“That’s a possibility.” He walks over like a GQ cover come to life and seats himself across from me. “I want you to tell me what you know about the Ivanov Bratva business.”
“If that’s why you kidnapped me and forced me to marry you, this will be a deeply disappointing conversation,” I say. “My father hates me. He sent me off to boarding school as soon as possible. I didn’t spend much time at home. Even though I was curious about why the family fortunes were declining so quickly, he would never tell a merewomananything.”
Cameron’s brow rose. “The ancient-minded traditional Bratva?”
“Women have no place, aside from arranged marriages and having children,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “He was quite clear.”
“You’re a smart girl, you must have had your sources of information, even so.”
“My sources? Everyone in the household thought I was a curse,” I chuckle bitterly. “Do you know what Morana means in Russian?”
He leans back, running his hand over the stubble on his chin. “Tell me.”
“Death. It means death. My father named me Morana after my mother died in childbirth. Every time he got drunk, he’d remind me that I killed my mother. Anyone who wanted to stay in his good graces would have nothing to do with me. I know the Ivanov fortunes are failing. He was losing everything my grandfather built. My betrothal to Stepanov, that vile old troll, was his last hope.”
“I’m sorry about your mother,” he says, “growing up without her must have been very lonely.”
It was the last thing I would ever expect from him. Empathy? Kindness?
“Th- thank you?”
He gives me a slight smile and then it’s back to business. “What do you know about your - former - fiancé’s Bratva?”
Shuddering, I look down, compulsively smoothing my skirt over my knees. “He’s the epitome of evil, the worst of the Moscow Six Families. He steals women and children and sells them into slavery. He runs them through his clubs and bordellos. Even the other families hate him.”
Cameron leaned forward, watching me closely. “Have you been to any of his clubs?”
Frowning, I shrug a little. “My father took me toKlub Razvratnyyfor our first meeting. It was in his office above the club, though, a private entrance.”
He looks puzzled for a moment before covering it with a practiced smile. “Club Depraved? Well, the name fits. We can talk about you finishing your degree.”
Eyeing him suspiciously, I wait for it. He’s going to hold my hopes hostage for good behavior. I’ve played this game before.
“There’s a gala we’re attending tonight at the Festival Theatre. Miss Kevin should be bringing up your dress as we speak, and a stylist is coming to help you get ready-”
My first thought is of my German jailer at my ill-fated wedding. “No! I can do my own hair and makeup, I assure you. I’ve been to dozens of black-tie events, I won’t embarrass you.”
He picks up my hand, kissing the back of it. “I have no doubt.”
“You’re freaking me out,” I blurt. “Why are you suddenly being nice to me?”
“Well, we are married,” he shrugs.
“Uh huh…” I say dubiously. “So, connect the dots between my degree and this event tonight.”
“There will be a wee bit of attention at the gala,” he understates. “Those who are aware of our marriage will be keen to see us together.”
“And you want me to be the adoring bride?” I ask, “You’re provoking Stepanov with a display like that. On the bright side, it might give my father a stroke.”
Pulling me to my feet, he gives me a grin that can only be described as rakish. “I’m thinking you’re going to have a good time tonight, lass.”
I’d never seen Edinburgh at night, how the spotlights glitter over the glass surface of the Festival Theatre, the red carpet, and elaborately dressed guests. The quaint, quiet beauty of the city has a harder edge.
“Is that the same tux you wore to kidnap me?” I ask, because while Cameron looks incredible and so sexy in formal wear that it’s almost criminal, wearing the same suit would be such bad luck.
“No,” he scowls, “my cleaner’s very good with getting out blood, but I ripped the jacket.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I persist, as he’s rapidly texting someone as we pull up to the entrance. Eyeing the buildings around us, I can spot at least six perfect places for a sniper to put a bullet in my head - or his - and be gone before anyone noticed we’d been shot.
