and turns to watch me instead of the road. “I don’t think it’s come up yet. I told you, I’m full of surprises.”
“Not all of them wicked,” I parrot back, admiring how the sunlight brings out flecks of gold in his eyes. He really is handsome, but unfortunately for me, I find him even more tempting when he’s radiating a hint of malice.
“How long is long-term?” I ask, curious as to why he’d need to be in Russia for any length of time. “Isn’t a summer long enough to visit relatives?”
Mikhail chuckles softly. “I wasn’t exactly visiting in the traditional sense,” he says mysteriously. “But to answer your question, long-term is about...” He thinks for a moment. “Two years, give or take. Ezra’s spent the most time there out of all of us, though.”
I avoid the urge to ask what visiting entails. Probably something illegal.
It makes sense that Ezra has spent the most time there, seeing as his accent is the thickest. I get the feeling that he doesn’t care to change how he speaks, as long as people can understand him.
“Was he born in Russia?”
Mikhail nods. “Yeah, he was.”
“What brought him to the States?”
He’s silent for a moment. “You should ask him next time you see him.”
“You don’t know?”
Taking a deep breath, he exhales slowly before responding. “I know everything there is to know about the man, Valentina. Of course, I know what brought him here. But I’m not going to tell you all our secrets; some of them you have to find out on your own.”
We pull up to a gray building and park in one of the many empty spots out front. A plaque on the outer wall reads Harlin Heights Home for Children, and my forehead creases as Mikhail shuts off the engine. “What are we doing here?” I didn’t even know homes for children still existed, let alone so close to my home.
“Teaching you something,” Mikhail says easily, shutting off the engine and getting out of the car. He comes around the side and opens my door, holding out his hand to help me stand.
The gray stones stack high enough for three floors, certain portions and roughened edges darkened with age and wear. Some of the lower stones have been restored over the years, and a new roof and tended front garden give the place a patchwork feel. Not brand new, but at least taken care of. Children peer out the window at us, one little girl in particular waving excitedly as Mikhail and I approach. They disappear a moment later, the heavy curtain falling closed in their wake.
I don’t know what lesson I’m supposed to learn here, but I grow anxious as Mikhail pulls the aged door open and inclines his head. “After you.”
I glance between him and the lobby, relenting when Mikhail’s expression cools.
“Don’t be so nervous,” he murmurs, pressing his hand to the small of my back as we pass through the entryway.
Although the structure appears old, the bones are good. Solid wood frames and rafters scream old money, and the deep, dark wooden floors are polished to perfection. It reminds me of the Baranova estate and all the expensive wood paneled through the halls. If I wasn’t so unsure about this place, I’d think they were built at the same time.
As I’m looking around and inspecting the architecture, Mikhail approaches the front desk to sign us in.
“Mr. Monrovia! We weren’t expecting you today.” The receptionist’s eyes flick to me, and although her smile is picture perfect, her eye twitches at the edge, like her smile is forced. “This must be Miss Baranova. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have?” I try not to let my mouth hang open. “Why?”
Mikhail’s smile is somehow more perfect than the receptionist’s. “Come now, Valentina. Meet Francesca. She’s a vital part of the team here.”
