The Professional (11 page)

“Little birch? Is that the name of his compound?”

“Da.”

We fell silent. The landscape grew wilder, with more trees and larger properties. We passed gate after gate, each more elaborate than the last.

My nerves were getting the best of me. I fussed with my new coat. A fur one. My grandmother’s.

What if I said something stupid or ticked Kovalev off? I didn’t often put my foot in my mouth, but when I did, I tended to go big in that department as well.

What if the man wasn’t even convinced that I was his daughter and this was some kind of test? I only had Sevastyan’s word on everything. Shit. How much could I really trust him—

“Natalie, rest easy.” He leaned forward and took my hands. “He’s a good man.”

Right when I’d decided Sevastyan was a dick, he had to go and be all understanding. A raw moment of insecurity from me. A raw moment of sympathy from him.

Then he frowned. “Your hands are cold.” As I stared down, he took both of mine between his own. To warm them.

Just as I’d imagined my future, faceless guy would.

I blinked up at him. Had that only been last night?

“Weren’t there gloves for you?”

“I didn’t have a chance to look through everything.”

“Don’t be nervous.” With utter confidence, he said, “You will take it all in stride.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you have everything else.” The car decelerated; he dropped my hands, clearing his throat to say, “We’re here.”

G
uard dogs and machine guns. Why was I even surprised?

At the beginning of the driveway, a pair of two-story white stone towers formed an arc over ornate iron gates. Uniformed men were poised in front of the structure, weapons at the ready, dogs snarling.

Our driver rolled down the window and spoke to a guard, who seemed to be trying to get a look at me. I supposed they must be curious about Kovalev’s long-lost daughter.

A motor whirred as the gates opened. When they closed behind us, Sevastyan relaxed a degree, just as he had once we’d gotten into the air. His expression grew a shade less grim.

“Well.” I exhaled a surprised breath. “That was different.”

“The security has been increased for your presence. Kovalev will take no chances. But you shouldn’t be frightened. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I’m not frightened, I’ve just never been out of the Corn Belt before. And now this . . .”

“I know, pet.” I caught his glance at my lap, where I was twining my fingers together, and thought he had the impulse to hold my hands again. But he didn’t.

The drive meandered through what looked like a park, with hill after hill of golf course–quality lawn. The sun began to break through lowering clouds.

I wanted to pay attention to everything, to memorize my first experience here, but again I was distracted by Sevastyan.

As we crossed a charming wooden bridge, I noticed he was analyzing me. Determining my reaction to this place?

The trees grew more numerous, dense forests changing colors with the fall. The leaves on the birches and other hardwoods were a riot of burnished orange, russet, and gold—gold like Sevastyan’s eyes.

When we neared a colossal structure beside a lake, I cried, “Is that it?” The walls and columns were ivory, the tiled roof topped with three copper domes, green with patina. “Domes! Oh, it’s gorgeous!” No dingy, Soviet-era monolith here. The lake was so glassy, the building cast a surreal reflection. I was in love, ready to declare myself home—

“That’s the lake folly, a former church for the property.” At my raised brows, Sevastyan added, “Now it’s a place for guests to take tea.”

“Oh.” Onward we drove.

We passed a stable that must have had fifty stalls. “How many horses are there?”

“Dozens. Kovalev loves animals.”

White tigers, anyone?
Maybe he’d have caged Russian bears.

As we rounded a curve, a mansion came into view. No, not a mansion—a palace.

Jaw drop.

“
That
is it,” Sevastyan said.

From a main three-story building, two wings stretched beyond my line of sight. It was the size of a freaking state building,
but with so much more charm. I realized that the lakeside folly complemented the mansion, with the same colors and types of columns. The late afternoon sun cascaded over the scene. “I . . . this . . .”

“It’s a former tsar’s residence,” Sevastyan said. “Twenty years ago, it was in bad shape, about to be renovated as a museum and Russian landmark. Kovalev bought it instead and painstakingly restored it.”

“So it’s historical.” My heart was racing. “You didn’t tell me I’d be staying in . . . in
history
.”

The limo parked in front, near a line of high-end cars of all makes and models. Before the driver could reach my door, I scrambled out, Sevastyan following. I craned my head up. “Spectacular,” I eventually managed.

He gave me a satisfied nod.
“Horosho.”
 Good.

“This must be Natalie Porter!” A young man about my age strolled out of the grand copper doors. When the sun hit his face, my lips parted. He was . . . stunning. His dark blond hair was rakishly cut, his features a study in symmetry. His vivid gray eyes were devilish and alight with intellect.

I’d just recovered speech after the sight of this estate. Now my brain was overloaded again.

“That’s Filip Liukin,” Sevastyan said in a tone rife with disapproval.

If Sevastyan was ruggedly hot and sex on a stick, this Filip was blindingly beautiful. While I was trying to form words, Sevastyan grated, “He’s your
cousin
.”

Awkward.

Filip was quick to point out: “Distant, far removed, and all that.” His accent sounded British. He flashed me an easy grin, all dimples and flawless teeth.

Filip reached out as if to clap Sevastyan on the shoulder. “Welcome back,
bratan
!”

The look on Sevastyan’s face deterred Filip from touching him. “Do not
ever
call me brother.”

Whoa. Sevastyan acted as if Filip had just sliced an exposed nerve.

“You got it,” Filip said easily, unperturbed. “Welcome back, all the same. I know you’re glad to be relieved of this lengthy job.”

Did everyone think I’d been merely work to Sevastyan? An onerous task that took him from home for a month? I hadn’t been, right? Maybe I was misremembering his response to me. As icy as he’d been on and off today, I had to wonder. . . .

Filip opened his arms. “Come, Cuz, give us a hug.”

Still stung to think of myself as a
task
, I let Filip embrace me. As I drew back, I glanced over at Sevastyan, saw that his jaw was clenched, that muscle ticking. He wasn’t liking this whatsoever, as if he was
jealous
.

Attention fully on Filip—not a chore—I asked, “Do you live here?”

“I might as well,” he said, adding in a flirtatious tone, “And with you here at Berezka, I plan to stick around. No one told me you were gorgeous.”

My manalyzer sense began tingling, but I couldn’t read it, for good or ill. If I felt a touch of unease, my opinion had probably been tainted by Sevastyan’s reaction to him. I changed the subject. “Your English is so perfect.” Sevastyan’s was flawless as well, but unlike Filip, he’d retained his thick accent. “Did you grow up outside of Russia?”

“Yes, I was educated in England. Got my MBA at Oxford. Now I’ve returned.” In an affectionate tone, he said, “I’m trying
to update your old man’s operation, dragging it into this century.” At the front doors, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”

Was I being passed off, just like that? From Sevastyan to Filip? I’d been so excited before. Now I was out of sorts. Still, I eked out a smile. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll take her inside.” Sevastyan’s hand covered my shoulder in a possessive grip, sending pleasure through me. I wanted to sag against him.

Filip’s smile barely faded. “I’ve got this. I’m sure you’re tired from your stakeout.”

Sevastyan didn’t say anything more, didn’t have to. One dark glance and Filip backed down.

“Easy on the trigger, Siberian.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I have something to take care of anyway. See you tonight, Cuz.” He strode off toward that line of parked cars.

Sevastyan called, “Where’s your own car?”

Without slowing, Filip called back, “In the shop.”

I stared after the guy, because it was difficult to pry my eyes from him. Like watching a retreating comet.

When I turned back, Sevastyan looked like he was grinding his teeth. “Be wary of him. Appearances can be deceiving.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re jealous.”

“That is not at issue,” he said, spinning his thumb ring. “Come.” He waved me across the threshold.

Inside, I gasped at the opulence. A grand staircase curved gracefully up from an immense foyer. Marble gleamed beneath our feet. Alcoves housed delicate statuary, and oil landscapes adorned the walls. Instead of the garish mishmash I’d anticipated, everything was refined and tasteful.

When we shed our coats, handing them to a uniformed servant, I felt like I’d lost a layer of comfort. Past the foyer, Sevastyan
steered me into a long gallery. At the end were two solid wood doors. We paused just outside them. “Here’s his office.”

I faced the doors, filled with apprehension. Up until this moment, the idea of meeting my biological parents had been a distant dream, a farfetched hope. I smoothed my hair, then adjusted my sweater.

“Come. You will genuinely like him, Natalie.” Sevastyan’s strength seemed to permeate into me.

In a small voice, I asked, “Will he like me?”

He reached for the doors. Staring straight ahead, he muttered,
“On tebya polyubit.”

He will love you.

A
 
ll my
Godfather
-ish expectations of gloomy, dark wood paneling and clouds of cigar smoke vanished; Kovalev’s study was light and airy. Numerous picture windows welcomed the fall sun.

Along most of the walls, a multitude of antique clocks ticked along happily. Others in various stages of repair covered a workbench.

Kovalev was
literally
a clockmaker? I felt silly for my comments on the plane, hoped Sevastyan wouldn’t recall them.

I gazed to the right, finding the man himself on the phone. Pavel Kovalev was
so
not what I was expecting. He had black hair with gray at the sides, ruddy cheeks, and a slim build. No tracksuit—he wore a crisp navy sport coat with a blue button-down that highlighted his twinkling eyes. Zero gold chains.

Kovalev, the Russian mafioso, looked less like a Godfather and more like . . . a thin, dapper Santa Claus. He couldn’t be further from my imaginings.

“Natalie!” He hung up the phone at once. With his blue eyes lighting up, he rose to hurry over to me. He was about five foot
eight, maybe sixty years old. His arms were spread wide—like his infectious grin.

But for all that we shared DNA, he was a stranger to me. What should I call him? Mr. Kovalev? Father? Pops? I shuffled uncertainly, darting a glance at Sevastyan, who gave a brisk nod. His way of encouragement? In the end, I just said, “Hi.” Lame.

Kovalev clasped my shoulders, leaning in to press a kiss on each of my cheeks. “You are the spitting image of my mother.” He waved toward a portrait of a smiling woman proudly hung on a paneled wall.

I did look like her. My grandmother.

“How was your trip?”

Bewildering, eye-opening, occasionally wicked. “Unexpected?”

He gave me a sheepish look. “I do apologize, my dear.” His English was as excellent—and accented—as Sevastyan’s. “I assume Aleksandr filled you in on our current circumstances.” Directing a proud gaze at Sevastyan, Kovalev added, “He speaks for me.”

I remembered that phrase. It was a simple way of saying that Kovalev trusted him so much that he knew Sevastyan would say exactly what he would in any situation.

“Does he, then?” Was Sevastyan’s face a touch flushed? Thinking about his “indiscretion”?

“Absolutely. He is a son to me, the only one I would trust to bring me my . . .
daughter
. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say that enough.” When his eyes got a little misty, I feared I might be a goner for this
mafiya
Santa.