Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 82091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“From life in Moscow?”
“Something like that. Close your eyes.”
I obey, silently digesting what I’ve learned as she sweeps eyeshadow onto my lids and applies mascara to my lashes. It makes sense that they’d be here for the boy—the timing of their move to this compound lines up with Nikolai’s learning of his son’s existence. And I suppose if quiet, calm nature is what you’re after, you can’t do much better than this place.
Still, something doesn’t smell right. I’m sure there are spots of wilderness untouched by civilization in Russia and other countries nearby. Why move halfway across the globe if pretty nature is all you’re after? The time difference alone must make it difficult to stay in touch with family, or conduct any type of business—assuming there is a business.
I wait until Alina is done tracing my lips with a pencil before opening my eyes to ask, “What do your brothers do, work-wise?”
“Oh, this and that.” She carefully applies lipstick, has me close my lips on a tissue to smudge off some of the color, and repeats the process two more times. Finally satisfied, she puts the lipstick away and picks up a little container of blush and a long-handled makeup brush. “Our family owns a bunch of companies in various sectors—energy, technology, real estate, pharmaceuticals,” she says, swiping the brush across the apples of my cheeks with quick, expert strokes. “Nikolai oversees it all… or he did until recently. When we learned about Slava, he handed over most of the responsibilities to Valery and Konstantin, so he could move here and spend time with his son.”
I stare at her in disbelief. Is she talking about the same Nikolai? The coolly distant father who barely interacts with his son? I can’t picture him leaving a business meeting early to be with Slava, much less stepping down as head of some major conglomerate.
I must be missing something. That or Slava is a convenient excuse for something shady.
“What about you?” I ask when she steps away and surveys her work with a critical eye. “Are you involved with the family business as well?”
She laughs, a light, trilling sound. “Oh, that’s not for me.” Taking half a step forward, she smooths my left eyebrow with her thumb. “Not bad,” she declares. “Now we just need to do your hair. Come.” Clasping my hand, she drags me back into the bathroom, where she takes out an entire array of styling products from another drawer while I gape at my reflection in the mirror.
I have never, ever looked this way before, not even when Mom shelled out fifty bucks to have my makeup professionally done for my high school prom.
The girl in the mirror is beyond pretty, her skin smooth and glowing, her brown eyes large and mysterious above delicately contoured cheekbones and soft, plump lips the color of dusky rose.
I don’t look like Alina, with her bright red lips and dramatic cat-eye makeup. In fact, I don’t look like I’m wearing makeup at all. Instead, it’s as if I’ve been Photoshopped, all my imperfections blurred and smoothed out.
“Wow.” I lift my hand to touch my face. “This is…”
Alina slaps my hand away. “Don’t touch, you’ll mess it up. In general, the less you touch your face, the better. You have nice, clear skin, but it’ll be even better if you keep your hands off it. The oil and dirt on our fingers clog the pores, causing them to look larger over time.”
“Right, okay.” Chastened, I keep my hands at my sides as she goes to work on my hair, first freeing it from the bun, then misting it with water and applying various styling products to tease out the wave in my otherwise-limp strands.
“There, all done,” she says after a few minutes. “Now you need shoes, and we’ll be all set.”
Oh, crap. “I don’t think I have any—” I begin, but she’s already walking out of the bathroom.
I follow and see her beeline for my closet. A second later, she emerges with a shoebox. Jimmy Choo, the logo on the box proclaims. Setting it down on the floor, she takes out a pair of strappy gold heels and hands them to me. “Try these.”
They bought me shoes as well? Stopping my brain from doing the math on the not-so-small fortune that must’ve been spent on my wardrobe, I put on the heels—like the dress, they fit perfectly—and walk over to the full-length mirror hanging next to the closet.
“How do they feel?” Alina asks, coming to stand next to me. To my surprise, she’s now only a couple of inches taller than I; those high heels she always wears have fooled me into thinking she possesses a model’s height.
I experimentally shift my weight from foot to foot. “Surprisingly comfortable.” Not as comfortable as my sneakers, obviously, but I can stand and walk in them better than in any dressy shoes I’ve worn before. Likewise, the peach gown doesn’t pinch or scratch anywhere; all the seams are smooth and soft against my skin, the silky inner lining pleasantly cool.