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“Chamomile?” I ask, cringing away from the familiar scent.
He frowns. “I know you don’t like it. But if it will help the baby, then—”
“It won’t help the baby if I’m dead.”
He frowns and steps between the tray and me automatically. Something about that instinctive urge—throw yourself between your woman and anything that would threaten her—makes a voice deep in my head purr in appreciation. I shut it up real quick.
“It’s not just that I don’t like chamomile,” I explain to him. “I’m allergic. Like, deathly allergic. My throat closes up, I pass out, the whole she-bang. I almost died once before.”
He stares at me for a moment. I wonder if he thinks I’m making a joke. Or being dramatic. Before I can assure him that I’m not, he turns suddenly, grabs the cup of chamomile tea, and storms straight out the door.
He returns a full five minutes later, empty-handed, smelling of orange soap.
“Where’d you go?” I ask in bewilderment.
“Dumped the chamomile,” he replies. “And burned the rest of it in the backyard. Tomorrow, the house will be searched top to bottom to be sure there isn’t a scrap of it left on the premises. Now, have some tea that won’t kill you and try to get some rest.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, realizing that he’s moving in the direction of the door.
“Out,” he says. He snatches up the shirt he just removed. “I have things to take care of.”
He disappears before I can ask any more questions.
I sit by the window with my ginger tea and saltines for an hour before I decide he really isn’t coming back. It takes me a long time before I can shake off the disappointment and go to bed.
* * *
When I go downstairs the next morning, I find the entire staff furiously scrubbing the grout between tiles in the kitchen. There’s an air of frantic urgency percolating in the room that seems out of place for such an early hour.
“What is all this?”
“The boss asked us to wipe any traces of chamomile from the house, ma’am,” Jace informs me without pausing. “We’re disinfecting everything again, just to be in the clear.”
“Again?” I repeat. “How many times have you done this already?”
“Once last night and once this morning,” Rada answers, her eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. “Don’t worry, ma’am: we’ll make sure there’s no residue left. The plant is gone, too.”
“From the greenhouse?”
Rada nods. “Danica and Mario are in there right now making sure it has all been ripped out by the roots.”
“I—That is—I don’t really know what to say,” I stammer. “There was no need to do all that. I could have just stayed away from that part of the greenhouse.”
Rada gives me a tired but reassuring smile. “Don Orlov was adamant that we be thorough. He cares about you very much, Mrs. Paige.”
I feel my heart skip a beat. Part of it is a pathetic strangled sense of hope. The other part is a slow, pinching sense of guilt.
On both accounts, I tell myself not to be silly.
I have no reason to feel either one.
39
MISHA
Konstantin walks into my office and stops short, eyeing the blanket left wadded-up on the arm of the couch. “Hold up—did you sleep in here last night?”
I blink the crust from my eyes. “I was working late. Fell asleep on the sofa.”
