I jumped at the sound of Alexei’s voice. He leaned against the doorjamb, so casual, as if he hadn’t stood me up for the date—no, meeting—he had insisted upon.
“You’re two hours late.”
“I had an errand to attend to.”
Something about his tone struck me. “Is everything okay?”
“It is fine.”
No further explanation seemed to be forthcoming, which was typical of Nazarov, who never told me a damn thing. I was still that stupid girl in college, waiting to be blessed with his attention.
“Would have loved a text, but communication was never your strong point.”
I closed my laptop, realizing now that I had waited here instead of going home. And for what? To get the runaround? I could take that from clients, but I wouldn’t stand for it from … whatever the hell this was.
“I am sorry. I should have called you, but something came up. And then I arrive and I have no problems getting into your office where you are working alone, late at night. This is unacceptable, Lauren.”
“Unacceptable? Oh my God, Alexei, could you quit it with the patriarchal shit? I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” I put my purse on the desk and withdrew my pepper spray. “See? And I also have numerous weapons including Gunnar’s stick from his first Cup victory and a puck from back when I was a winner and didn’t put up with assholes like you.”
He picked up my brother-in-law’s stick. “This will probably break with the rot if you use it.”
I snatched it back from him. “Shall we test it?”
Amused, he headed to the window. “I saw the light and hoped … well, it was hope that you were here and then annoyance that your security arrangements were so inadequate. But I see you are more than capable. May I take you to dinner?”
I placed Gunnar’s stick on my desk. “No, you may not. Did you bring the papers?”
“I have sent them to my lawyer to review.”
More excuses. “And then you’ll sign them?”
“If that is your wish.”
“Good.” I should have been overjoyed that he was giving me what I wanted. But the look on his face … it was like I had devastated him.
I moved closer. “Why were you late tonight? You said you had an errand.”
“Now I am obeying your commands, you are interested in my life.”
“Fine. Don’t tell me. Keep me in the dark as usual.” Disappointed, I turned away.
“My father is ill.”
I spun around. “How ill?”
“He fell off a stool today and hit his head.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes. A nasty cut, but he is a tough old bear. Only there is more. He has Alzheimer’s. It is progressing more rapidly than I expected.”
Oh, how awful. Alexei and his father were close, and while I’d never met him, I knew that he had once been a major critic of the Russian government. Alexei had always been taciturn about his father’s work, but I understood that Nazarov Sr. moved to the US several years ago. I had once seen him at a hockey game in Seattle, wearing his son’s colors and looking so proud of what he had achieved.
“Sit for a moment.”
He took a seat and I sat in the armchair beside him. “When did he start showing symptoms?”
“It is one of those things that remains under the surface for years. He would get confused, misplace things, drive to the wrong location for coffee. But it became more serious in the fall of last year. I got a call that he was found wandering around the cul-de-sac where he lived, knocking on doors, looking for me.”
