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He is standing near the entrance to the western wing, speaking to a man in a dark suit. His jacket is off, his black shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the afternoon sun catches the silver at his temples.
My heart gives one sudden, completely unnecessary flip.
Oh, for God's sake. I am twenty-five years old. I have survived graduate school. I have survived Evan. I have even survived a freaking car. I should be able to look at an attractive man without my internal organs behaving like teenagers at a concert.
He doesn't see me.
Which is probably for the best, considering I have stopped in the middle of the courtyard to admire the side of his face like someone who has never encountered an attractive man before.
I look away and adjust the strap of my hospital bag.
Then a woman walks up beside him. She is beautiful. Naturally.
Tall and slender, with glossy dark hair and a cream-colored dress that probably costs more than my monthly rent. She approaches him with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly where she belongs, slipping a hand around his arm while leaning close to say something near his ear.
Nikolai glances at her briefly before returning his attention to the phone.
She doesn't seem bothered by that.
Her hand slides to his chest, and she says something else, smiling up at him as though they are sharing a private conversation.
My stomach drops.
Well… That answers several questions I had no business asking.
I look away, suddenly embarrassed by the fact that I have been standing there staring at him while he is apparently occupied with another woman.
Perhaps she is his girlfriend.
Perhaps she is the woman from one of those charity photographs.
Perhaps I should stop inventing romantic possibilities involving a man whose actual life I know absolutely nothing about.
Viktor follows my gaze. His expression changes. “Oh,” he says quietly.
I look at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Viktor says.
I hate that word. Before I can ask what he means, the woman turns toward us.
Her expression cools. “Who the hell are you?”
7
NIKOLAI
“Who the hell are you?” Irina asks.
I look up from my phone.
My lawyer is still explaining the revised documents. “And this prevents anyone in the family from contesting it later?” I ask quietly. I listen to his answer, then add, “Send me the final version. I want it signed this week.”
Her hand is still resting against my chest, where she put it a moment ago while telling me about some charity committee disagreement I have already forgotten. I remove it and step away before turning toward the courtyard.
Elle is standing beside Viktor, holding a small hospital bag against her hip. Anya is halfway up the front steps, apparently too excited about her return to notice that her aunt has just greeted our guest like an intruder.
For a moment, I forget what I was about to say.
