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I manage a warm smile in his direction. “I don’t know, darling. Let’s see.”
The two of us stare intently at the car as the driver’s side opens and a petite young woman dressed in a pair of jeans, a tight-fitting white T-shirt, and scuffed hiking boots bounces out of the seat. Small-boned yet subtly curvy, with delicate, symmetrical features and thick blond hair piled up high in a messy bun, she looks to be seventeen or eighteen, and reminds me of a cross between Saoirse Ronan and Marilyn Monroe—if either were hopped up on speed.
Like a whirlwind, she descends on us. “Hey there! You must be Chloe.” Before I can reply, she grabs my hand and pumps it enthusiastically. Then she drops down to her knees and beams at Slava. “A ti Slavochka, da?”
Her sudden switch to Russian catches me off-guard; she’d spoken to me in pure American English. Slava seems taken aback as well. None of the adults around him are usually this bubbly and energetic.
“Hi,” I say as she jumps back up to her feet. Literally jumps, like a child. Maybe she’s even younger than I thought? “I am Chloe. And you are?”
Her wide grin is dimpled, her gray eyes sparkling appealingly. “You can call me Masha.”
“Nice to meet you, Masha. Are you—”
“Where’s Nikolai?” she interrupts. “I’m here to see him.”
Something pinches deep inside me, an ugly suspicion stirring in my mind. “He should be in his office. Do you want me to take you there?”
“No need,” she says breezily and runs up to the house.
The pinching sensation transforms into an outright churning in my stomach. This girl is pretty—more than pretty. She’s dazzling, even in her casual clothes. Put her in one of Alina’s dresses, and she could strut her stuff down the runway—or at least on the red carpet, since she’s not even my height. And while she’s young, she’s far from childlike; in fact, her self-assured manner makes me think she might not be a teenager at all. As I watch her disappear into the house, I can’t help recalling that prior to meeting me, Nikolai was in the habit of flying in all sorts of beautiful women—which, for all I know, included this Masha.
How else does she seem to know where to go? Or has heard about Slava?
Or me?
That last bit doesn’t fit this theory, I have to admit. If she’s Nikolai’s hookup, present or past, why would he tell her about me? Unless, of course, they have some weird friends-with-benefits situation going on, and, unlike me, she doesn’t have a jealous bone in her body.
“Have you ever seen her before?” I ask Slava, doing my best to keep my tone casual. “I mean, prior to today?”
Slava blinks up at me. He understands some of what I say now, but not everything.
Heaving a sigh, I grab his hand and lead him to the house. I don’t understand why I’m so anxious to find out who this young woman is—if Nikolai is losing interest in me, it can only be for the best. Yet no matter what my rational mind says, the mere thought of him with Masha makes me want to break every bone in her tiny, Marylin Monroe-like body.
19
Chloe
Leaving Slava with Lyudmila in the kitchen, I head over to Nikolai’s office, my ribcage tight as I go up the stairs.
It’s stupid to be jealous. Irrational. But I can’t help the green monster clawing at my chest. What if I have completely misinterpreted Nikolai’s avoidance of me over the past two weeks? Maybe instead of fighting his desire for me, he’s simply stopped wanting me. After all, taking care of my injuries could’ve made him view my body in a different light.
I’ve never been particularly insecure about said body, but I’ve also never been in a relationship with a man as wickedly gorgeous as Nikolai.
Wait, no, we’re not in a relationship. That might’ve been happening before, when I thought he was a normal, law-abiding—albeit obscenely rich—man. I don’t know what to call it now. If the person you’ve slept with is holding you captive while also protecting you from someone who wants to kill you, does that constitute a relationship? At least of the non-Stockholm syndrome variety? Not to mention, he’s still technically my employer—the cash envelopes have been arriving in my room every Tuesday like clockwork.
Shelving those ruminations for now, I approach his office door. It’s closed, and when I press my ear to it, I can hear voices speaking Russian. As I listen, I can discern the new arrival’s bright, feminine tones, along with Nikolai’s deep, smooth, dangerously seductive ones.
“What are you doing?”
Startled, I whip around to face Alina, who’s standing in the hallway, head cocked inquisitively. “Um…”
Amusement glimmers in her eyes. “Are you spying on my brother?”
“No, of course not.” I can feel my face burning as I scramble for a good explanation. “I was just—”
