Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1 Read online

  The blood flowing to my face feels like lava as I reluctantly obey, turning to lie on my stomach next to Slava—who seems fascinated by what’s happening. Nikolai stretches out next to me, his big, hard body flush against mine, and it belatedly occurs to me that Slava should be in the middle, serving as a buffer. Before I can suggest it, Nikolai drapes a heavy arm over my shoulders, pinning me in place, and places the book in front of me.

  “Go ahead,” he murmurs in my ear, his warm breath sending goosebumps down my arm. “Let’s see you work your teaching magic.”

  Magic? The only magic around here is that I’m somehow intact and not a puddle of goo on the sheets—which is what my body feels like as I lie in what amounts to his embrace. My pulse is pounding in my temples, my breath sawing through my lips as my underwear grows even slicker, and only the presence of the child next to us keeps me from repeating last night’s mistake by giving in to the dangerous, hypnotic pull Nikolai exerts on me.

  Instead, I attempt to concentrate on the task at hand. Clearing my throat, I read, “T is for train: choo-choo. Also for truck.” My voice is a shade too husky, but I’m just glad my brain is functioning enough to make out the words on the page. Luckily, Slava doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss as I continue, pointing at the picture of the truck with a slightly unsteady finger.

  Casting curious looks at his father, he repeats the words after me, his voice quiet and subdued at first, then increasingly livelier, and by the time we get to Z, he’s laughing at the stripes on the zebra and purposefully mispronouncing the word, having forgotten all about the large man in bed with us.

  After his third incorrect attempt, I tsk-tsk with mock disappointment and glance at Nikolai. “Why don’t you try saying it?” I suggest, ignoring the way my pulse spikes as I meet his gaze. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  Nikolai’s expression doesn’t change, but the arm draped over my shoulders stiffens slightly. “All right,” he says in a measured tone, and looking down at the book, he says in a thick, exaggerated Russian accent, “Zye-bruh.”

  Slava’s eyes round. He clearly wasn’t expecting his father to have trouble with the English word. I tsk-tsk again, shaking my head as if disappointed by Nikolai’s attempt, and after a brief, tension-filled moment, Slava bursts out laughing.

  “Zebra,” he corrects through the giggles, his pronunciation as perfect as mine. “Zebra, zebra.”

  “Oh, I see.” Nikolai glances at me, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “So… zee-bro?”

  Slava is all but dying from laughter now, and I can’t help grinning as well. This is a side of my employer I’ve never seen before, and judging by Slava’s reaction, neither has he. Giggling, he corrects his father’s pronunciation, and Nikolai bungles it again, sending the boy into fresh peals of laughter. Finally, Slava succeeds in “teaching” Nikolai how it’s done, and we triumphantly close the book, having covered the entire alphabet.

  Immediately, the tension between me and Nikolai returns, the air crackling with a sexual charge. I’ve been doing my best to ignore the feel of him pressed against my side, but without the distraction of the book, it’s impossible. His big body is warm and hard next to me, his arm heavy over my shoulder blades, and though we’re both fully clothed, the intimacy of lying together like this is undeniable.

  To my relief, Nikolai removes his arm and sits up. I do the same, quickly scooting back to put some distance between us—a retreat he observes with dark amusement before saying something in Russian to his son.

  The boy nods, still flushed from excitement, and Nikolai rises to his feet.

  “Let’s go to my office,” he says to me. “There’s something I’d like to discuss.”

  27

  Nikolai

  I sit at the small round table in my office, and Chloe sits across from me, regarding me with those pretty, wary brown eyes. Her hands twist together on the table as she waits for me to initiate the conversation, and I let the moment stretch on, enjoying her nervousness. Lying next to her on Slava’s tiny bed had been torture; if not for my son, I wouldn’t have been able to control myself. As is, I’m still hard from being next to her, feeling her warmth and breathing in her crisp, sweet scent. It takes everything I have not to reach over and grab her right here and now, spreading her out on this very table.

  With effort, I rein myself in. It’s too soon, especially since I’m leaving in a half hour and won’t be back for several days. A quick fuck isn’t what I’m after. It won’t be anywhere near enough.

  Once I get Chloe into my bed, I intend to keep her there for hours. Maybe even days or weeks.

  Besides, that’s not why I called her into my office.

  Placing my forearms on the table, I lean forward. “About last night…”

  She stiffens, the pulse in her neck visibly quickening.

  “… was it about your mother?”

  She blinks. “What?”

  “Your nightmare. Was it about your mother’s death?” The question has been tormenting me all morning, and since Konstantin hasn’t come through with the report, there’s only one way I can learn the answer.

  At the word “death,” her chin wobbles almost imperceptibly. “It’s… yes, in a way, it’s about her…” She swallows thickly. “Her death.”

  “I’m sorry.” Whatever she’s hiding, her pain is unfeigned, and it tugs at me like a dull fishing hook. “How did she die?”

  I know what the police report said, but I want to hear Chloe’s take on it. I’ve already dismissed the possibility that she might’ve killed her mother—the girl I’ve observed for the past two days is no more a killer than I’m a saint—but that doesn’t mean something didn’t go down. Something that made her drop off the grid and sent her on a cross-country trip in a car that should’ve been junked a decade ago.

  Chloe’s hands lace tighter together, her eyes glittering with painful brightness. “It was ruled a suicide.”

  “And was it?”

  “I… don’t know.”

  She’s lying. It’s clear as day that she doesn’t believe a word of that police report, that there’s something she’s not telling me. I’m tempted to press her harder, force her to open up to me, but it’s too soon for that as well. She has no reason to trust me yet; if I push too hard, it’ll only backfire.

  The last thing I want is to frighten her, make her want to run while I’m gone.

  “That’s tough,” I say softly instead. “No wonder you have nightmares.”

  She nods. “It has been kind of tough.” Cautiously, she asks, “What about your parents? Are they back in Russia?”

  “They’re dead.” My tone is overly harsh, but my family is not a topic I care to delve into.

  Chloe’s eyes widen before filling with expected sympathy. “I’m really sorry—”

  I hold up a hand to stop her. “You don’t have a phone or a laptop or any kind of tablet, right?”

  She looks taken aback. “Right. I didn’t bring any with me on the trip.”

  I get up and walk over to my desk. Opening one of the drawers, I take out a brand-new laptop, still sealed in a box, and bring it back to the table.

  “Here.” I place it in front of her. “I’m leaving for Tajikistan in”—I consult my watch—“fifteen minutes. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but it’ll be at least three to four days, and I want you to keep me posted on Slava’s progress.”

  “Yes, of course.” She stands as well, her brown eyes gazing up at me. “Would you like me to send you a daily email or…?”

  “I’ll videocall you. Ask Alina to set up an account for you on the secure platform we use. Also”—I pull out my business card and hand it to her—“here’s my cell number in case of emergencies.”

  I plan to watch her through the cameras in Slava’s room as well, but it’s not going to be enough. I already know that. I need more contact with her, need to hear her talking to me, see her smiling at me, not just my son. The videocalls won’t be enough either, but it’s the
best I can do short of bailing on the trip altogether, and I’m not that far gone yet.

  No, this will have to do, and keeping up to date on Slava’s progress makes as good of an excuse for these calls as anything.

  My chest tightens again at the thought of my son, but this time, the ache is accompanied by an unsettling sort of warmth. Slava laughed with me, looked at me with something other than wariness this morning… and it was because of her, because she was there, lending me her sweetness, her radiant magic.

  I want more of it.

  I want to take all of her sunshine, use it to light every dark, hollow corner of my soul.

  Slowly, taking care not to spook her, I step closer and gently curve my palm over her silky-smooth cheek. She stares up at me, unmoving, hardly breathing, those soft, pouty doll lips parted, and my guts clench on a violent surge of need, a hunger as intense as it is dark. As much as I want to fuck her, I want to possess her even more.

  I want to own her inside and out, to chain her to me and never let her go.

  Something of my intent must show because her breath hitches, her throat moving in a nervous swallow. “Nikolai, I…”

  “Keep the laptop on in the evenings,” I order softly, and dropping my hand, I step back before I can give in to the dangerous maelstrom inside me.

  To the beast that no amount of refinement can hide.

  28

  Chloe

  Heart pounding, I watch through the window in Slava’s room as Pavel loads a suitcase into the backseat of a sleek white SUV and gets behind the wheel. A minute later, Nikolai approaches the car. Dressed in a sharply tailored gray suit and pin-striped white shirt, with a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, he looks every inch the powerful businessman. Moving with his customary athletic grace, he climbs into the front passenger seat and shuts the door.

  I let out a shaky breath, my pulse slowing as the car pulls away and disappears down the winding driveway. I have no idea how I feel about his departure or what happened in his office. Had he been about to kiss me? If I hadn’t said his name, would he have—

  “Chloe?” a small, high-pitched voice pipes up, and I turn with a smile, putting all thoughts of my employer on hold.

  “Yes, darling?”

  Slava holds up a box of LEGO pieces. “Castle?”

  I grin. “Sure, let’s do it.” I love that he remembered the word, and that he feels comfortable enough to call me by my name. He really is one of the brightest kids I’ve ever met, and I have no doubt I’ll have a lot to report to Nikolai when he calls me.

  My heart rate speeds up again at the thought of talking to him on video, and I busy myself by taking the LEGO pieces out of the box. A part of me is glad that Nikolai is gone… that for the next few days, I won’t have to contend with his dangerous, magnetic presence. But another, weaker part of me is already mourning his absence. The overcast sky outside feels darker, grayer, the house emptier and colder.

  It’s as if something vital has disappeared from my life, leaving behind a strangely hollow feeling.

  * * *

  I spend the rest of the morning with Slava, playing various educational games, and then we eat lunch in the dining room, just the two of us, with Lyudmila bringing out all the dishes.

  “Headache,” she informs me when I ask about Alina. “You eat yourself, okay?”

  I nod, biting back a laugh at the unfortunate phrasing. Maybe Pavel’s wife would be open to some English lessons while I’m here? I’ll have to ask her at some point. For now, I concentrate on giving Slava a generous serving of everything on the table and then doing the same for myself while Lyudmila disappears into the kitchen. I don’t see her again until dinner—which Alina also skips, leaving me to dine alone with my charge.

  I don’t mind it. In fact, it’s a relief. Despite the fancy clothes Slava and I put on as per the “house rules,” the dinner feels infinitely more casual with just the two of us, the atmosphere lacking all the strain and tension that the Molotov siblings bring with them. I play with my food, making Slava giggle like crazy, and I continue teaching him words for various food items, along with basic mealtime phrases. Before long, he’s asking me in English to pass him a napkin, and by utilizing a lot of gestures and facial expressions, we succeed in discussing which foods he likes the most and which ones he dislikes.

  It’s not until Lyudmila takes Slava away to put him to bed and I go up to my room that I realize I need Alina. She’s the one who’s supposed to set up an account for me on the secure videoconference platform. I doubt Nikolai will call me tonight—he’s most likely still in the air—but he could easily call me tomorrow morning. Or in the middle of the night, if that’s when he lands.

  Still, I don’t want to bother her if she’s not feeling well.

  I decide to begin by setting up the computer itself. It’s a sleek, high-end MacBook Pro, and as I unpack it from the box, I realize I’ve never had a laptop this expensive. It’s hard to believe Nikolai just had it sitting in his desk drawer like a spare pen.

  Then again, why am I surprised? This family clearly has money to burn.

  I boot up the laptop and go through the new computer setup routine. But when I try to get on Wi-Fi, I can’t—it’s password protected. I need Alina for this too. I suppose I can ask Lyudmila, but she’s putting Slava to bed right now, and there’s no guarantee she’d know the password, given how paranoid the Molotovs are about security, digital and otherwise.

  Blowing out a frustrated breath, I close the laptop. Without internet, it’s pretty much useless.

  I guess tonight I get to laze around and watch TV.

  I change out of my evening gown and into a pair of butter-soft leggings and a long-sleeved cotton tee—both new acquisitions—and make myself comfortable on the bed. Turning on the TV, I locate a nature show and spend the next hour learning about the plains of the Serengeti. The David Attenborough narration is as magnificent as always, and I find myself completely absorbed by the story unfolding on the screen, my mind calm for the first time in weeks. It’s only when I’m watching a lion stalk a gazelle that my thoughts turn to the killers hunting me, and my disquiet returns.

  I still don’t know who those men are or what they wanted with my mom—why they killed her and made it look like a suicide. The most logical possibility is that she walked in on them while they were burglarizing the apartment, but then why was she wearing her robe like she was relaxing at home? And why didn’t the police notice signs of forced entry or things missing?

  At least I assume they didn’t notice it. If they did and ruled her death a suicide anyway… well, that raises all kinds of other questions.

  The other possibility, a likelier and much more disturbing one, is that they came specifically to kill her.

  Turning off the TV, I get up and walk over to the window to stare out at the rapidly darkening landscape. My chest is tight, my mind churning anew. I’ve racked my brain ever since it happened, trying to think of reasons why someone might want to kill my mom, and I can’t come up with a single one. Mom wasn’t perfect—she could be sharp-tongued when tired, and she was prone to bouts of depression—but I’d never seen her be deliberately mean or unkind to anyone. For as long as I can remember, she’d worked two or more jobs to support us, leaving her with little time and energy to socialize and make friends—or enemies. To the best of my knowledge, she didn’t even date, though men hit on her all the time.

  She was beautiful… and barely forty when she died.

  My throat cinches tight, a stinging pressure building behind my eyes. Not only have I lost the only person in the world who loved me unconditionally, but her murderers are out there, free. The police didn’t believe a single word I told them, the reporters I contacted didn’t reply to my emails, and nobody is looking for my mom’s killers. Nobody is hunting them like the rabid animals they are.

  Instead, the killers are hunting me.

  Fuck this shit.

  Pivoting on my heel, I stride to the bed and grab the lapt
op. I can’t sit around, watching TV like my world didn’t crumble a month ago. Not when I’m finally safe and have a computer on which I can do research at my leisure. For weeks, I’ve lurched from one crisis to another, all my energy focused on survival, on escape, but things are different now. I have a full belly, a safe place to rest my head, and—if I can only get that Wi-Fi password—an internet-connected laptop. No more sneaking into a library in some small town to huddle over their slow, ancient desktops while looking over my shoulder every minute; no more dashing off hastily composed emails before running to my car.

  Here, in the privacy of my room, I can take my time and look for evidence to back up my claims, for some kind of proof to take to the police.

  I can try to solve the mystery of Mom’s murder and turn the tables on her killers, make them be the ones who have to run.

  29

  Chloe

  I don’t know which room is Alina’s, but it has to be close to mine for her to have heard me both nights. Holding the laptop against my chest, I knock on the door closest to my bedroom, and when I don’t get an answer, I move on to the next one.

  Still no luck.

  I try three more bedroom doors, plus Nikolai’s office, with the same lack of results. The only room that’s left is Slava’s, and since all is quiet there, he must already be asleep.

  Suppressing my frustration, I go downstairs. I’m pretty sure Lyudmila and Pavel’s room is near the laundry; I heard their voices coming from there when I was taking my clothes out of the dryer yesterday. Hopefully, Lyudmila hasn’t gone to bed yet, and can either provide the password or locate Alina for me.

  Nobody answers that knock either—nor is Lyudmila in the kitchen or any of the other common areas downstairs. I’m about to give up and go back to my room when a distant peal of laughter reaches my ears.