Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession 1)

A dry chuckle escapes my throat. “What makes you think I want to start over? Or be anything other than who I am?”

“The fact that you left. The fact that we’re here, having this discussion.” Her expression is earnest, open for once. “Let the girl be Slava’s tutor and nothing more. Amuse yourself elsewhere. She’s too young for you. Too innocent.”

“She’s twenty-three, not twelve. And I’ve just turned thirty-one—hardly an insurmountable age difference.”

“I’m not talking about age. She’s not like us. She’s soft. Vulnerable.”

“Exactly. And you brought her to my attention.” I smile cruelly. “What did you think would happen?”

Alina’s face hardens. “You’re going to destroy her. But then again”—her lips twist in a bitter smile as she steps back—“that’s the Molotov way, isn’t it? Enjoy your new toy, Kolya. I can’t wait to see you play with her at dinner.”

And without another word, she walks out.

9

Chloe

Holding Slava’s hand, I approach the dining room, my knees all but knocking together. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I am. Just the thought of seeing Nikolai again makes me feel like a rabid honey badger has taken up residence in my stomach.

It’s the mafia question, I tell myself. Now that the idea has occurred to me, I can’t get it out of my mind, no matter how hard I try. That’s why my breath quickens and my palms grow damp each time I picture the cynical curve of my employer’s lips. Because he might be a criminal. Because I sense a dark, ruthless edge in him. It has nothing to do with his looks and the heat that flows through my veins whenever his intense green-gold gaze lands on me.

It can’t have anything to do with that because he’s married, and I would never poach another woman’s husband, especially when a child is involved.

Still, I can’t help wondering how long Nikolai and his wife have been together… whether he loves her. So far, I’ve only seen them together briefly, so it’s impossible to tell—though I did sense a certain lack of intimacy between them. But I’m sure that was just wishful thinking on my part. Why wouldn’t my employer love his wife? Alina is as gorgeous as he is, so much so they almost look alike. No wonder Slava is such a beautiful child; with parents like that, he’s won the genetic lottery, big time.

I glance down at the boy in question, and he looks up at me, his huge eyes eerily like his father’s. His expression is solemn, the exuberance he displayed when we played together gone. Like me, he seems anxious about our upcoming meal, so I give him a reassuring smile.

“Dinner,” I say, nodding toward the table we’re approaching. “We’re about to have dinner.”

He blinks up at me, saying nothing, but I know he’s filing away the word, along with everything else I’ve said to him today. Young children are like sponges, absorbing everything adults say and do, their brains forming connections at dazzling speed. When I was in high school, I babysat for a Chinese couple. Their five-year-old spoke zero English when I met her, but after a few weeks of kindergarten and a dozen evenings with me, she was almost fluent. The same thing will happen to Slava, I have no doubt.

Already, by the end of this afternoon, he was repeating a few words after me.

No one’s in the dining room yet, though Pavel gruffly told me to be down here at six when he brought the fruit-and-cheese tray to Slava’s room. However, the table is already set with all manner of salads and appetizers, and my mouth waters at the deliciousness waiting for us. While the afternoon snack quenched the worst of my gnawing hunger, I’m still starving, and it takes all of my willpower not to fall ravenously on the artfully arranged platters of open-faced caviar sandwiches, smoked fish, roasted vegetables, and leafy green salads. Instead, I help Slava climb up onto a chair that has a child’s booster seat on it, and then I begin pointing out the names of the different foods in English. “We call this dish salad, and the green thing inside it is lettuce,” I’m saying as the click-clack of high heels announces Alina’s arrival.

I look up at her with a smile. “Hello. Slava and I were just—”

“Why hasn’t he changed?” Her dark eyebrows pull together as she takes in the child’s appearance. “He knows we change for dinner.”

I blink. “Oh, I—”

She interrupts with a stream of rapid-fire Russian, and I see the boy’s shoulders tighten as he slinks down in his seat, as if wanting to disappear. Apparently realizing she’s upsetting her son, Alina softens her tone and eventually gets what sounds like a chastised apology out of the child.

She faces me. “Sorry about that. Slava knows better than to come down like this, but he forgot in all the excitement.”