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17
Lyon almost forgot who he was dealing with.
Almost.
She was charmingly vulnerable about the dinner she’d cooked, clearly concerned about whether he would be pleased.
Was it an act? He didn’t think so.
And the dinner was delicious, the plov hearty and flavorful, with tender pieces of lamb, juicy raisins, and the spicy-lemon bite of coriander seeds. She wouldn’t take credit, continually deferring to Galina, the cook at the Baranov mansion who had given her the recipe, but she was the one who had made it, and the fact that she’d made it for him warmed his feelings toward her in ways that weren’t entirely pleasant.
The plov reminded him of his mother, of warm meals shared around a simple table, his father drinking vodka, laughing at the stories Lyon told about school, and looking at his mother with love. The bread was rich and flavorful, a sharp contrast to the flavorless white bread he was usually served in Chicago’s restaurants and delis.
He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed home-cooked food, food still warm from the pot, food prepared with him in mind.
The conversation flowed smoothly, despite their earlier animosity, and they worked their way through a series of lighter subjects: Kira’s love for her birds and the piano and books. That led to a conversation about the books they’d each read. He was momentarily offended when she seemed surprised that he’d read many of her favorites, but he forced himself to be reasonable: how could she be anything but surprised when he’d spent the last eighteen years on the streets, fleecing and beating people — and worse — for the bratva?
He’d wanted them to think he was nothing more than a thug with itchy fists, all too eager to resort to violence for the sake of it. It made him wonder how much of his life had been spent earning his nickname. He’d always had a deep well of rage, but now he wasn’t sure if the rage had come first or if he’d simply stoked it to be worthy of the name bestowed on him by Viktor Baranov when Lyon was a boy.
She asked gentle questions about his father’s time in prison, about his death, but Lyon turned the conversation to other matters when she touched upon the subject of the apartment, his careful strategy of setting himself up to be pakhan while he’d been a soldier.
He wasn’t in the habit of trusting anyone. He’d been alone too long. Secrecy had become part of him. It wasn’t a trait he was eager to divest, especially not with the woman — however beautiful and engaging — who had married him to claim power of her own.
Did she really think he believed she’d married him for just a voice in the organization?
He didn’t.
He didn’t know her well, but he recognized the shine in her eyes because it was the same shine in his own: the shine of ambition, of plans held close and secret. Some of those plans dovetailed with his own, which was how they found themselves in this strange arrangement, but he had no doubt that others served her agenda alone.
Until he knew what they were and how they would affect his own plans for the future, he would have to be very careful indeed.
By the time they finished dinner — Lyon had welcomed a second serving of plov — he was warm and relaxed. They’d finished the wine, and his mind was calm.
Kira sighed happily, and a bolt of heat traveled through his body to his cock. What would it be like to hear that sigh in bed? To know he’d brought her enough pleasure to cause it?
“I’m so full,” she said. “I think I might actually sleep tonight.”
He looked at her. “You haven’t been sleeping well?”
She shook her head, then hurried to explain. “The bed is very comfortable, and I’m happy with my suite. I think I’m just getting used to a new environment. I’ve never lived anywhere but the house with my father.”
All those nights he’d tossed and turned, thinking of her down the hall, she’d been awake too. Had she been thinking of him?
He pushed the thought away. He’d obviously had too much wine if he was feeling so fanciful.
She stood. “I should get these dishes in the sink for Olga.”
Olga came during the day to cook and clean and had said no more than ten words to Kira in the two weeks Kira had lived at the apartment.
“Let me,” Lyon said, rising to his feet. “You cooked.”
She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Thank you. How about I make us a nightcap then?”
“A nightcap would be perfect.” It was the last thing he needed, given his current warm feelings toward her, but he couldn’t pretend he didn’t want a few more moments in her presence.
He rinsed the dishes while she made their drinks. It was disconcerting, doing something so domestic with Kira Baranov. Until that morning, she’d continued to be a mystery, no more approachable than she’d been during the years when he’d been a faithful soldier, waiting in the foyer of the Baranov mansion to be granted entry to her father’s office.
But something had shifted, and it hadn’t started with the birds. It had been the day before when she’d shown up at Samara, when she’d stood beside him, when he’d felt the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm.
