The Darkest Temptation (Made 3)

Stepping off the plane and into the frigid jet bridge, I shivered. Inhaled. Exhaled. I could see my breath. I’d never experienced such cold in my life. It grabbed ahold of my lungs, stealing the heat from my body with icy fingers. I’d wanted to experience my birthplace, but I should have just climbed into our freezer.

As I stopped to slip on my coat, someone ran into my back. I turned with an apology on my tongue, but the little old lady who held a Chihuahua in a mesh carry-on bag beat me to it.

“Excuse me, dear,” she said in a British accent. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No, I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

She closed her sable fur coat and tilted her head. “You look very familiar. Have we met before?”

“Um, I don’t think so.”

“No . . . I’m sure I’ve seen you before.” She touched her gaudy gold necklace in thought. Then something dawned on her. Something that made her put a hand on her chest and eye me up and down as if I was a hooker.

This was growing weirder by the second, but before I could say anything, someone rolled by in a wheelchair, and the tiny dog in her bag started to bark. While she tried to soothe little Rupert, I offered another awkward apology and made a quick exit.

On the curb of the airport, I unfolded a piece of notebook paper I’d found stashed in one of my papa’s desk drawers. Feeling like Nancy Drew, with the help of Google Translate, I’d learned the Russian scrawl was an address to a home, complete with a record of bills he’d been paying there for years. I hoped this wasn’t a dead end because I had nowhere to go from here, and I wasn’t ready to crawl back to Ivan so soon.

I handed the taxi driver the paper, not having the faintest idea how to read the foreign alphabet. The cabbie’s dark gaze met mine in the rearview mirror, holding eye contact just long enough to send a whisper of unease down my back.

He took me past a busy industrial area to a quieter neighborhood with cobblestone streets and old, unique townhomes, where he parked at the curb in front of a lime green house with white shutters.

“Pyat’sot rubley.” Five hundred rubles.

I paid the man with the money I’d exchanged at the airport.

Stepping out of the car, I grabbed my duffle bag and tightened the belt of my peacoat. It was perfect for a cheerleading farewell trip to Aspen last year, but not so great at blocking the bitter Russian air from my skin.

The frozen iron gate squeaked when I pushed it open. I walked up the cracked pavement, dodging patches of ice and snow, and knocked on the door.

An older woman with graying blonde hair pulled into a ballerina bun answered a moment later. She was wiping her hands on her apron when her eyes came up to meet mine, and as she stared, the color drained from her pink cheeks. I opened my mouth to say something but didn’t manage a single word before she slammed the door shut in my face.

I closed my mouth and sensed she was standing on the other side of the door with her ear to the wood, waiting for me to go away.

When I knocked again, a thump sounded, followed by her shrieking in Russian, the words too muffled for me to pick apart.

The door opened once more, and this time, a thin gentleman in a black dress coat appeared. He was shaking his head and muttering to his wife, clearly believing she’d fallen off her rocker for good. She hid behind him, her apron grasped in her hands.

When his gaze found me, he froze like he’d just seen a ghost.

I forced a smile. “Zdravstvuyte—” Hello.

The woman ran.

“I’m Alexei Mikhailov’s daughter . . . Mila,” I said hesitantly, hoping he spoke some English because I was a massive failure to my heritage.

I’d given up the desire to study Russian years ago since Papa always claimed it was a waste of my time, so I’d only learned what I knew from Ivan and Borya. That included the bare basics, vegetables, and curse words.

A sliver of relief crossed the older man’s expression, and then he let out an awkward chuckle. “Of course, of course. You gave us quite a scare there.” He stepped back and gestured me inside. “Come in.”

With my freezing hands in my pockets, I stepped into the house and turned to take in the foyer. I stilled when I caught him sticking his head out of the front door and looking both ways before shutting it. Was I about to be the next star on Russia’s version of Forensic Files?

“This cannot be good,” he muttered, shaking his head and hobbling past me. “Vera, kofe! We drink instant in this house. Hope you do not mind.”

“Of course not.”

I hated coffee, but I’d drink five cups if it got me a few answers.

“Come sit down, girl.”