1
Kira stood back and studied the wallpaper with a critical eye. Even in the weak March light, the deep green background with a riot of flowers and vines was perfect for what would soon be a music room, complete with the grand piano Lyon had given her with the house in the affluent Chicago suburb of Lake Forest.
As always, thinking about him made her blood run hot. Sometimes she told herself it was their age difference. Lyon was twelve years older than her, with a commanding manner that was unlike any of the boys she’d dated before him. Other times, she told herself it was simply the hormones running through her pregnant body.
She might even have believed her excuses if her lust wasn’t accompanied by a far more dangerous swell of something that felt too much like affection to call it anything else.
She walked the perimeter of the room, still smelling of fresh paint and sawdust. She could imagine playing piano in front of the giant lead-glass windows, restored to their original glory, while Lyon played with their child on the floor.
She imagined them falling back into the easy affection they’d established before she ran to Orcas Island, before Lyon had Alek bring her back, imprisoning her in this very house for three days before he finally took her home to the penthouse downtown.
She’d loved him. She loved him still.
But she’d never told him. She hadn’t been thinking straight after her father’s murder at the hands of Musa Shapiev. His death had felt like a consequence of her arranged marriage to Lyon Antonov, a consequence all the more bitter for the love she’d begun to feel for the man called the Lion.
She’d blamed herself, and somewhere in the endless halls of her grief, she’d blamed Lyon too.
So she’d run.
Except she hadn’t just run. She’d left Lyon a letter claiming she’d never loved him, reminding him that theirs had been nothing more than a business arrangement.
It had been the worst thing she could do to a man like Lyon. A proud man. A man known for impenetrable strength.
A violent, dangerous man.
He’d been angry when he brought her back, and hurt, although he wouldn’t have wanted her to know the last part. It had taken months — and the news that Lyon was being challenged by his longtime mentor and friend, Ivan — to bring them to their current wary affection.
And, behind closed doors at least, a return to the passion she’d found in his arms before she’d run.
“What do you think?”
She turned toward the voice and found Jean-Luc, the consultant she’d hired to help design the music room, looking at her from the doorway.
He was tall and lean, with the sharp features of an aristocrat and dark hair and eyes.
She smiled, all too aware that her face was flushed, her chest heated, from her thoughts of Lyon. “You know what I think. What do you think?”
He hadn’t been convinced when she’d shown him a sample of the wallpaper, but she’d already made up her mind.
He sighed and walked toward her, arms crossed, his eyes on the newly installed wallpaper. “You were right of course. It’s perfect.”
Her smile widened. “I won’t say I told you so.”
“But you want to,” he said.
“I really, really do.”
He laughed. “The acoustic engineering should be finished by next week. Then you can have the construction crew close up that last wall.”
“Good,” she said. “I want to be moved in by summer.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Aggressive.”
“Necessary,” she said without elaborating.
She’d told no one but Zoya about her pregnancy, but she wouldn’t be able to hide it much longer. She was four months along, and while her breasts had gotten fuller, her stomach slightly less flat, it wasn’t noticeable as a pregnancy just yet.
Every time she and Lyon made love she held her breath, wondering if he would notice, wondering about his reaction. Sometimes she managed to convince herself he would be happy. Other times, she was full of fear that he would hate having a child with someone he didn’t love, someone he didn’t trust.
She’d known about the house for less than a month, but she’d wasted no time getting to work making it habitable, and she’d had craftsmen working overtime to ensure it all got done.
Jean-Luc nodded. “I know you’ll see it done.”
“How do you know?”
He held her gaze. “You’re a formidable woman. If you want it done by summer, even a house as great as this one wouldn’t dare disappoint you.”
She laughed. She’d come to enjoy working with Jean-Luc. A former concert pianist turned consultant, he’d helped design music halls in theaters and music rooms in some of the world’s most affluent private homes. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It’s meant as one,” he said.
The room had fallen into shadow since she’d been inspecting the new wallpaper. Soon it would be spring, but for now, the sun still set early.
“I better get going,” she said. She didn’t like being at the house alone after dark. It was isolated on the giant property, and set far back from the road and sheltered by old trees on all sides.
Plus, she’d begun cooking for Lyon, something she was surprised to find she enjoyed.
“Anything else I can do for you before I go?” Jean-Luc asked.
She shook her head. “I’m going to take a last pass through the kitchen, see how it’s coming along before I leave.”
It was a rare moment of quiet in the house, the other workers already gone for the day.