Claim

She used the time in the car on the way home to make some calls to the contractor overseeing the renovation of Ludis when she wasn’t there. Lyon was at the warehouse that had become his headquarters, strategizing with the men about their next moves. He often worked late, which meant she should still have plenty of time to make dinner and have it ready and waiting when he got home.

He never expected it. In fact, he still seemed surprised to find her in the kitchen.

Still seemed surprised to find that she hadn’t left him again.

It hurt to see the relief in his eyes, to know her flight to Orcas Island had put him in a constant state of waiting for her to disappear, but there was nothing she could do about that now. Nothing except prove to him she was sorry, prove to him that she hadn’t meant what she’d written in the letter.

Prove to him that she would stay.

About an hour after they left the house in Lake Forest, Rurik pulled into one of their reserved parking spots in the garage under the Millennium tower. They walked together to the private elevator lobby and stepped into the gleaming elevator.

They reached the penthouse less than a minute later, the doors sliding smoothly open to reveal the foyer that acted as their entryway. She thought about the large foyer in the Lake Forest house, its gracious proportions and towering ceiling, its elaborate molding and the antique chandelier that would be cleaned to hang there once again, and felt a thrill of excitement.

The penthouse had been her place of residence since she’d married Lyon, but she’d never felt as at home here as she’d felt in her father’s house, the house she’d grown up in with books and art and gardens.

She wanted to make that kind of home for her family. A home with permanence, with history of their own.

She kicked off her shoes as Rurik rearmed the security system.

“I’m going to make dinner,” she said. “You’re welcome to join us.”

It was an invitation she extended often and one Rurik never took. She didn’t know what history existed between the stoic older man and her husband but whatever it was, Rurik’s loyalties to Lyon were deep and airtight.

They didn’t, however, extend to socializing. At most, Rurik might take a plate of food to his room, but she had no idea how he spent his time when he wasn’t acting as her personal watchdog.

Rurik nodded. “Thank you.”

She watched him make his way down the hall leading to his suite of rooms.

“Slava Bogu!”

Kira turned toward Zoya, hurrying down the long hall that ran between the apartment’s foyer and living area.

Kira knew immediately that something was wrong. Zoya had been her caretaker, her surrogate mother, since Kira’s own mother had died when she was twelve.

“What is it?” Kira asked.

Zoya was ordinarily unflappable, so direct she bordered on rude. And yet now she was wringing her hands, gray hair escaping from the sensible bun she favored, her dark eyes wide with panic.

“I didn’t let her in,” Zoya said, pulling Kira toward the living room. “That was security. Mudaks!”

Kira’s alarm grew. Zoya had certainly used the Russian word for “assholes” before, but not often, and the exclamation was never followed by anything positive.

“Just calm down and tell me what — ”

They spilled into the living room and Kira’s gaze landed on an older woman sitting at one end of the modern sofa Lyon had chosen before he married Kira.

She might have been royalty for the way she held herself, spine straight, chin pointed upward. Her black hair was shiny as a raven and perfectly coiffed atop her head, and her makeup was meticulously applied without being overtly heavy, designed to highlight her high cheekbones and striking dark eyes.

Kira recognized her Chanel suit as one from this season, the Bulgari bag tucked at her side small but expensive. Her ankles were crossed in a ladylike manor, but there was nothing polite about the way she pinned Kira with her cold gaze.

There was something familiar about her, about the tilt of her chin, the coolness in her eyes, but Kira didn’t have time to place it.

“Hello,” she said, remembering her manners, forcing her voice steady even though they had never — not once in the time she’d been married to Lyon — had an unexpected guest. “May I help you with you something?”

“I should hope so,” the woman said imperiously. “I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.”

Kira searched her memory. The woman seemed to know her, seemed to think Kira should know who she was.

“I apologize,” Kira said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The woman rose to her feet and Kira was surprised to find that she was quite tall. “Of course we haven’t. I’ve only recently arrived from Russia.”

A realization was starting to dawn in Kira’s mind, but there was no time to grab hold of it. The woman walked toward her, then stopped and let her cool gaze travel from Kira’s face all the way down her body and back up again.

Kira was suddenly self-conscious about her black pants, dusty from her time in the house, and about the fact that she undoubtedly needed a shower.

“You’re Lyon’s wife.” The smile that shadowed the woman’s mouth was sly. Kira’s stomach turned with dread, although she couldn’t have said why. “I am his mother.”