Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,16

boy at my side and his features tighten as he takes in his casual appearance.

“I’m sorry, it’s my fault,” I say before he can also reprimand the child. “I didn’t realize we needed to get dressed up for dinner.”

Nikolai’s attention returns to me. “Of course you didn’t.” His gaze travels over my shoulders and chest, making me acutely conscious of my plain long-sleeved T-shirt and the thin cotton bra underneath that’s doing nothing to hide my inexplicably erect nipples. “Alina is right. I need to buy you some proper clothes.”

“No, really, that’s—”

He holds up his palm. “House rules.” His voice is soft, but his face could’ve been laid in stone. “Now that you’re a member of this household, you must abide by them.”

“I… all right.” If he and his wife want to see me in fancy clothes at dinner and don’t mind spending the money to make it happen, so be it.

Like he said, their house, their rules.

“Good.” His sensual lips curve. “I’m glad you’re so accommodating.”

My breath quickens, my face warming again, and I look away to hide my reaction. All the man did was smile, for fuck’s sake, and I’m blushing like a fifteen-year-old virgin. And in front of his wife, no less.

If I don’t get a handle on this ridiculous crush, I’ll be fired before the end of the meal.

“Would you like some salad?” Alina asks, as if to remind me of her existence, and I shift my attention to her, grateful for the distraction.

“Yes, please.”

She gracefully ladles a serving of leafy green salad onto my plate, then does the same for her husband and son. In the meantime, Nikolai extends the platter with caviar sandwiches toward me, and I take one, both because I’m hungry enough to eat anything residing on bread and because I’m curious about the notorious Russian delicacy. I’ve had this type of fish roe—the big orange kind—in sushi restaurants a couple of times, but I imagine it’s different like this, served on a slice of French baguette with a thick layer of butter underneath.

Sure enough, when I bite into it, the rich umami flavor explodes on my tongue. Unlike the fish roe I’ve tasted, Russian caviar appears to be preserved with liberal amounts of salt. It would be too salty on its own, but the crusty white bread and mellow butter balance it perfectly, and I devour the rest of the small sandwich in two bites.

Eyes gleaming with amusement, Nikolai offers me the platter again. “More?”

“I’m good, thank you.” I’d love another caviar sandwich—or twenty—but I don’t want to seem greedy. Instead, I dig into my salad, which is also delicious, with a sweet, tangy dressing that makes my taste buds tingle. Then I try a bite of everything on the table, from the smoked fish to some kind of potato salad to grilled eggplant drizzled with a cucumber-dill yogurt sauce.

As I eat, I keep an eye on my charge, who’s eating quietly beside me. Alina has given Slava a small portion of everything the adults are having, the caviar sandwich included, and the boy seems to have no problem with that. There are no demands for chicken fingers or French fries, no sign of the typical pickiness of a four-year-old. Even his table manners are those of a much older child, with only a couple of instances of him grabbing a piece of food with his fingers instead of his fork.

“Your son is very well-behaved,” I tell Alina and Nikolai, and Nikolai lifts his eyebrows, as if hearing it for the first time.

“Well-behaved? Slava?”

“Of course.” I frown at him. “You don’t think so?”

“I haven’t given it much thought,” he says, glancing at the boy, who’s diligently spearing a piece of lettuce with his adult-sized fork. “I suppose he conducts himself reasonably well.”

Reasonably well? A four-year-old who sits calmly and eats everything served to him with zero whining or interruptions of adult conversation? Who handles utensils like a pro? Maybe this is a thing in Europe, but I’ve certainly never seen it in America.

Also, why hasn’t my employer given his son’s behavior much thought? Aren’t parents supposed to worry about things like that?

“Have you been around many other children his age?” I ask Nikolai on a hunch, and catch his mouth flattening for a second.

“No,” he says curtly. “I haven’t.”

Alina shoots him an indecipherable look, then turns to me. “I don’t know if my brother has told you this,” she says in a measured tone, “but we only learned of Slava’s existence