The water. The heat of his body despite the pool's chill. The way his voice had dropped when he'd called me beautiful, rough and certain, like he was stating a fact rather than paying a compliment. And then later, in the library—his fingers on my jaw, tilting my face up, the space between us shrinking to nothing before he'd stepped back and left me standing there, trembling with something I refused to name.
I pressed my palms against my eyes and groaned.
What was wrong with me?
He was my kidnapper. My captor. A man who'd stalked me, drugged me, forced me into a marriage I never wanted. I should be plotting escape, not replaying the almost-kiss like some lovesick teenager. Not lying in bed wondering what would have happened if that guard hadn't interrupted, if Vasily hadn't shown such infuriating restraint.
I threw off the covers and stalked to the bathroom, turning the shower to cold. The shock of it drove out the lingering warmth, the treacherous softness that kept creeping into my thoughts. By the time I dried off and dressed, I'd rebuilt enough of my walls to face the day.
Semyon was arriving this morning. I'd seen him at the wedding—a lean, bespectacled figure standing witness while his brother forced a ring onto my finger. We hadn't spoken. He'd watched the ceremony with an expression I couldn't read, then disappeared with the others while I stood on the terrace contemplating my ruined life.
Now I'd be working with him. If I accepted an offer, I still wasn't sure I should have considered.
But what was the alternative? More endless days of pacing the grounds, cataloging my captivity, slowly losing my mind to boredom and isolation? At least work would give me something to focus on besides the man who watched me with those unnerving green eyes and made me feel things I had no business feeling.
I chose clothes carefully—professional but not trying too hard. Black trousers, a cream silk blouse, flats that clicked against the marble floors. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman who almost resembled the one I'd been in New York. Competent. Put-together. In control.
The illusion lasted until I reached the breakfast terrace and found Vasily waiting.
He rose when I appeared, and my traitorous heart stuttered at the sight of him. He was wearing a white linen shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Casual, by his standards. It made him look younger, more approachable, more like the man who'd confessed his impossible wants in the library's darkness.
"Good morning." His eyes swept over me, lingering on the professional attire. "You look ready for business."
"I thought that was the point."
"It is." He pulled out my chair, and I sat before I could overthink the courtesy. "Semyon's helicopter landed twenty minutes ago. He's getting settled in the guest wing."
"I remember him from the wedding." The words came out flatter than I'd intended. "He didn't say much."
"Semyon rarely does, until he has something worth saying." Vasily sat across from me, his own coffee untouched. "He observes first. Judges later. It's what makes him valuable."
"Should I be worried about his judgment?"
"No. But you should be prepared for skepticism." He leaned back, studying me. "He was against this arrangement from the beginning. The kidnapping, the marriage—all of it. He thought I was being reckless."
"He was right."
"Perhaps." Something flickered in his expression—not quite regret, but something adjacent to it. "But here we are. And now he needs to see that you're more than just a complication."
"Is that what I am? A complication?"
"You're many things, Gabrielle." His voice dropped, taking on that dangerous softness I was learning to recognize. "A complication is the least of them."
The silence stretched between us, thick with everything we weren't acknowledging. I was grateful when Yelena appeared with fresh pastries, breaking the tension.
"Mr. Chernov," she said. "Your brother is ready whenever you are."
Vasily stood, buttoning his cuffs with precise movements. "Shall we?"
***
Up close, Semyon Chernov was exactly as I remembered from the wedding—lean and watchful, with the still demeanor of a man who preferred to observe before acting. His hair was lighter than Vasily's, his eyes a paler shade of green that seemedalmost gray in certain light. He wore a simple gray suit, no tie, and when he shook my hand, his grip was firm but brief.
"Mrs. Chernov." The title was pointed, a reminder of my status. "We didn't get a chance to speak at the ceremony."
"No. You were busy handing over the rings."
Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, at my directness. Or perhaps recognition that I wasn't going to pretend the wedding had been anything other than what it was.
