White Nights (White Nights 1)

As if to prove his point, a waiter offers us a tray set with a variety of sad-looking tarts, sliders, and corndogs.

As I haven’t eaten since lunch, I pop one of the bite-sized ricotta-and-tomato tarts into my mouth. The flavors are bland, just like Alex predicted.

Our peace and quiet doesn’t last long. A tall man with a thin frame and hawk-like nose swoops in to steal Alex’s attention.

“There you are,” he says to Alex, fleetingly blinking in my direction. “I was wondering when you’d show. There are some investors who’d like to meet you.”

Alex looks like he’s about to tug me along, but I smile and wave him off. “You go ahead. I have to visit the ladies’ room.”

“Okay. Come find me after,” he says as the man pulls him away.

I make my way through the throng of people to the restroom and freshen up. When I return, I spot Alex across the room, deep in conversation with a group of men who must be the aforementioned investors. I’m not sure I should interrupt, so I look around for something or someone to occupy me in the meantime. The problem is, I feel out of my depth. I don’t know with whom to strike up a conversation or what about. I doubt anyone is interested in the latest flu statistics.

“Well, well,” a suave, accented female voice says. “If it isn’t Alex’s little nurse.”

I turn around and come face to face with none other than Dania, the Russian beauty I’d seen at Alex’s side in Romanoff’s. She’s wearing a sleek silver dress that hugs her perfect figure, and her dark curls are hanging down to her waist. With flawless creamy skin and matte red lipstick, she looks like Snow White, only the adult, more seductive version.

“Do we know each other?” I ask as she looks me up and down.

She puts her empty glass on the table next to us and flicks her fingers at the nearest waiter. The man all but falls over his feet to get to us.

“A vodka for me and my friend,” she says to the man as soon as he’s within earshot.

He turns and runs to execute the order like his coat tails are on fire. I suppose that’s because her father is someone important in these circles.

“Dania,” she says, offering a gloved hand. “Alex told Papa and me all about Igor getting shot and how you saved his life.”

“I didn’t save his life.”

“Well.” She waves a hand. “That’s how Alex made it sound.” She gives me another once-over. “Like you’re a perfect heroine.”

Not sure how to reply to that, I keep quiet.

“I remember you from Romanoff’s,” she continues. “You’re the woman who came in looking for Alex and then ran away like a jealous girlfriend.”

Heat rises from my neck, scorching my cheeks. “I didn’t go looking for him there. It was pure coincidence.”

“Was it now?” she drawls.

I narrow my eyes. “Yes.”

The waiter arrives with the vodka, serving us each a glass.

“A toast,” Dania says when he’s gone, raising her glass. “Let’s drink to Alex.”

“To Alex,” I agree, holding her gaze as she knocks back the alcohol.

I take a small sip of mine.

“That’s not the way to do it,” she says, motioning at the liquor in my hand. “Not if you want to fit in.”

“Who says I want to fit in?”

She sets her glass on the table with a loud clink. “You’d better enjoy your time with him. It’s limited.”

I raise a brow. “Says who? You?”

Her smile is humorless. “You don’t know how things work in our world. Alex and I, we will marry and strengthen the business. I will give him an heir, a son to carry forward his name, and then some more children to inherit his riches and build his empire. You will always be the piece on the side, the distraction he needs before taking his vows. Powerful men like Alex like to feel great. They need to have women at their feet.” Her tone turns bitter. “Me? I’ll look the other way.” She leans closer. “You want to know why? Because he’ll always come back to me, and you’ll end up like all the others. Forgotten.”

Straightening her dress, she gives me a pretty smile. “Enjoy the rest of your evening. I suggest you try the blinis. They’re the least offensive of the dishes on the menu.” Then she turns and walks off with a regal posture.

Too flabbergasted to find words, I can only stare at her back while she moves through the crowd. I follow her with my gaze as she goes up to an elderly gentleman with silver hair. It’s the same one from the restaurant, presumably her father, Mikhail Turgenev. She goes on tiptoes and says something in his ear. His smile fades as he listens, and when he turns his gaze on me, his gray eyes are cold.