Attention fully on Filip—not a chore—I asked, “Do you live here?”
“I might as well,” he said, adding in a flirtatious tone, “And with you here at Berezka, I plan to stick around. No one told me you were gorgeous.”
My manalyzer sense began tingling, but I couldn’t read it, for good or ill. If I felt a touch of unease, my opinion had probably been tainted by Sevastyan’s reaction to him. I changed the subject. “Your English is so perfect.” Sevastyan’s was flawless as well, but unlike Filip, he’d retained his thick accent. “Did you grow up outside of Russia?”
“I was educated at Oxford, got my MBA there. Now I’ve returned.” In an affectionate tone, he said, “I’m trying to update your old man’s operation, dragging it into this century.” At the front doors, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Was I being passed off, just like that? From Sevastyan to Filip? I’d been so excited before. Now I was out of sorts. Still, I eked out a smile. “I suppose so.”
“I’ll take her inside.” Sevastyan’s hand covered my shoulder in a possessive grip, sending pleasure through me. I wanted to sag against him.
Filip’s smile barely faded. “I’ve got this. I’m sure you’re tired from your stakeout.”
Sevastyan didn’t say anything more, didn’t have to. One dark glance and Filip backed down.
“Easy on the trigger, Siberian.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I have something to take care of anyway. See you tonight, Cuz.” He strode off toward that line of parked cars.
Sevastyan called, “Where’s your own car?”
Without slowing, Filip called back, “In the shop.”
I stared after the guy, because it was difficult to pry my eyes from him. Like watching a retreating comet.
When I turned back, Sevastyan looked like he was grinding his teeth. “Be wary of him. Appearances can be deceiving.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re jealous.”
“That is not at issue,” he said, spinning his thumb ring. “Come.” He waved me across the threshold.
Inside, I gasped at the opulence. A grand staircase curved gracefully up from an immense foyer. Marble gleamed beneath our feet. Alcoves housed delicate statuary, and oil landscapes adorned the walls. Instead of the garish mishmash I’d anticipated, everything was refined and tasteful.
When we shed our coats, handing them to a uniformed servant, I felt like I’d lost a layer of comfort. Past the foyer, Sevastyan steered me into a long gallery. At the end were two solid wood doors. We paused just outside them. “Here’s his office.”
I faced the doors, filled with apprehension. Up until this moment, the idea of meeting my biological parents had been a distant dream, a farfetched hope. I smoothed my hair, then adjusted my sweater.
“Come. You will genuinely like him, Natalie.” Sevastyan’s strength seemed to permeate into me.
In a small voice, I asked, “Will he like me?”
He reached for the doors. Staring straight ahead, he muttered, “On tebya polyubit.”
He will love you.
Chapter 12
All my Godfather-ish expectations of gloomy, dark wood paneling and clouds of cigar smoke vanished; Kovalev’s study was light and airy. Numerous picture windows welcomed the fall sun.
Along most of the walls, a multitude of antique clocks ticked along happily. Others in various stages of repair covered a workbench.
Kovalev was literally a clockmaker? I felt silly for my comments on the plane, hoped Sevastyan wouldn’t recall them.
I gazed to the right, finding the man himself on the phone. Pavel Kovalev was so not what I was expecting. He had black hair with gray at the sides, ruddy cheeks, and a slim build. No tracksuit—he wore a crisp navy sport coat with a blue button-down that highlighted his twinkling eyes. Zero gold chains.
Kovalev, the Russian mafioso, looked less like a Godfather and more like . . . a thin, dapper Santa Claus. He couldn’t be further from my imaginings.
“Natalie!” He hung up the phone at once. With his blue eyes lighting up, he rose to hurry over to me. He was about five foot eight, maybe sixty years old. His arms were spread wide—like his infectious grin.
But for all that we shared DNA, he was a stranger to me. What should I call him? Mr. Kovalev? Father? Pops? I shuffled uncertainly, darting a glance at Sevastyan, who gave a brisk nod. His way of encouragement? In the end, I just said, “Hi.” Lame.