Another shrug before Andrey downs the rest of his triple shot. “It was good speaking with you, Ms. Benson.”
“I can’t say the same.”
“Remember what I said—you don’t know Dmitri like I do. It’s best you remove yourself from the situation before it getsworse. Oh, and I would think about changing your coffee shop. Routines make it easy for others to find you.”
And then he leaves, whistling cheerfully and slightly off tune, as though he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on my life and threatened me in the same sentence.
The door opens and closes, allowing in a damp, cold gust of air. But when I shiver, it isn’t from the weather.
I run to the bathroom to throw up.
15
CLARA
Déjà vu.
I’m standing outside of Dmitri’s penthouse suite in the same hotel again—the hotel that he apparently owns and lives in. Memories of that night rush back tenfold.
I raise my fist to knock, but Pavel, looming beside me, shakes his head.
“Go in, he knows you’re here.”
I watch the man for a moment, wondering what the hell his exact role is. He’s the one I called when Dmitri wouldn’t answer. He came and picked me up after I demanded he take me to see him.
Pavel jerks his head in the direction of the door and tells me, “I’ll drive you home when you’re done,” then turns back to the elevator.
I’m alone in front of this door again, although this time, I’m wearing a sweater and leggings, instead of the fantasy elf dress, my hair is in a messy bun, and I’m entirely sober and wishing I wasn’t.
Taking a deep breath, I place my hand on the doorknob and twist it. It opens to a familiar space with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of the glowing wonderland that is the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
The fire in the fireplace is the only light, throwing flickering shadows across the room. Dmitri sits on the couch that faces the wall of windows.
“Mr. Smirnov?” I don’t like the hesitancy in my tone, the way my heart is beating fast, or the way I’m rethinking this whole thing. But if Dmitri didn’t want me here, he wouldn’t have let Pavel bring me.
Right?
“I think we’re far past ‘Mr. Smirnov,’ Clara.” The words are accompanied by the clinking of ice in a glass. “I know what sounds you make when I’m fucking you against the wall.”
I cringe inwardly, but he has a point.
“Fine.”
My boots tap against the polished floor as I cross the room. When I pause, he waves me to sit down on the opposite couch. I do so, trying to evaluate the situation and the man sitting across from me.
Then there’s silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the occasional honk of a car on the street below. I watch Dmitri, drink in hand, arms resting on his thighs, dressed in slacks and a button-up.
Even in the ambient light from the fireplace, I can see that his eyes are bloodshot, and I wonder how long he’s been sitting here like this.
And how many glasses of whiskey he’s had.
“This must be odd for you, returning here.”
His words catch me off guard, more heavily accented than usual and slightly slurred.
“It’s a little strange, yeah.”
Dmitri tilts his glass, guiding the ice around the curves so that it chimes quietly. His eyes follow the path, and I can tell he is somewhere far away.
