Page 22 of Lord of Passion

She laughs again, her face turning red. "With a handsome viticulturalist who takes care of the grapes…."

"Yeah," I agree. "A viticulturalist who looks like Henry Cavill, but longer hair, you know, long, flowing locks and he can only wear white shirts that are never buttoned."

Now we're both laughing so hard that I'm afraid wine is going to come shooting out of my nose.

"I like you," she says approvingly. "I wish you lived here in Moscow."

"Well you're always welcome to visit in New York," I say, looking at her beautiful 50's style dress. "You have a gorgeous, funky fashion sense. I could show you a few places that you wouldn't see on the Bergdorf Goodman, House of Bijan, Saks Fifth Avenue tour."

Now, her eyes light up. I'm no psychic, but I am picturing a visit from Polina Volkova to the Lyric in the very future.

It's only later after dessert and many cups of strong, black tea that we all rise from the table. I try to slip away, but Nikandr gets a death grip on my elbow.

"Oh no, you don't," he murmurs, much closer than is necessary. "Volkov thinks you're wonderful and are acting as a social lubricant for his wife."

"Lubricant?" My face crinkles, trying not to envision that.

"You'll have to join us for this next round of discussions," he says, hauling me along. I try digging in my heels, but my Pradas simply slide across the marble floor of the lobby with a sad little screechy sound.

"Stop dragging me around like I'm luggage, I have meetings tomorrow!" I hiss. "I'm not here to lubricate anything for you!"

We're already halfway through the door of the private club next door by the time I finish the sentence. There's a blinding array of chrome, house music roaring from too many speakers and lights flashing and bouncing off every surface until my retinas burn.

Giving in, I allow myself to be dragged up to the VIP section with the rest of them. It's a little quieter here and I won't be required to read lips in order to keep the conversation up. I'm doing pretty well for a while. Polina and I dance, surrounded by her bodyguards.

Then, come the toasts.

As we return to the table, I can tell by Nikandr's relaxed posture that the deal is done and he got what he wanted.

"A toast"! Volkov says, holding his glass high. To my dismay, little glasses of crystal clear, chilled vodka are handed out. "To a magnificent future for our families."

"Za zdorovye!"I repeat dutifully, downing my drink.

"A toast!"

Ah, god.

It's one of Nikandr's captains here in Moscow, and he's already flushed with vodka as he gives a long, meandering toast. Something about a new era of prosperity.

I down another shot.

"A toast!"

It's Nikandr this time, and his speech about mutual enrichment is blessedly short.

There's two more of these and my pronunciation for,"Za zdorovye!"is getting a little sloppy.

By the time they all look at me I've got another full shot glass of vodka in my hand.

Where did that come from?

I realize it's my turn to come up with something. "To new friends and prosperous outcomes," I say, smiling widely and holding my glass high.

"Za novykh druzey i uspeshnyye rezul'taty!"They all chorus andplease, let this be the last shot.

An uncountable amount of vodka has been consumed by the men, so I don't know how Nikandr is walking upright. As everyone leaves, he takes my hand and hauls me gracelessly offthe sofa. "I must take our lovely GM back to the hotel for a good night's rest," he announces unnecessarily to Volkov and Polina. She's smiling at me in an approving sort of way and I yank my arm loose from Nikandr's grip and unfortunately sway violently. His arm slides around my waist in time to keep me from face-planting on the chrome table.

Oh shit, that vodka hit faster than I thought. I used to be better at holding my liquor.