You Don't Know Me (The Russian Don 3)

‘You don’t know him and it’s better if you don’t know who he is. The less you know the better it is for you.’

Her eyes become wary. ‘What’s really going on, Tasha? Are you afraid? Because you’re fucking scaring the shit out of me.’

‘I’m not scared and I’m not trying to frighten you. It’s a truism in my father’s world. The less you know the safer you are.’

‘Fine, don’t tell me who he is. Was it good? Did he have a big dick?’

In spite of myself I smile. ‘Yes, it was very good.’

‘And the dick?’

‘Yes, it was big,’ I admit with a giggle.

‘So what happens now?’

I sober up again. ‘Nothing.’

‘Was it just like a one-night stand?’

‘Yeah, something like that.’

She looks at me curiously. ‘Why is it, it feels like more?’

‘It’s not more, Lina. It can never be more.’

‘How does he feel about you?’

‘It was just a sex thing for him. I offered myself to him on a plate. Of course, he took it.’

‘Tasha, sometimes you say some really dumb things. Just because a woman offers herself on a plate doesn’t mean the man is going to take it. You were obviously to his taste. Did he say or show any signs that he wanted more?’

I press my hand into my midriff. ‘It was a one-night stand, Lina, and anyway my father would not approve of him. He would consider him beneath me.’

She opens her mouth, but I interrupt her by saying, ‘Don’t say it. Just leave it, and let’s talk about something else.’

She looks at me as if she pities me, but she changes the subject. ‘What are you doing tonight then?’

‘I have that Alexander Malenkov charity function. Remember, I’m on the organizing committee. I sold most of the tickets. You didn’t want to come.’

‘Yeah. No thanks. I would have gone if Mr. Malenkov wasn’t already married. The man is totally fuckable, but since he is there’d be no point. You know me and classical music are like oil and water.’

I smile at her. ‘It’s a party, Lina. As of last night there was one last ticket left. Why don’t you come?’

‘You’re going with Oliver, right?’

‘Yes. Will you come?’

She sighs.

I sense she is weakening. ‘The food is from the L’Auberge Du Pont de Collognes of the Paul Bocuse Group,’ I pause for maximum effect, ‘the only restaurant in the world to retain its three Michelin-star status for fifty years.’

She hesitates.

‘They’re serving Kaluga Queen Caviar, 1.8kg per table, and Snow Leopard Vodka.’

She has the beginnings of a grin on her face. ‘Hmmm … Snow Leopard Vodka, huh?’

‘Uh-huh. Made from rare spelt grain from one of the world’s finest distilleries,’ I add hopefully.

‘You really want me to come, don’t you?’

I look at her and suddenly realize that I do want her to come. I need someone beside me who knows how I really feel. ‘Yes, I do.’

She smiles. ‘Okay. It better not be filled with crusty old men, or you’ll owe me big time.’

‘I think it’s going to be filled with crusty people.’

‘Oh well. There’s always the bar. Five Sex On The Beaches later every man starts to look a bit like Henry Cavil.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I gush gratefully. ‘Quick, pass me my phone.’

She gives it to me and I call the girl in charge of tickets.

‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry, Tash. I’m afraid you’re too late. I just sold the last ticket this morning.’

‘Oh, never mind. If one comes up will you please reserve it for me and call me?’

She assures me she will and I end the call.

Lina touches my arm. ‘You’ll be fine. With or without me.’

Fourteen

Tasha Evanoff

I get out of the car and Oliver lets his eyes roam greedily over my body. I am wearing a long, black, halterneck fitted dress with a slit on one side. ‘You look fabulous,’ he compliments. ‘But then you always were a bewitching little fox.’

‘Thank you,’ I say quietly.

‘How did your dress fitting go today?’ Oliver asks as we arrive at the iconic Pavilion of the Tower of London. The historic walls of the tower are lit up, and I pull my gaze away from the impressive sight and let it focus on Oliver.

Oliver has the quintessential aristocratic face. His father is a Marquis and he is a Lord by birth. His family have a vast estate with one of the most beautiful stately homes in Britain. I have been to Moreland Abbey. It is truly magnificent, but the family lives in a small section of the house because the rest of it is crumbling, leaking, and too expensive to heat. Marrying me means they will be able to refurbish their ancestral home and bring it back to its former glory.

I plaster on a smile. Fake, of course. ‘Good. The dress is very beautiful,’ I reply as I cross the threshold of the venue and into the reception area. The guests are already milling about in groups holding drinks in their hands.