I open my eyes to see Mark Palmer talking on his phone, laughing, the window open, as he leans out over the sill to smoke a cigarette, theglowing butta point of light in the darkness. I sit in heavy silence as it grows colder in the SUV’s cabin.
I wait and do nothing, because I told her I would.
30
CLARA
Aman in a dark suit, tattoos visible at the cuffs, waits outside a dark SUV with black tinted windows when I come out of the Smirnov building. I don’t have to ask who’s inside.
I get a polite nod of greeting from the tall, suited man before he opens the door and I slip inside.
Dmitri looks like he just stepped out ofGQ, every seam perfect, long overcoat over his dark suit, smelling, as usual, incredible.
He waits until I’m settled in the car to reach over andcupmy cheek before placing a gentle kiss on my forehead.
“You look tired.”
“Gee, thanks. That's exactly what I was going for.”
His deep chuckle fills the car as the driver climbs into the front seat.
“It was merely an observation of concern,” Dmitri replies, then pulls me close and kisses my forehead again. “You are always beautiful.”
“To you,” I mutter. The subtle changes in my body, the exhaustion, the lingering nausea, all combine to make me feel like an absolute mess.
“No.” Dmitri’s fingers take my chin andturnmy head so that I have to look at him. He makes sure he has my full attention before he speaks again. “You are beautiful, Clara. That is the end of the sentence. I won't hear you put yourself down anymore.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to be eating that statement by the end of these nine months.”
Dmitri chuckles, turning forward as the SUV eases into traffic, his hand lingering on my knee.
“You didn’t come home last night.”
“I did. You were already asleep.”
“You weren’t there when I got up.”
“I slept in the guest room so I wouldn’t wake you and left again before the sun was up. I do have an empire to run.”
It sounds evasive. It feels evasive. But it’s also entirely plausible.
“Where are we going?” I ask, instead of demanding clarification. I have a feelingDmitriwill not tell me anyway. And besides, maybe I don't want to know. I’m not sure where my boundaries are with him, yet when it comes to his chosen profession outside the corporation. I feel like I'm leaning more toward a lawyer's perspective: If you don't know about it, you can't be held responsible, although that feels like wishful thinking on my part.
“Someplace a little birdie told me you like.”
The place is a restaurant called The Conservatory, a century-old botanical garden cut deep within a sprawling city park.
Since I moved here, it's been my refuge and my sanctuary.
It's a place filled with humid air, the scent of damp earth, and glass panels that display a light show of the New York City skyline to full effect.
We sit at a table against one of the large windows that overlooks the garden. Above us, plants thrive,as if it were the middle of summer.
“I thought I knew every place in the city, but I guess I was wrong.” Dmitri's gazeroamsthe conservatory and dining room, an appreciative expression on his face.
“Em and I used to come here once a month for their mimosa bar. We couldn't really afford it, but it always got us out of the funk of studying and work.” My gaze follows his, taking in the place that probably hasn't changed in a century. So many good memories here—some of them hazy from themimosas, but all filled with laughter, a few tears, and an unbreakable bond of sisterhood.
“How did you find it?” Dmitri peers at me from across the table, his interest sharp.
