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22
Kira washed her face in the bedroom’s en suite bathroom, then stared at herself in the mirror.
“Keep your head,” she said softly. Even her reflection knew she was in trouble.
Lyonya Antonov was domineering and maddening, arrogant and secretive — and she was falling further under his spell with each passing day.
She turned around and leaned against the bathroom counter. The house was every bit as luxurious as the penthouse, but it was far less sterile. From its cedar-clad facade to the stone fireplace in the great room to the earthy glass tile in her bathroom, the house spoke of comfort and safety.
It spoke of family.
Lyonya had said it was more modest in its original form, and she tried to imagine him here as a little boy with his parents, before his father had transferred to the Chicago organization. Had he swam in the lake as a child? Fished with his father?
It was hard to imagine the unruly boy she’d known doing such things, but she was beginning to believe that when it came to Lyonya Antonov, anything was possible.
She sighed and went into the bedroom. She debated changing into something nicer — she’d been wearing jeans since they left the penthouse, through the flight and the long drive to the house — then decided against it. She wasn’t going to dress for Lyonya, not after he’d forced her to leave Chicago on a moment’s notice with no word at all on his plan to deal with Musa.
Whatever it was, she assumed he would have to return to Chicago to do it, which meant he thought he was leaving her here alone.
Ha. As if she would allow such a thing. She wasn’t going to sit here and stare at the water while Lyonya waged war for the territory that should belong to both of them. She just hadn’t figured out her next move yet.
She was tired and overwhelmed. She needed food and sleep. After that she would know what to do. Until then, she would keep her distance — figuratively and literally — from the man she’d married.
She wondered fleetingly if it was because she didn’t trust him or because she didn’t trust herself, then pushed the question aside. She wasn’t sure she could handle the answer.
She ran a brush through her hair and headed downstairs in her socks. She saw the fire blazing in the hearth as she turned the corner on the open staircase. It crackled as it devoured the dry wood and she felt herself sink into a dangerous feeling of comfort.
She couldn’t let herself be comfortable. Whether in Chicago or in New York, she was still playing the game. Every move she made counted, and the ones she didn’t make too.
She found Lyonya in the kitchen, whipping eggs in a ceramic bowl, his feet bare. Vegetables were sautéing in a pan on the stove, and a salad nearly overflowed a bowl on the counter.
Her stomach grumbled as the scent of frying garlic hit her nose.
He looked up. “This will be simple, but I think it will do the job for tonight.”
“It smells good,” she said cautiously. She eased herself onto a stool at the kitchen island.
He chuckled a little and shook his head.
“What?” she asked.
“Do you ever let your guard down?” he asked.
“Do you?”
He held out his arms. “I’m standing in bare feet, making you an omelette in my family home, a home I haven’t told anyone about.”
“And I’m barefoot as well,” she said stiffly. “Except for my socks, I mean.”
She would not let him charm her. She would not.
A smile barely lifted the corners of his mouth. “It’s a start.”
The half-smile on a man as big and violent as Lyonya was devastating, and she forced herself to focus on the eggs he poured into the pan. He used a silicon spatula to maneuver them for even cooking.
“You can cook,” she said.
“You sound shocked,” he said.
