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.” At my raised brows, Sevastyan added, “A quaint 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 was a miniature of the mansion. The late afternoon sun gleamed off more copper domes. “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, to.” Good, then. “I’m glad.”
“This must be Natalie Kovaleva!” 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.