Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,15

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 and 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—

Married, Chloe. He’s married.

The reminder is like a slap in the face, yanking me out of my dazzled trance. Forcing a breath into my oxygen-deprived lungs, I give my employer a carefully restrained smile, one that doesn’t say that my heart is racing in my chest and that I’m wishing like hell Alina didn’t exist. Especially since his striking gaze is trained on me instead of his gorgeous wife.

“You’re late,” she says as he pulls out a chair and sits next to her. “It’s already—”

“I know what time it is.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he responds to her, his tone coolly dismissive. Then his gaze flicks to the