Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1 Page 4

  Underneath that stunning male beauty and those smooth manners lurks something savage… something terrifying.

  He turns to face me, and it takes all my courage to remain in place and meet his tiger-bright gaze. My heart is thumping heavily in my chest, yet a white-hot current seems to leap between us, the air particles taking on an electric charge. My nerve endings sizzle with it, heating my skin and turning my breath shallow and uneven.

  Run, Chloe.

  Swallowing hard, I step back, Mom’s voice ringing in my head as clearly as if she were here. And I desperately want to listen to it, but I’m down to a few dollars in my wallet and a quarter-tank of gas in my ancient clunker of a car. This man, who both attracts and terrifies me, is my only hope of survival, and whatever danger I face here can’t be worse than what’s waiting for me if I leave.

  His eyes gleam with dark amusement as I take another step back and then another, and I again get the unsettling sensation that he’s seeing right through me, that he somehow senses both my fear and my shameful attraction to him.

  Forcing myself to turn away, I look around, feigning interest in my surroundings—as if anything around here could be as fascinating as he is. “So this will be my room?”

  “Yes. Do you like it?”

  “I love it.” I look up at a large TV hanging from the ceiling over the bed, then walk over to a door across from the one opening into the hallway. It leads to a sleek white bathroom with a glass shower stall large enough to accommodate five people. Another door turns out to hide a walk-in closet the size of my college dorm room, all empty and waiting for my meager belongings.

  It’s luxury of the kind I’ve only seen in movies, and it adds to my unease.

  Who are these people? Where did they get their wealth? How did Nikolai know about my absence from social media when all my profiles are private?

  Why do they need so much security in a place so remote?

  I didn’t want to think too deeply about any of this before—my focus was on getting the job—but now that I’m here, now that this is real, I can’t help wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. Because there’s one easy answer to all my questions, one word that, thanks to Hollywood, comes to mind when I think about wealthy Russians.

  Mafia.

  Is that what my new employers are?

  7

  Chloe

  Heart hammering, I turn to look at Nikolai. He’s watching me with the same unsettling amusement, and I suddenly feel like a mouse being played with by a big, gorgeous cat.

  Who may be in the mafia.

  “So,” I begin uncomfortably, “I should probably—”

  “Give me your car keys.” He walks up to me. “I’ll have your things brought up.”

  “That’s okay. I can do that myself. I’ll just—” I shut my mouth because he extends his hand palm up, his expression uncompromising.

  Fumbling in my pocket, I extract the keys and drop them onto his broad palm. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you.” He pockets the keys. “Settle in and make yourself comfortable. Pavel will bring your bags in a minute.”

  “There’s just one—a small suitcase in the trunk,” I say, but he’s already walking out.

  Exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, I collapse onto the bed. Now that the interview is over, the adrenaline that sustained me is dropping, and I feel wrung out, so completely drained that all I can do is lie there and stare blankly at the high ceiling. After a while, I recover enough to register the fact that the white coverlet underneath me is made of some soft, fuzzy material, and I spread my palms over it, stroking it as I would a pet.

  A knock on the door jolts me out of my semi-catatonic state. Sitting up, I call out, “Come in!”

  A man the size of a cave bear enters, carrying my suitcase, which looks more like a handbag in his enormous hand. Tattoos run up the sides of his thick neck, and his weathered face reminds me of a brick—hard, ruddy, and uncompromisingly square. His military-short hair is an indeterminate shade of brown liberally sprinkled with gray, and his hard gray eyes remind me of melted bullets.

  “Hi,” I say, mustering a smile as I get to my feet. “You must be Pavel.”

  He nods, his expression unchanged. “Where do you want this?” he asks in a deep, thickly accented growl.

  “Right here is fine, thank you. I got this.” I walk over to take the suitcase from him, and as I approach, I realize he must be the biggest man I’ve ever met, both in terms of height and width. More tattoos decorate the backs of his hands and peek out from the v-neck of the sweater that stretches tightly over his prominent pecs.

  Trying not to gulp nervously, I stop in front of him and clasp the handle of the suitcase he’s just set on the floor. “Thank you.” I smile brighter, looking up. Very far up—my neck actually hurts from how far I have to bend it back.

  He nods again, his thick jaw stiff, then turns and walks out.

  Okay then. So much for befriending other staff members. What’s the man-bear’s job here, anyway? Bodyguard?

  Mafia enforcer, maybe?

  I push the thought away. Even though the guy fits the stereotype to a T, I refuse to dwell on this possibility. What would be the point? Even if my new employers are mafia, I’m safer here than out there.

  I hope.

  Shutting the door behind Pavel, I unpack—a process that takes all of ten minutes—and gaze longingly at the bed with its fuzzy white coverlet. I’m exhausted and not only from the interview. Between the nightmares that haunt me at night and the constant worry during the day, I haven’t had more than four hours of sleep in weeks. But I can’t just sleep the afternoon away.

  I was hired to do a job, and I intend to do it.

  To perk myself up, I take a quick shower in the enormous bathroom and change into a fresh T-shirt—my last one. I have to inquire about where to do laundry ASAP, but first things first.

  It’s time I got to know my young student.

  * * *

  The door to Slava’s room is open as I approach, and I see Alina inside, talking to the boy in melodious Russian. Hearing my footsteps, she glances over at me and arches her eyebrows in a way that reminds me of her husband.

  “Eager to start?”

  I smile at her. “If you don’t mind, I was thinking Slava and I could get to know each other this afternoon.” I catch the child’s gaze and give him a wink, earning myself a huge smile.

  Alina’s expression warms at her son’s reaction. “Of course I don’t mind. I was just explaining to him that you’ll be living here and teaching him. He’s quite excited about the idea.”

  “So am I.” I crouch in front of the boy. “We’ll have a great time, won’t we, Slava?”

  He clearly doesn’t understand what I’m saying, but he grins regardless and rattles off something in Russian.

  “He’s asking if you like castles,” Alina says.

  “Yes, I do,” I tell Slava. “Show me what you’ve got there. Is this your fortress?” I gesture at the partially built LEGO project.

  The boy giggles and plops down among the LEGO pieces. Picking up two, he attaches them to the walls of the castle, and I help him by attaching two more. Only I apparently did it wrong because he shakes his head and takes off my pieces, then places them right next to where I attached them.

  “Oh, I see. You’re leaving room for windows. Windows, right?” I point at the giant window in his room.

  He bobs his head. “Da, okna. Bol’shiye okna.” Grabbing my wrist, he places another piece in my palm and guides my hand to the proper place on the wall. “Nado syuda.”

  “Got it.” Grinning, I attach the next piece. “Like so, right?”

  “Da,” he says excitedly and grabs more pieces. We proceed in that vein, with him guiding me in castle assembly until Alina clears her throat.

  “Seems like you two are on the same page, so I’ll leave you to it,” she says when I look up. “You have a half hour before Slava’s snack time. Are you hungry by any cha
nce, Chloe?”

  My stomach responds before I can, emitting a loud growl, and Alina laughs, her green eyes lighting with amusement.

  “I’m guessing that’s a yes. Any food preferences or allergies?”

  “I’m good with anything,” I say, grateful that my darker skin tone conceals my embarrassed flush. I can’t imagine Alina’s elegant, long-limbed body ever emitting such an indiscreet noise—though, if she’s human, it must upon occasion. Of course, jury’s still out on the human part.

  In those high heels and that stunning dress, Nikolai’s wife looks too glamorous to be real.

  Some of my embarrassment must show because her amusement deepens, her lips curving in a way that again reminds me disconcertingly of her husband. “How very accommodating of you. I’ll let Pavel know.”

  Pavel? Is the man-bear their cook or something? Before I can ask, Alina turns to her son and says something in Russian, then strolls out, leaving me alone with my charge.

  8

  Nikolai

  “So, tell me, brother… Did you acquire her for Slava or yourself?”

  I pause in the middle of putting on my cufflinks and turn around to meet Alina’s coolly mocking gaze. “Does it matter?” I have no idea how she sniffed out my interest in our new hire, but I’m not surprised.

  My sister has always been able to read me better than anyone.

  She leans against the doorframe of my walk-in closet, where I’m changing for dinner. “I guess I should’ve expected it. She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

  “Very.” I deliberately turn my back to her. Alina lives to get a rise out of me, but she’s not going to succeed tonight. Nor is she going to shame me into staying away from Chloe.

  The girl intrigues me too much for that.

  “You know she spent the entire afternoon with Slava, right?” Alina strolls deeper into my closet and picks up my skinny black tie, the one I was just about to put on.

  Resisting the impulse to reach for a different one just to spite her, I take the tie from her and put it on with practiced motions. “Yes, I do.”

  There are cameras in my son’s room, and I spent my afternoon watching him play with his new tutor. They finished building the castle Slava was working on, ate the fruit-and-cheese platter Pavel brought, then played a game of tag, where Chloe chased him around his room and down the hallway, making him laugh so hard he was giggle-snorting. Afterward, Chloe read to him from some of his favorite comic books—the English-language ones, not the Russian translations Alina smuggled in to worm her way into the boy’s good graces. As she spoke, Slava looked fascinated with his beautiful young teacher, something I can’t blame him for.

  I’d kill for her to sit next to me and read to me in that soft, slightly husky voice, to feel her hand play with my hair the way it so casually played with my son’s when he snuggled up to her as if he’s known her all his life.

  “She’s good with him,” Alina continues as I finish buckling my belt and reach for my suit jacket. “Really good.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Yet you’re still going to fuck her. Just like he would have.”

  I keep my tone level. “I never claimed to be any different.”

  “But you can be. Kolya…” She lays her hand on my arm, and when I meet her gaze, she says quietly, “We left. We came here. This is our chance to start over, to make ourselves into whoever we want to be. Forget our father. Forget all of it. You’ve put in your time; now it’s Valery and Konstantin’s turn.”

  A dry chuckle escapes my throat. “What makes you think I want to start over? Or be anything other than who I am?”

  “The fact that you left. The fact that we’re here, having this discussion.” Her expression is earnest, open for once. “Let the girl be Slava’s tutor and nothing more. Amuse yourself elsewhere. She’s too young for you. Too innocent.”

  “She’s twenty-three, not twelve. And I’ve just turned thirty-one—hardly an insurmountable age difference.”

  “I’m not talking about age. She’s not like us. She’s soft. Vulnerable.”

  “Exactly. And you brought her to my attention.” I smile cruelly. “What did you think would happen?”

  Alina’s face hardens. “You’re going to destroy her. But then again”—her lips twist in a bitter smile as she steps back—“that’s the Molotov way, isn’t it? Enjoy your new toy, Kolya. I can’t wait to see you play with her at dinner.”

  And without another word, she walks out.

  9

  Chloe

  Holding Slava’s hand, I approach the dining room, my knees all but knocking together. I don’t know why I’m so nervous, but I am. Just the thought of seeing Nikolai again makes me feel like a rabid honey badger has taken up residence in my stomach.

  It’s the mafia question, I tell myself. Now that the idea has occurred to me, I can’t get it out of my mind, no matter how hard I try. That’s why my breath quickens and my palms grow damp each time I picture the cynical curve of my employer’s lips. Because he might be a criminal. Because I sense a dark, ruthless edge in him. It has nothing to do with his looks and the heat that flows through my veins whenever his intense green-gold gaze lands on me.

  It can’t have anything to do with that because he’s married, and I would never poach another woman’s husband, especially when a child is involved.

  Still, I can’t help wondering how long Nikolai and his wife have been together… whether he loves her. So far, I’ve only seen them together briefly, so it’s impossible to tell—though I did sense a certain lack of intimacy between them. But I’m sure that was just wishful thinking on my part. Why wouldn’t my employer love his wife? Alina is as gorgeous as he is, so much so they almost look alike. No wonder Slava is such a beautiful child; with parents like that, he’s won the genetic lottery, big time.

  I glance down at the boy in question, and he looks up at me, his huge eyes eerily like his father’s. His expression is solemn, the exuberance he displayed when we played together gone. Like me, he seems anxious about our upcoming meal, so I give him a reassuring smile.

  “Dinner,” I say, nodding toward the table we’re approaching. “We’re about to have dinner.”

  He blinks up at me, saying nothing, but I know he’s filing away the word, along with everything else I’ve said to him today. Young children are like sponges, absorbing everything adults say and do, their brains forming connections at dazzling speed. When I was in high school, I babysat for a Chinese couple. Their five-year-old spoke zero English when I met her, but after a few weeks of kindergarten and a dozen evenings with me, she was almost fluent. The same thing will happen to Slava, I have no doubt.

  Already, by the end of this afternoon, he was repeating a few words after me.

  No one’s in the dining room yet, though Pavel gruffly told me to be down here at six when he brought the fruit-and-cheese tray to Slava’s room. However, the table is already set with all manner of salads and appetizers, and my mouth waters at the deliciousness waiting for us. While the afternoon snack quenched the worst of my gnawing hunger, I’m still starving, and it takes all of my willpower not to fall ravenously on the artfully arranged platters of open-faced caviar sandwiches, smoked fish, roasted vegetables, and leafy green salads. Instead, I help Slava climb up onto a chair that has a child’s booster seat on it, and then I begin pointing out the names of the different foods in English. “We call this dish salad, and the green thing inside it is lettuce,” I’m saying as the click-clack of high heels announces Alina’s arrival.

  I look up at her with a smile. “Hello. Slava and I were just—”

  “Why hasn’t he changed?” Her dark eyebrows pull together as she takes in the child’s appearance. “He knows we change for dinner.”

  I blink. “Oh, I—”

  She interrupts with a stream of rapid-fire Russian, and I see the boy’s shoulders tighten as he slinks down in his seat, as if wanting to disappear. Apparently realizing she’s upsetting her son, Alina softens her tone an
d eventually gets what sounds like a chastised apology out of the child.

  She faces me. “Sorry about that. Slava knows better than to come down like this, but he forgot in all the excitement.”

  My face burns as I realize that “like this” means his normal casual clothes, which are no different from the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt I’m wearing. Nikolai’s wife, on the other hand, has changed into an even more glamorous dress—a silver-blue ankle-length gown—and looks like she’s on her way to a Hollywood premiere.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like a fanny-pack-wearing tourist who’s stumbled into a Parisian fashion show. “I didn’t realize there was a dress code.”

  “Oh, you’re fine.” Alina waves an elegant hand. “It’s not a requirement for you. But Slava is a Molotov, and it’s important that he learn the family traditions.”

  “I see.” I don’t see, actually, but it’s not my place to argue with family traditions, however absurd they may be.

  “And don’t worry,” Alina adds, taking a seat across from Slava. “If you wish to dress properly as well, I’m sure Kolya will buy you some appropriate clothing.”

  Kolya? Is that what she calls her husband?

  “That’s not necessary, thank you—” I begin, only to fall into a stunned silence as I catch sight of Nikolai approaching the table. Like his wife, he’s changed for dinner, his high-end designer jeans and button-up shirt replaced by a sharply tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and skinny black tie—an outfit that wouldn’t look out of place at a high-society wedding… or the same movie premiere Alina’s planning to attend. And while an average-looking man could easily pass for handsome in a suit like this, Nikolai’s dark, masculine beauty is heightened to an almost unbearable degree. As I take in his appearance, my pulse goes through the roof and my lungs constrict, along with lower regions of my—