Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75209 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I flatten my lips. I have no desire to hear him wax eloquent on his mistress’s many virtues any longer, even if she is related to Markov. No matter how hard I try, no matter how I distance myself mentally from my father, I can’t help the genuine disappointment that wells in my heart at his cold and selfish attitude. I’m frustrated that I still, even now, seek the tiniest modicum of his approval. I’d have hoped I’d know better than that by now.
I put a hand to my head. “While this has been lovely, I seem to have developed a headache. I’m so sorry,” I lie to my father. “I’m going to decline dessert and head back to the campus.”
“Of course,” my father says, folding the dessert menu. He picks up his phone and smiles, obviously taken by whatever conversation he’s reading. “Your aunt says hello, Markov. She wants to know if you’ve spoken to your mother recently.”
Markov stands and smiles. “I’m ordering a ride for Vera. My aunt’s always checking in on me and my mother. Tell her nice try.”
With that cryptic message, he’s gone.
I feel bereft without his presence. I had an ally when he was here. I give myself a mental shake. I’m an adult. A week ago, I didn’t need Markov, and I definitely don’t need him now.
I have a sudden realization, as my father continues his texting conversation, oblivious to my presence, that this is a turning point for me.
I’ve left home. I’ve struck out on my own. My father has made his motives and intentions clear as day.
I don’t need my father’s support. I don’t need my father’s love.
I’ve chosen my path, and he’s chosen his.
He rises when Markov joins us again and gives me a perfunctory kiss on both cheeks.
“Thank you for indulging an old man,” he says with an almost wistfulness. “Markov, take good care of my daughter.”
He shakes Markov’s hand firmly.
Keeping up with those appearances is hard, old man.
“Of course, sir.” He gives me a knowing look my father doesn’t catch. “Taking care of your daughter is exactly why I’m here.”
Once more, I imagine something like regret flashing across his features, but when I look again, his face is impassive as always. I get the distinct feeling that Markov is hiding something.
I’ve had a lot of wine, though. I chalk it up to my imagination.
Someone reaches for Markov’s shoulder. “Nikko?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nikko
Fuck.
I vaguely recognize the woman’s voice behind me, and she could fuck up everything. Vera stares at me, her eyes wide in surprise.
I turn, my face impassive. “Excuse me?” I ask in Russian. “Can I help you?”
It’s an older woman with gray hair twisted in a loose bun. Her blue eyes are kind, her face soft.
“Nikko Romanov,” the woman says. “You were in my class in grade school. Did you forget me?”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her apologetically. “My name is Markov, not Nikko. I am told I look like someone else.”
“Oh.” Her face falls, and I feel like a total douchebag. Shit. But if anyone finds out my real identity, all will be lost.
“You do look so much like him,” she says, giving me a curious look. She doesn’t buy it. “Well. That’s too bad. I quite liked Nikko and would’ve loved a chance to catch up with him. Have a good night.”
She turns and is gone.
“Who was that?” Vera asks. “And why did she call you Nikko?”
I shrug as we walk toward the car and don’t reply. Adrenaline surges through me, and I want to punch something. “She mistook me for someone named Nikko. Someone she taught.” I give her a forced smile. “Grade school for me would’ve been over twenty years ago.”
Vera snorts as she gets into the car. “I forget how old you are.”
Oh, I look very fucking similar. I close the door with a bang. I have to change the subject.
The doors are tinted, and we’re alone. We’re so close our knees touch in the warm, dark interior. I reach my hand as if to caress her but lace my fingers through her hair and give it a sharp pull. “Are you calling me old?”
Her eyes go wide for a fraction of a second before she licks her lips and smirks at me. “No,” she says with a hint of mockery in her tone. “Never. . . Grandpa.”
I tighten my grip and bring my mouth to her ear. “Do I need to take you over my knee?”
My gaze lingers on her neck. Her pulse is beating rapidly when she swallows. “You do,” she says softly. “I really think you do.” I pull her head back slightly to expose her neck and shoulder, where I place a mix of soft and demanding kisses. She stifles a moan, and I drag my teeth along her collarbone and bite.
She gasps, but I hold her in place with my hand on her nape. “No. Not yet.” I wait until she submits, her body softening toward me before I release her hair and tenderly cradle her chin. Warmth spreads across my chest with the urge to protect her, even though I know I must seduce her. But I’m left pondering. When does the act of seduction become true affection?