Page 10 of Lord of Passion

Nikandr…

I have no interest in seeing that little card shark again.

Caroline may be an effective hotel manager, and I had certainly checked my sources and the Lyric's P&L statements to see how she was doing as GM. But seeing her smirking little face after winning twenty-five million at Morozov Poker Night, and with aRoyal Flush?Let her gloat on her own time.

Still…

A week later I'm back at the reception desk at the Hotel Lyric. Caroline is waiting for me, beautiful in a crisp blue suit, her hair pulled up in a high ponytail.

"Welcome, Mr. Morozov," she says blandly. "Your assistant checked with us regarding holding Suite 1010 for you." Her tone may be impersonal, but I can feel the edge of tension on it, vibrating from having to be pleasant to me.

"Excellent," I say, taking the key card from her fingers and checking my watch. "I will have two other guests joining me. Please send them up when they arrive."

She checks the notes on her iPad and sees the names of two women. Her smile sours like she just bit into a lemon, then turns into more of a professional grimace.

"Of course," she says, soverypleasant and professional. "Enjoy your afternoon."

I head toward the elevator with a grin. Oh, that last commentburnedher. I could tell.

My guests arrive and after a long, elaborate lunch filled with favorites from a menu created by our St. Petersburg-based chef, Natalia leans back, eyeing me speculatively.

"Not that we don't enjoy the five-star service," she says, gesturing around the room and its spectacular view of New York. "Is there a reason that you're crowding the three of us in a hotel suite instead of meeting us somewhere for lunch?"

"I did wonder…" Yulia adds.

The Kuznetsov sisters are both beautiful blondes with ice blue eyes. Our two families have long been friends and close allies and we see each other frequently. The sisters are ruthless businesswomen, and handle the shipping and smuggling side of their family's Bratva.

"No reason," I lie pleasantly. "I wanted you to see our latest hotel. Beautiful, isn't it?"

Yulia exchanges a glance with her sister. "That's the only reason that you would bring us here? For the delicious food, and the lovely view?"

"And not theoptics?"Natalia adds helpfully.

Pouring myself another drink, I fill up their empty glasses, too. It's a superb bottle of Imperial Collection Vodka, it would be a shame to waste it.

"What other reason would I have?" I ask, downing half my glass.

"You know our security always checks out any new location before taking us there. It seems this hotel has a very beautiful general manager," Yulia says, clicking her long fingernails together. They're sharpened into a point like talons and painted blood red like she's already dug them into the skin of some unfortunate soul. "What is her name, sister?"

"Caroline Basha, she's practically a member of the family, isn't she?" Natalia asks with a grin. "We heard that she kicked your collective asses in poker last week.SerTurgenev told his wife, who, then of course, told our mother, who found it very amusing."

"The two of you are vipers," I say. "I would like to remind you that wealllost in the poker tournament to her, not just me."

"Well of course!" Natalia says happily. "It's just that this is the sort of thing thatneverhappens toyou.It's good for you to be taken down a peg or two."

"I think you've been pampered just a bit too much," Yulia agrees. "A little humility is very character building."

"You are horrible women," I say thoughtfully. "I can't imagine why I like you."

Yulia raises her drink and gives me a grin that can only be described as vulpine. "Because we are one and the same, brother. We are all horrible people." She taps her glass against mine and we finish our vodka.

Because wearetruly horrible people, Natalia and Yulia each take an arm as we step out of the elevator, both of them leaving me with the traditional Russian three kisses; right cheek, then left, then right, lingering on the last kiss before they leave the hotel.

Caroline is across the lobby, speaking to an older couple. I recognize the woman, Marta Borremans, the ambassador to the U.S. from Belgium. Caroline is all smiles and charm until she turns and sees me.

"Hello, Caroline," I say.

"Is there something you need, Mr. Morozov?" she says. Her eyes are glittering - with murderous thoughts, no doubt - and there's a faint flush on her tanned face.