Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,12
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.