“He’s never been gone this long, Ivan . . .” My voice trailed off before I said, “Something’s not right.”

As usual, the same ambiguous words began to leave his lips—so very busy, important business deal, blah blah blah. I tuned him out to watch a single seagull soar above the water. I envied its wings; its courage to leap from a nest without knowing yet that it could fly. Here I was, grounded behind golden gates by Dior and the desire for my papa’s approval.

I didn’t realize I’d turned to walk away until Ivan grabbed my arm.

“Where are you going?”

“Home” was on my lips, but something entirely different, something that shocked even me, came out. “Moscow.”

Had cool and collected Ivan Volkov actually paled at that single word, or was it my overactive imagination? He released my arm, his quiet intensity freezing me to the wet stone.

“Moscow,” he repeated slowly, like he’d heard me wrong.

I raised a brow. “The capital of Russia? The place I was born? The—”

“Zamolchi.” Be quiet. “Why do you want to go to Moscow?”

“Papa practically lives there these days. You know he’s not watching his cholesterol. What if he’s sick and doesn’t want me to know?”

“I promise you, he is not sick.”

At the sincerity in his eyes, I believed him. The knowledge released a small weight from my shoulders, but it also added another.

“What if he’s in some kind of trouble?” I’d met a number of papa’s business partners, and there wasn’t a single one I would be comfortable being alone with.

“And once you are over there, what will you be able to do if he is?”

“Contact the police.”

Ivan didn’t look convinced. Actually, after a few seconds of staring at me, he cast a disinterested look out at the bay and released a breath. It held a tense note, as if the idea of me going to the Russian police had equally amused and disturbed him.

His eyes came back to mine, seemingly oblivious to the incoming tide that soaked his Italian loafers. “You do not know how things work over there.”

My fingers tightened around the jewelry box. That was only true because I wasn’t allowed more than an inch of freedom, but I kept the retort inside.

“If you’re not careful, Ivan, you’ll surely burst with all the confidence you have in me.”

His dry expression showed he was not close to bursting in any way. “It is January.”

“So?”

“When we were in Aspen last year, you complained about the cold. It was forty degrees.”

“Only an Eskimo would think forty degrees isn’t cold,” I returned with conviction. “Regardless, I’m not that delicate. I can handle a little cold.” It was the worst time in the world for a strong breeze to pick up and blow a cold front off the Atlantic. I fought a shiver—though, of course, Ivan noticed.

He pulled off his suit jacket, set it on my shoulders, and tucked a strand of blonde hair behind my ear. “As of today, you are twenty. You do not need your papa to hold your hand anymore.”

His comment stung, but I didn’t believe I was asking for much. I just didn’t want to sit in front of a Christmas tree with only him and our cook Borya, who were both paid to be there. I didn’t want to feel like the ballerina in the music box on my dresser, spinning in an exhausting and eternal pirouette just to please someone who had deserted me.

A part of it wasn’t even about all that.

“What about your date tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to go,” I said, pulling my eyes from his to the bay.

“Why not?”

I searched for a reasonable answer but remained silent. Ivan would think I was crazy if I told him the truth.

Tags: Danielle Lori Made Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net