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Viktor's expression becomes more serious. “Nikolai has always been cautious about Anya's security, and after yesterday, I doubt he'll be comfortable sending her back for a while.”

Anya looks down at her book. “He'll probably make me stay home forever.”

“Not forever,” Viktor says.

She doesn't look convinced.

I understand why Nikolai would be frightened. After seeing that car, I would probably want to wrap Anya in bubble wrap and lock every door myself.

But I have seen the house. It is beautiful. It is enormous.

It has gardens and horses and more rooms than I could count.

It would still be a terrible place to feel trapped.

“Maybe we can convince him that learning doesn't have to happen in one room,” I tell Anya. “If you have to stay home for a while, we could do lessons outside, or visit places when it's safe, or find ways to make things interesting.”

She looks up. “Like what?”

“Like measuring how fast your horses run, or figuring out how much water the fountain uses, or calculating how many cheesecakes I would have to deliver to afford your school tuition.”

Viktor laughs. “That last one might take a while.”

“I'm prepared to commit to the research.”

Anya smiles, but I can see she is still thinking about school. I make a mental note to speak to Nikolai about it.

Which is ridiculous.

I have known the man for less than twenty-four hours, and I am already planning to give him parenting advice. This is how people get themselves fired before they have technically started working.

I have looked Nikolai up.

He investigated me, so I consider it only fair that I spend twenty minutes with his new phone and a search engine.

Unfortunately, searching Nikolai Volkov doesn’t produce the reassuring results I had hoped for.

There are articles about shipping, logistics, investment firms, property developments, and charitable foundations. His name appears on the boards of several companies, and there are photographs of him at fundraisers, business conferences, and formal dinners.

There are also older articles that use words like alleged, organized crime, and connections to Russian syndicates with the sort of caution journalists employ when they enjoy remaining alive.

I read those twice. Then I look at the photographs again.

Nikolai in a tuxedo.

Nikolai beside a politician.

Nikolai shaking hands with a man whose net worth probably has its own gravitational pull.

Nikolai standing beside a beautiful blonde woman at a charity gala.

Another photograph shows him with a brunette in a red dress, her hand resting on his arm.

I zoom in. Then immediately feel ridiculous.

What am I doing?

I am a woman with a concussion, a borrowed place to stay, and a career currently held together with temporary contracts and optimism.