The Professional (The Game Maker #1)(23)
Author: Kresley Cole

“I ran into him on the way in.”

Kovalev looked surprised. “Most young ladies find themselves more starstruck after first meeting him.”

Maybe if I hadn’t already had eyes for Sevastyan.

“Filip’s the son of my distant cousin and best friend, who died recently. The poor boy took it hard. Your being here is just what the lad needs. . . .”

After that, the afternoon passed companionably. Kovalev and I came up with things we had in common: dislike of slapstick comedy, love of animals and heist movies. “They’re usually not accurate, though,” he commented, reminding me that I was talking to a crime boss.

He told me stories about my mother—she’d loved to garden, loved plants; she would’ve been pleased to know I’d grown up on a farm. He challenged me to a game of chess in the morning and promised to teach me about clocks.

When they all struck five, Kovalev said, “As much as I’m enjoying this, I should let you go, so you can have some time to get settled in before the banquet.”

“Oh.” Banquet, schmanquet, I was greedy for more time with my father.

In a confiding tone, he said, “I regret scheduling it, wish we could have a quieter dinner and carry on this conversation.” He was as reluctant for me to leave as I was. “Aleksei could join us.”

A knock sounded. Speak of the devil.

Chapter 13

“Perfect timing, Son,” Kovalev told him. “Will you see Natalie to her rooms?”

“I thought you would want to.”

“No, no, you two go on. I’ll see you tonight, dear.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and it felt natural.

As Sevastyan and I left the study, I couldn’t stop smiling. The Siberian had been right—I hadn’t known what I was talking about; Kovalev was wonderful.

On our way up the grand staircase, Sevastyan finally spoke. “You enjoyed yourself.”

“Just like you said, Paxán is great.” My prejudging of Kovalev had been off the mark to a laughable degree, and I’d been totally wrong about Sevastyan. Maybe it was time to take a hiatus from my manalyzing—which must be geographically limited.

Sevastyan raised his brows. “You call Kovalev a term of affection?”

“He asked me to,” I said defensively.

“And you do, despite his occupation?”

I sighed. “Sniping at me? You’ll have to do better than that. Besides, just as you said before, I understand things better now.” I held his gaze. “And I am so glad you forced me on that plane.” For more than one reason . . .

I thought I saw his eyes growing heated, but he looked away, steering me along an art-lined hall. We must be heading down the other wing.

When we stopped in front of a set of white double doors, he said, “This is your suite.” He opened them to reveal a huge sitting room, just as lavish as Paxán’s office, but more feminine.

The décor was definitely intended for a chick. A really rich Russian chick. “It’s so lovely. But, um, where do I sleep?”

With an exhalation, he started across the spacious area, leaving me to follow. We passed an adjoining study with a snazzy new Mac, then a media room with a wall-stretcher TV, before we reached the bedroom.

Stepping inside, I muttered, “This—is—the—tits.”

“Pardon?”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” I twirled in place, taking in the massive four-poster bed, the hand-painted armoire as big as an elevator, the draperies with silk tassels the size of my forearm. Underfoot, oriental rugs warmed more shining marble. Above, intricate carved molding was gilded with gold. Jade green—my favorite—was the accent color.

“Paxán didn’t decorate this for me, did he?”

“Of course. You’re his daughter. He took great pleasure trying to imagine what you would like.”

“And you knew green is my favorite color.”

He inclined his head.

This reminder of his prying into my life didn’t grate as much as it had before. “At least some good came from your spying, huh?”

Ignoring that, he said, “There are garments for you in the closets.”

“Plural closets?”

“Naturally.”

“Oh. Who picked out the clothes?”

“A stylist. She is on call for you, should you need anything else.”

Near an extravagant display of welcome flowers, I saw a leather folio and several gift boxes. Inside the folio was a selection of credit cards and a list of phone numbers for Kovalev, the estate manager, the stables, my stylist, housekeeping, the kitchen. “Should I wait to open these presents with Paxán?”

With a raised brow, Sevastyan said, “Something tells me there will be more to follow.”

Inside the first box was a smartphone that looked like it’d been transported back from the future. I’d be able to call Jess with my proof of life a week early—and eventually my mom as well. Though what I would tell her about all this, I didn’t yet know.

The other boxes—from stores like Cartier, Harry Winston, Mikimoto, and Buccellati—were all filled with dazzling jewelry: a triple-strand pearl choker, sapphire earrings, an emerald drop fringe necklace with a matching bracelet. That bracelet was so heavy and substantial, I could deflect bullets with it, à la Wonder Woman.

Turning to Sevastyan, I joked, “There must be a million dollars’ worth of jewelry here.”

When he held up his palms in a what’re-you-gonna-do? gesture, I cried, “Oh, my God. There is!” I inhaled a shaky breath. This situation was too wild—and overwhelming. I now lived in a palace. I truly was not going back to school tomorrow; instead I’d be playing chess with my billionaire father.

This was my “new life” for the “foreseeable future.”

I crossed to a set of balcony doors, opening them for fresh air. I drank in the sight as a mist began to fall over manicured gardens and landscaping lights came to life all across the property.

When Sevastyan joined me at the balcony rail, that feeling of connection swept me up again. But he was all coolness toward me.

“What’s that building?” I asked him, indicating a two-story manor catty-corner to this wing. As with the lake folly, its colors and architecture complemented this palace. There was a sleek black Mercedes in the drive, much like the one he’d rented in Lincoln.

“My home,” he said shortly.

“You live on the property?”