Devil's Lair (Molotov Obsession #1) - Anna Zaires Page 0,25

hours of shut-eye instead of the nine or ten I must’ve actually snoozed for. I have no idea what time it is now, but I’m pretty sure I went to bed before ten.

Must be all those sleepless weeks catching up with me.

Swinging my legs to the floor, I take in the gorgeous view outside the window. Despite the bright sunlight, traces of fog envelop the distant mountain peaks, and the whole thing looks like something out of a postcard. I’m tempted to sit and enjoy it for a minute, but I make myself get up and head into the bathroom to wash up. It’s my first morning on the job, and I don’t want to make a bad impression by showing up late. Not that I know what “late” is—we didn’t discuss my work hours or Slava’s schedule yesterday.

I’m clean from my nighttime shower, so my morning routine takes mere minutes. The shirt and underwear I hand-washed are still a little damp, but I throw them on anyway and make a mental note to talk to Pavel or someone about the laundry situation as soon as possible. Also, about my hours.

I need to understand what Nikolai’s expectations are, so I can meet and exceed them.

My pulse begins to race at the thought of him, and I focus on gathering my hair into a bun to distract myself from the increasingly active butterflies in my stomach. I went to bed with my hair wet, so it’s got all sorts of weird kinks in it, and in any case, it’s more professional to keep my hair off my face.

Returning to the bedroom, I make the bed, pull on my sneakers, and square my shoulders.

I can do this.

I have to do this, no matter how my new boss makes me feel.

14

Chloe

I don’t see anyone in the dining or living room downstairs, so I walk around until I find the kitchen. Walking in, I see a curvy woman with bleached blond hair cut in a short, poufy bob. Dressed in a flowery pink-and-white dress, she’s bent over a sink, washing a plate, so I clear my throat to warn her of my presence.

“Hi,” I say with a smile when she turns around, drying her hands on a towel. “You must be Lyudmila.”

She stares at me, then bobs her head. “Lyudmila, yes. You Slava teacher?” Her Russian accent is even thicker than her husband’s, and her round, rosy-cheeked face reminds me of a painted matryoshka doll, one of those that have other dolls inside, like onion layers. I’m guessing she’s in her mid-to-late thirties, though her skin is so smooth she could easily pass for ten years younger.

“Yes, hi. I’m Chloe.” Approaching, I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She clasps my fingers cautiously and gives my hand a brief shake as I ask, “Do you know where Slava is, and if he’s already had breakfast?”

She blinks uncomprehendingly, so I repeat the question, being careful to enunciate every word.

“Ah, yes, Slava.” She points at the big window to my left, which turns out to look out over the front of the house, where I parked my car. Only the car isn’t there. I frown, then realize Pavel must’ve re-parked it yesterday, when he brought up my suitcase.

I’ll have to ask him where it is, along with my car keys. I don’t think they ever gave them back to me.

Before I can pose the question to Lyudmila, I spot my young student. He’s scampering up the driveway, with Pavel on his heels. The man-bear is carrying a huge fish on a hook, and the boy has an equally big smile on his face. The two of them must’ve done some early-morning fishing.

I steal a glance at the clock on the microwave and wince.

Nope, not early-morning. More like mid-morning.

It’s nearly ten.

My stomach growls, as if on cue, and a smile splits Lyudmila’s round face. “Eat?” she asks, and I nod, smiling back ruefully.

At least my stomach speaks a universal language.

“Is it okay if I take something?” I ask, gesturing at the refrigerator, but Lyudmila bustles over there herself and takes out a platter of what looks like stuffed crepes.

“This good?” she asks, and I nod gratefully. Picky eater I’m not, and if those crepes are anything like the delicious Russian food I had last night, I’m going to be in seventh heaven.

“Thank you,” I say, walking over to take the plate from her, but she pops it into the microwave and gestures at the counter behind