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He releases me and says, “I told you we’d check the drain, sweetheart. The pool guy arrived and checked it first thing this morning.”
“Thank you.”
“Calm down and get ready for breakfast. We have a busy day.” He’s so right because it’s my party day, and Ilya’s supposed to be here soon. I don’t hide my excitement, smiling brightly.
“Thank you again.” I give them both a hug and run back to my room to change out of my pajamas. My outfit has been planned for a month, or at least the three I had in the running. I picked blue because it’s Ilya’s favorite color. It’s a pale blue, like the color of his irises. They’re a mix of blue with a few specks of gold. They’re beautiful. I sigh, thinking about how many hours I have laid in bed, picturing those eyes looking into mine.
It takes me all day to get ready, and I’m shaking by the time the first guests arrive. Most of the guests have come, and I’m missing the most important ones.
“Hey, girl, you look on edge.”
I fan myself. “I’m fine,” I replied, knowing I’m anything but fine.
“Take a drink of your punch already,” my bestie says, handing me a glass. I take it and gulp it to calm down. My parents made a non-alcoholic fruity drink mix that’s fabulous,and I’m on my second glass because I’m so nervous. Now, I excuse myself to go to the ladies’ room.
When I exit, of course that’s when the Semyonov family arrives, and Ilya isn’t with them. They apologize, saying they came in separate vehicles. I nod, but I feel my heart fall out of my chest, breaking into a million pieces. Standing in the kitchen as my mother escorts them out to the party, I promise to bring out more desserts. I just need a moment alone.
“Hello, birthday girl,” a deep, husky voice says behind me, shocking me out of my misery.
“Ilya. I didn’t think you were coming,” I say without turning around.
“I’m a little late. We took different vehicles.” I spin around and take him in, hoping there isn’t a plus one on his arm. I inwardly breathe a sigh of relief that he’s all by himself.
“What’s that?” I ask, looking at the little box in his hand, which is on the kitchen island that separates us.
“This? It’s your birthday present, greedy little princess,” he answers with that upward twist of his lips, smirking with that smugness that makes me wild.
“Are you going to give it to me?” I challenge.
“I don’t know. I should put it with the other gifts, no?” Jerk.
“Why? I’m not a child.” He swallows hard, staring at my carefully chosen outfit for today. I’ve slipped on a white tee and khaki shorts over my pale blue bikini. I hoped this tiny piece would entice him to notice me enough to think twice and not forget about me when he leaves for Russia again.
“You’re not an adult either,” he responds with a snarl, and my body heats up intensely. It feels like it’s on fire. I want to take off the last bits of my clothes and throw myself across the island, hoping that he’ll take me like the Russian beast I know he is.
“Since you want to wait for that, can I ask you something else?” I ask, my voice breathy.
“What, Natalya?” He’s growing irritated for some reason and I’m not sure why, or at least I pretend to be ignorant. Has he always had that tic in his jaw when he’s annoyed? I want to reach out and lick his strong, chiseled face.
“Ilya, will you give me a special birthday present?” I ask. His eyes narrow as he grows suspicious, as he should because I’m not a child and my request is far from innocent.
“What kind of present?”
“I want you to kiss me.” That’s it. I’ve gone too far, but there’s no going back.
Chapter Three
Ilya
I need air.
I’ve ruled men, sent men to their knees, destroyed those who crossed me, and I’m ducking into a bedroom to avoid a seventeen-year-old girl. I loosen my tie, breathing as if I’ve run paces when that couldn’t be farther from the truth. The kitchen is just a floor below, and the backyard is merely outside the bedroom window.
My pulse ramps up as I wait for the little thing to find me. I know she’s looking for me. The lust in her eyes was clear the second she caught me in the kitchen, and yet I excused myself as politely as possible. Natalya Romanov is a baby still, untouchable by a man like me.
Any man, for that matter. I clench my teeth at the mental image of some young punk putting his scrawny hands on her precious pale skin—the soft skin that is bared to the world right now in the tiniest outfit that shouldn’t be permitted. What was her father thinking? My blood runs redder than the colors of my country’s flag.
How could she have asked me that question downstairs? I shake my head as I try to push the memory away, but it’s too fresh.
