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“Dollars, I assume.”
“You assume correctly, darling.”
“Miss Petrova, your talents dazzle me. Not only are you beautiful and clever, but also resourceful.”
“Thank you,” I reply coyly.
“Maybe we should put some of those talents to the test when we meet in person.”
I give a coquettish laugh. “I’m sorry, darling, but it’ll take more than that.”
“Flowers, champagne, an expensive dinner, and extortionately priced jewelry?”
“Throw in a diamond ring, and I may consider.”
Yan gives me a hard look.
“You make me regret that I’m married,” Dimitrov says with a wink. “I like a woman who knows what she’s worth. I could make a different kind of proposition.”
“It seems we’ll have a lot to talk about when we meet.”
“I can’t wait.”
I tell him I’ll be in Prague in three weeks’ time and suggest the Klimt suite at the Hotel Paris, claiming the manager is a personal friend who’ll respect our need for privacy. We agree on a meeting just before lunch. I hint at extending our business affair into dinner. He likes it when I say we may need the suite afterward.
“How do I contact you if needed?” he asks.
Yan gestures with a pinky on his lips and a thumb at his ear.
“I’ll text you a secure number.”
We talk about our mutual requirements. No weapons, and only him, his art expert, and me in the room. He states his demands, namely to have the room and me searched before he enters. He recommends a few restaurants to visit while I’m in Prague, and invites me to one of his casinos. Everything on the house. I wish him good luck with his business, and we say goodbye like old friends.
My sultry smile only drops when he cuts the call, no doubt to launch straight into an investigation to find out everything he can about Petrova and the missing painting.
“Good job,” Anton says. “He bought it.”
Yan straightens. His gaze is dark and his mouth set in a hard line. Unbuttoning his shirt, he says on his way to the bedroom, “I’m going to take a shower.”
Anton pats Ilya’s knee. “I think I’ll go for a run. I’ve been sitting in a car for the past two days.”
He gets up and disappears into their bedroom. Ilya grabs the remote and switches on the television. I give it a moment before I slip into Yan’s room to take off the wig and scarf. The false eyelashes will have to stay until Yan has finished his shower and I can use the oil-based dissolvent I stored in the cabinet. I also applied silicon gel under a thick layer of foundation to make my cheekbones appear higher, and a cream that contains a small dose of bee venom to puff out my lips. They sting a little, feeling unnaturally tight, but the effect will soon vanish.
Going through the fridge, I take out ingredients for chicken paprikash and start dinner. For once, I’m hungry.
The silence is uncomfortable. When Anton leaves, I dare to approach Ilya, stopping short of the couch.
“Ilya, I owe you an apology.”
He ignores me.
“I didn’t want to deceive you, but there was no other way. I had to see my grandmother.”
He keeps his eyes trained on the television, pretending to be watching the news. “Spare me the excuses. I don’t care.”
I step between him and the TV. “I didn’t lie about coming back. I swear. I was waiting for the train when Yan found me.”
He cranes his neck to look around me. “If you say so.”
“Let me have a look at your nose. Did you try to set it straight?”
Silence.
“Ilya, please.”
He clicks off the television, stands, and goes to the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
I can only hope he’ll come around in time. With a sigh, I go back to preparing dinner. It’s weird, this see-saw of energy and appetite. It was the same before, the first time I was diagnosed. The chemo lasted for twelve months. I lost all the hair on my body, including my eyebrows and eyelashes. My hair had barely grown back by the night I overheard Yan and Ilya in the bar. When they intercepted me in the alley, I had still been so weak. The nausea, the vomiting, it had utterly depleted me. There were days I didn’t have enough energy to get out of bed.
Making the most of my spurt of strength, I clean the kitchen and set the table. Dinner is almost ready when Yan comes out of the bedroom freshly showered and dressed in slacks and a tailored shirt.
He looks neat. Classy, like always. I’ve never seen him in comfy clothes.
“Do you always dress like that?” I ask.
He stalks toward me, caging me against the counter with his arms. “Why? Do you have a problem with it?”
He smells so good. I can’t get enough of that clean sandalwood scent with the spicy pepper undertone. “Don’t you ever want to relax, just lie around in sweatpants and a T-shirt?”
