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“You look beautiful!” Catarina praised enthusiastically, finishing placing lavender nail polish on her short nails. “I know the Don will be pleased.”
Sky shook her hands, drying the nail polish, hating wearing it. This wasn’t her. She saw how upset and sensitive Catarina was, feeling sorry for the girl. And that’s what she was, a girl. Innocent. Not mature. Trapped in a box with no way out. “Thank you for your help.”
There was a sharp knock on the door.
Catarina jumped.
Sky cringed. It was a man knocking on the heavy mahogany door. Her heart skittered with fear.
“It’s time,” Catarina whispered, gesturing for her to stand. “Hurry. We cannot arrive late, or Don Tobar will be angry. He will take it out on me.”
Sky stood, pushing her damp palms against her revealing linen slacks. Thankfully, she was given a low-heeled pair of leather shoes; something she could walk in unlike those five-inch spike heels Catarina wore. The girl wobbled on them, and Sky was sure she would one day break her ankle wearing those torture devices. If men had to wear them, they’d ban them forever in a millisecond.
“Let’s go,” Sky murmured, following Catarina to the door. It was going to be her opportunity to see where she was at, to case the villa, memorize the rooms, the hallways, and especially, exits for escape.
The door opened. Sky saw the bald Russian, his bulk filling the narrow, dimly lit hallway. She decided to refer to him as ‘Baldy.’ The polished flagstone floor gleamed dully as light from a window at the other end of the hall revealed enough for her to see where they were going. He grinned, showing half his front teeth that were missing. He took his large hand and rubbed his crotch suggestively. Sky avoided the hungry look in Baldy’s small, glittering eyes, feeling bile rise in the back of her throat. She was sure he was hoping she’d defy Don Tobar and she’d end up being raped by him and his other Russian goons.
The villa was huge. She caught sight of a placid river, about fifty feet wide and about thirty feet away from one side of the villa. It was airy and light around them as Catarina led her out into an open, plaza-like area. The windows were all thrown open, the breeze warm and humid. Sky knew they were in a jungle, no question. She saw other servants, all women, dressed in prim and proper black dresses, white aprons, and plain black leather shoes. They were all older women. They looked Latino to her, with black hair and brown eyes. They barely looked up, their heads bowed as Catarina swayed by like the goddess-in-charge that she was. Sky heard Baldy’s thunking combat boots behind her, cringing inwardly because he was closer than she ever wanted him to be.
The room was open, filled with expensive black leather couches and chairs, large rectangular golden-framed coffee tables, and sculptured art of naked women in each of the corners. The flagstone floors were neat, clean, and highly polished, reflecting the light. Sky spotted some sunlight lancing through what looked like a triple canopy of jungle trees. Wherever this villa sat, it was well hidden from a strategic point of view. Sky was going to utilize her military background on everything she observed. They passed a grand looking kitchen where three men in white uniforms and chef’s hats worked. The scent of bread baking mingled with the aroma of cinnamon and cloves, being carried throughout the area. Catarina turned to the left, down what appeared to be another wing of the villa.
The light was low and there were at least six doors, three on each side, suggesting these were bedrooms, or perhaps apartments. Catarina hadn’t said a word, just the sound of her heels clicking smartly against the flagstones filled the corridor. Maybe rooms for his soldiers? Or visitors that Alexandrov brought with him? At the end of the hall, there were two other passages. Sky looked down one hall and saw two doors, one on each side of it. Catarina chose the left hallway, giving her a quick glance. Sky saw the anxiety in her eyes. Her heart rate picked up. She tasted fear, knowing she would see Vlad’s father in person for the first and maybe the last time in her life. Sky wanted to run, but two armed Russian soldiers with rifles stood at the entrance to another room. Everywhere she looked, there were big, hulking Russian guards. There was no escape.
Catarina swayed into a huge room, the den, with a floor-to-ceiling flagstone fireplace. The windows all had wrought iron bars across them, but were open, allowing the heavy, humid warmth to flow through the high-ceilinged room. Catarina led her over to a black leather wingback chair. “Please,” she murmured, “sit here.”
Sky swept the place with her gaze, seeing no one else but them in the room. Her throat was dry, and she felt like running, but there was nowhere to hide. She slowly sat down.
Immediately, a maid appeared and silently placed a fragile China cup filled with amber tea on a nearby round desk sitting next to her arm. Next came cream, sugar and a fresh, hot cinnamon roll, as well. The anxious maid wouldn’t meet Sky’s eyes, instead she bowed and scuttled away.
Catarina turned and looked down at her. “Don Tobar will arrive shortly. Please, enjoy the Earl Gray tea and the cinnamon roll.”
Sky watched the woman leave. And so did Baldy. She looked around, sitting up in the chair, trying to see everything she could, to memorize it and tuck it away.
“You are more beautiful in person than any photo my son Vlad ever sent me of you.”
Sky’s head snapped straight ahead. A little gasp escaped her. Yerik Alexandrov stood on the other side of the coffee table, dressed in a white peasant shirt, loose white linen slacks, and a pair of brown sandals. Her gaze lifted to his. Sky felt dread move through her.
Unconsciously, she gripped the arms of the chair, feeling his intense inspection of her, his flat green eyes, the same color as Vlad’s. Yerik had the same face and strong chin, giving his eyes more emphasis, close set together. Sky felt the air whoosh out of her lungs because he was practically a carbon copy of Vlad. His skin was darkly tanned, his blond hair military short. What threw her was Yerik’s mouth. It was a full one with an almost pouty lower lip, and there was a faint smile hovering around it. She felt as if she were staring at a slightly older version of Vlad, and it nearly paralyzed Sky. Yerik’s voice was low, cultured, and he spoke precise English without a Russian accent attached to it. Compared to Vlad, who had always reminded her of an animal on the prowl, his father was cosmopolitan, at ease with himself. Sky swallowed hard, holding his look.
“Please,” he said, gesturing toward the tea and food, “be at ease, Sky. “I think you know who I am? Vlad’s father? Yerik?”
Sky barely nodded, her hands knotted in her lap. There were so many emotions veering through her that she knew she had to keep her face expressionless and her voice flat so as not to give away her real feelings. Alexandrov had snake’s eyes: flat, unblinking, and intense. She could feel herself starting to crumble inwardly as he stood there, relaxed, hands at his side. “I know who you are,” Sky whispered.
Nodding, Yerik smiled a little. “Let us have some mid-morning tea and get to know one another?”
She saw a maid scuttle like a crab toward where he sat down in a wingback chair opposite of hers. Glad the coffee table was between them, Sky forced herself to relax. Her heart was pounding so hard, she could hear it in her ears. The maid carefully delivered the same cup of tea and two cinnamon rolls. Yerik nodded and thanked her. The maid never made eye contact with him, relief on her face as she quickly and silently left the den.
“You know,” Yerik said conversationally, taking the plate with the rolls and tearing one of them apart, placing a piece in his mouth, “you are missing the most delicious cinnamon rolls in the world. Please, take just a taste? For me?”
She saw his eyes crinkle, a smile flexing at the corners of this mouth. It did not reach his eyes. Sky knew better than put up a fight, protest, or do anything other than what was asked. Catarina gave her a head’s up on that. Right now, Sky had to be subservient. It didn’t come easy, but her life was on the line, making it a helluva lot easier. She picked disinterestedly at the roll, the fragrance sweet and spicy. It tasted like warm wood in her mouth because she was too frightened to focus on anything other than surviving this meeting without being raped.
“Very good,” Yerik praised, nodding deferentially in her direction. He wiped his manicured fingers off with a white linen cloth he’d spread across his lap. “Vlad told me, in an email, that you loved cinnamon rolls.”
Shock rolled though Sky. She stared at him, her lips parting momentarily. “He did?” The words burst out of her before she could stop them. Yerik had hooked her, caught her off guard.
Picking up his cup of steaming tea, Yerik smiled slightly and nodded. “Indeed, my son did. You used to make them with your foster mother, Marielle. I believe she taught you how to bake? Vlad said he always looked forward to when you got enthused about making fresh bread and cinnamon rolls for the family.” His voice faltered. “Vlad loved eating them, too.”
Her heart wrenched in her chest. Sky lowered her gaze, feeling tears prick her eyes. Valiantly, she fought them back, but her voice came out husky and unsteady. “I loved my foster parents with my life. They were always good to me. And to Vlad.” She wanted to snarl,but your bastard son murdered them in cold blood right in front of my eyes. Sky bit down on her lower lip, fighting to keep the words choked back. She watched Yerik eat both rolls delicately, but with appreciation of a gourmand. He slowly licked his fingers, and it sent revulsion through her. Sky couldn’t eat any more, picking up the tea in both hands because she was afraid, she’d spill it otherwise.
