Molotov Obsession

Chapter 6

6

CHLOE

I almost jump up and shout, “Now! This minute. This second.” Only that would betray my desperation and ruin the whole thing, so I stay in my seat and say with some semblance of composure, “Whatever works best for you. I’m available right away.”

Nikolai’s eyes glint dark gold. “Excellent. I’d like you to start today. I assume you’re okay with the salary stated in the ad?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s adequate.” By which I mean it’s more money than I could’ve hoped to earn anywhere else, but all the interview books tell you not to appear too eager and to negotiate. I don’t have the balls to do the latter, but I can attempt the former. Striving for a casual tone, I ask, “How often will I be paid?”

“Weekly. We’ll count today as your first day, so you’ll get the first paycheck next Tuesday. Does that work?”

I nod, too excited to speak. One week—or rather, six and a half days—from now, I’ll have money. Actual, real, substantial money, the kind that would provide me with food and gas for months if I have to run again.

“Excellent.” He rises to his feet. “Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

I follow him, doing my best not to notice the way his designer jeans hug his muscled thighs and how his well-fitted shirt stretches over his powerful shoulders. The last thing I need is to lust after my employer, a man who’s most likely married to a woman I have yet to meet. Which, come to think of it, is strange.

Why wasn’t Slava’s mother involved in this hiring decision?

Catching up to Nikolai, I clear my throat to get his attention. “Will I get to meet Alina soon?” I ask when his gaze lands on me. “Or is she away?”

He raises his eyebrows. “She’s—”

“Right here.” A stunning young woman steps out of the room we were about to enter. Tall and slim, she’s wearing a red dress that could’ve come straight from a runway in Paris. On her feet is an elegant pair of nude-colored heels, and her long, straight, jet-black hair frames a strikingly beautiful face. Her full lips are painted red to match her dress, and a skillful application of black eyeliner emphasizes the cat-like tilt of her jade-green eyes.

Extending a perfectly groomed hand toward me, she says smoothly, “Alina Molotova. I take it the interview went well?” Like her husband, she speaks flawless American English, with only her pronunciation of her name betraying her foreign origins.

Recovering from the shock of her appearance, I shake her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Molotova.” I say her name the way she did, with an “a” at the end; I remember from my Russian Lit course that Russian surnames are gendered. “I’m—”

“Chloe Emmons, I know. And please, call me Alina.” She smiles, revealing a tiny gap between her front teeth—an imperfection that only enhances her striking beauty.

“Thank you, Alina.” I smile back, even as an unpleasant ache tightens my chest.

Nikolai’s wife is beyond gorgeous, and for some reason, I hate that fact.

Strangely, Nikolai doesn’t look pleased with her either. “What are you doing here?” His tone is hard, his dark eyebrows knitting together in a frown.

Alina’s smile turns catlike. “I was preparing Chloe’s room, of course. What else?”

His response in Russian is swift and sharp, but she just laughs—a pretty, bell-like sound—and says to me, “Welcome to the household, Chloe.”

With that, she walks away, her stride as graceful as a model’s on a catwalk.

Exhaling a breath, I turn back to Nikolai, only to see him entering the room. I follow him in and find myself in a spacious, ultra-modern bedroom with a floor-to-ceiling window showcasing more breathtaking views.

“Wow.” I walk over to the window and stare out at the snow-capped peaks of distant mountains veiled by a blueish haze. “This is… just wow.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, and my pulse jumps as I realize he’s come up to stand next to me, his gaze on the magnificent vista outside. In profile, he’s even more stunning, his features as hard and perfect as if they’d been carved from the cliff we’re perched on, his powerful body as much a force of nature as the unforgiving wilderness around us.

Dangerous.

The word whispers across my mind, and this time, I can’t convince myself it’s simply paranoia. He’s dangerous, this mysterious employer of mine. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but I can feel it. A month ago, the blinders I’d worn my whole life—the ones all normal people wear—were violently ripped away, and I can’t unsee the darkness in the world, can’t pretend it isn’t there. And I see the darkness in Nikolai.

Underneath that stunning male beauty and those smooth manners lurks something savage… something terrifying.

He turns to face me, and it takes all my courage to remain in place and meet his tiger-bright gaze. My heart is thumping heavily in my chest, yet a white-hot current seems to leap between us, the air particles taking on an electric charge. My nerve endings sizzle with it, heating my skin and turning my breath shallow and uneven.

Run, Chloe.

Swallowing hard, I step back, Mom’s voice ringing in my head as clearly as if she were here. And I desperately want to listen to it, but I’m down to a few dollars in my wallet and a quarter-tank of gas in my ancient clunker of a car. This man, who both attracts and terrifies me, is my only hope of survival, and whatever danger I face here can’t be worse than what’s waiting for me if I leave.

His eyes gleam with dark amusement as I take another step back and then another, and I again get the unsettling sensation that he’s seeing right through me, that he somehow senses both my fear and my shameful attraction to him.

Forcing myself to turn away, I look around, feigning interest in my surroundings—as if anything around here could be as fascinating as he is. “So this will be my room?”

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“I love it.” I look up at a large TV hanging from the ceiling over the bed, then walk over to a door across from the one opening into the hallway. It leads to a sleek white bathroom with a glass shower stall large enough to accommodate five people. Another door turns out to hide a walk-in closet the size of my college dorm room, all empty and waiting for my meager belongings.

It’s luxury of the kind I’ve only seen in movies, and it adds to my unease.

Who are these people? Where did they get their wealth? How did Nikolai know about my absence from social media when all my profiles are private?

Why do they need so much security in a place so remote?

I didn’t want to think too deeply about any of this before—my focus was on getting the job—but now that I’m here, now that this is real, I can’t help wondering what I’ve gotten myself into. Because there’s one easy answer to all my questions, one word that, thanks to Hollywood, comes to mind when I think about wealthy Russians.

Mafia.

Is that what my new employers are?