Page 3 of Lord of Passion

I mean, not always. If I'm working them in my professional capacity, checking with catering, making sure the flower arrangements are there on time and we have the correct liquor and enough of it, then, it's fun.

But tonight, I'm standing in my best little black dress, a Balenciaga that shows off my ass without being too obvious, holding a glass of wine and wearing a serene expression. And I would set fire to the ballroom if it meant I could get out of here.

Ordinarily, I'm not prone to arson, even if my family back in Boston was considered "Mafia-lite."

Liria was insistent that I needed to be at this get-together.

"The whole family is coming," she'd said, her pale gray eyes glowing affectionately. "You're new in town, you need to get to know everyone." I moved to New York from Boston less than a month ago, lured by Liria and Alexsey's baby twins and, to be honest, my crippling loneliness. There was nothing left for me back home.

There's a gorgeous buffet laid out, several Russian delicacies like an extensive caviar bar, oysters on the half shell, dainty pastry puffs filled with crab, bacon-wrapped scallops. As snacks go, they're fine, I suppose. But where are the tasty little desserts? There are no tiny cheesecakes that you can pop whole into your mouth, no mini meringues with lemon curd. Personally, I feel the lack of Cheetos is a serious oversight. And there’s not even any fancy potato chips, like the eighty bucks a bag Vandy chips. I plowed through a bag of their Herbes de Provence version once that left me with a severe stomachache but a deep sense of fulfillment.

Turning in search of Liria, I walk right into a man. A giant one, and I nearly bounce off him before he catches me by the elbow. "Oh, excuse me," I chuckle weakly. "I don't usually tackle other partygoers."

"This is a crowded room," he says charmingly. "I'm Nikandr Morozov. And you are…?"

Nikandr has a pleasant, social smile on his face and it's clear he doesn't remember me.

***

It was two weeks ago at Hotel Lyric. I was in the office just behind the reception desk going over some numbers. It was after midnight but I wanted to make sure that I had the account straight for the catering department.

There was a deep voice at the front desk, more of a rumble, and I heard our concierge, Anita, giggle. My brow went up. Anita is forty-five and rigidly professional, and she was giggling like a schoolgirl. "Hello Mr. Morozov, it's an honor to have you here tonight."

One of the Morozovs? I thought I should go out and say hello. Opening the door, I watched the action at the other end of the granite reception counter. It’s a gorgeous space, with enormous flower arrangements on either side of the counter and beautiful lighting to showcase the mural behind the desk of a slightly surreal New York City skyline.

Standing on the other side of the desk was another enormously tall Morozov. If for no other reason, I would have known he was a member of the family due to his height, broad shoulders and the stupid 50's movie star square jaw that they all seem to have. This one was blonde, hair swept back and wearing a beautifully tailored dark blue suit with a couple of buttons open on his white dress shirt, showing the barest bit of a colorful tattoo. He was smiling at Anita, whose shaking fingers were typing something in the reservation schedule.

Next to this tall, gorgeous man was a blonde teetering on high heels, her arm tucked into his. The woman's entire body was fastened onto his as if she was trying to absorb herself genetically into his suit.

"Let me just see what suites we have available," Anita said, still tapping on her keyboard. I moved over next to her and smiled professionally.

"Good evening, Mr. Morozov." I gave his blonde friend a nod and a smile, too, but her eyes never diverted from his profile.

Not that I could blame her. It's one hell of a profile.

He smiled blankly at me, continuing to speak to an increasingly flustered Anita.

I leaned a little closer to Anita. "The Morozovs keep the four top suites available at all times," I murmur, pointing at the layout ofthe top floor. "This one is occupied, the other three are available. I would suggest Suite 1010; it has the best view of the city."

She mumbled a grateful "Thank you," typing quickly and programming two room cards.

"Enjoy your evening," I said and he made a polite sort of noise as he glanced at his phone.

Delightful, I think.

I checked the name on the screen briefly. Nikandr Morozov. That would make him one of Yuri and Tania's sons. I'd met them at a get-together at Maksim and Ella's house. They were both so charming. Yuri still had the suave old-world style of Russia, and Tania was a bright-eyed chatterbox. Nothing like this haughty little prince.

Turning briefly, I saw they were already at the elevator. He had his hand on her waist, leaning down to briefly kiss her shoulder. She'd made a strange sort of full body shimmy, like she couldn'tbelieveshe had a Morozov in her clutches. His eyes rose briefly over her shoulder and locked with mine for a minute before dropping again.

I shrugged and headed back into the office. Good for her. Hopefully, he was spectacular in bed to make up for his imperious personality. Anita told me the next day that she had to send up housekeepingtwicethat night when he called down for fresh sheets and towels.

***

Asshole.

I clear my throat. "Caroline Basha."

"Ah. Of course," he says, giving me a brief, professional smile. The one meant for clients and brief acquaintances while you're waiting for someone more important to pass by. "You're Liria's cousin from Boston."