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“So don’t do them,” Kira said. “Leave them for Olga.”
“She’s not coming,” Zoya said. “Called out sick. Again.”
Kira scowled. “That’s strange.”
Zoya said something in Russian that Kira didn’t understand. She’d never become fluent, although she had managed to pick up a phrase here and there, an encyclopedia of slang, and a handful of helpful curse words.
“I’ll look into it,” Kira said. “Would you like me to do the dishes?”
Zoya snorted.
“What? I’m perfectly capable of doing dishes,” Kira said.
“Your father would have my head,” Zoya said.
The older woman was just making a fuss. She would let Kira do dishes over her dead body, not because of Kira’s father but because she still saw Kira as the little girl she’d coddled and spoiled.
Kira kissed her cheek. “My father isn’t in charge here. But thank you for doing those. I’ll look into the situation with Olga.”
Despite Lyonya’s other character flaws, which only seemed heightened in the wake of their encounter on the terrace the night before, he seemed diligent about vetting the people in his orbit.
Still, she would do her own background check on Olga, then make sure the woman and her family were well, and that she was compensated fairly. In her experience, under-motivated people were often under stress at home or underpaid at work or both.
Lyonya seemed to value his employees and take good care of them, but Kira would do her own diligence before taking Olga to task for calling out sick too often.
She pressed the button on the coffee maker and turned to face the wall of windows while it brewed, but a package on the large kitchen island caught her eyes.
She walked toward it. “What is this?”
“I imagine it’s a gift fromhim,” Zoya said.
Kira looked at her, back still turned as she finished the dishes. “You might have told me there was a package here.”
“You didn’t ask,” Zoya said.
Kira stifled a sigh of frustration. Zoya could be maddening when she was put out, but Kira would no more call her on it than she would her own mother if she were still alive.
The package was small and wrapped with gold paper, a delicate green ribbon tied in a bow at its center. A thick envelope peeked out from under the package, and when she removed it, she saw that her name was scrawled across the front of it.
Her heart fluttered in her chest as she removed a thick postcard-size note on heavy ivory card stock.
Kira,
This belonged to my mother. I’d like you to have it as a token of my affection. Consider it a wedding gift. As for our interlude on the terrace, I can only say it will be better for both of us if you surrender.
Trust me.
Lyon
Her eyes snagged on certain words:my mother… token of my affection… surrender.
When hell freezes over,she thought.
Trust me…
Never.
The words were there in her mind. The things she should be thinking. The things she would say to his face if he were standing in front of her.
