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“Six were for documents, and one was for bourbon,” Birdie tells him. “The original owner was a judge, which raises several more questions.”
“It answers the important one,” Reid says, and Birdie’s laugh comes easier than any I’ve heard since Connor vanished.
A dark-haired woman in a midnight-blue dress joins us with a broad man beside her. The woman is beautiful but stands a bit awkwardly, as if she would prefer boots and a barn jacket. A silver horseshoe necklace rests at her collarbone, and her calloused fingers curl around the man’s arm with easy affection.
“This is Mila Dragorin, Andrei’s cousin and our stable manager,” Tessa says. “The man she is using as furniture is Drew, her fiancé and our head of security.”
Drew stands at least six feet two, with clipped brown hair, blue-gray eyes, and an earpiece curving behind one ear. His black suit can’t disguise the breadth of his shoulders or his habit of checking every entrance while he listens.
“Tessa makes me sound decorative,” Drew says, offering his hand first to me and then to Birdie. “I have other responsibilities.”
“He reaches high shelves and opens jars,” Mila explains, smiling when Drew looks down at her. “Security is mostly a hobby.”
He looks at her like this is far from the first time she’s teased him, and he wouldn’t change a thing. Around them, Reid steals a tartlet from Tessa’s plate and receives a slap on the wrist, while Sofia replaces it with two more. These people don’t behave like employees orbiting a billionaire. They interrupt, tease, touch, and care for one another with the ease of a family that has survived years together.
I don’t know whether that makes Andrei less dangerous or proves how thoroughly he owns their loyalty. Then the conversation around us changes without becoming silent, and I know Andrei has entered the pavilion before I see him.
He stands across the room talking with an older couple, although the man beside him is doing most of the talking. Andrei doesn’t have to raise his voice or make a show of being important. People simply wait for him to notice them, employees respond to the smallest motion of his hand, and a server replaces his empty glass without interrupting the conversation.
Andrei is taller than I expected, with broad shoulders filling a charcoal suit cut close to his body. His dark shirt is open at the collar, and the first silver at his temples catches the chandelier light when he turns his head. He is clean-shaven tonight, leaving the hard line of his jaw visible along with a pale scar beneath it.
His photographs didn’t prepare me for his eyes. They are gray, cool at first glance, yet far too attentive to be distant. He finishes his conversation, looks across the pavilion, and finds me among forty guests as if he knew exactly where I would be.
Every sensible thought in my head loses its place. Maybe he knows who I am, or maybe he recognizes me as the only person in the room he hasn’t met. Either explanation should make me wary, but neither explains the heat moving through me as his eyes travel over my face, pause at my locket, and meet mine again.
There are probably women who can stand beneath Andrei Dragorin’s attention without forgetting how breathing works. I would like their names, contact information, and detailed instructions.
His mouth doesn’t smile, but a slight change at one corner suggests he’s noticed my reaction. That’s irritating enough to return several of my thoughts, most of them uncharitable.
“That must be Andrei,” Birdie murmurs near my ear. “He looks friendly in the way a locked bank vault looks friendly.”
“You think bank vaults look friendly?” I whisper.
“They contain money and keep conversations brief, so they have qualities I respect.” She accepts a glass from Reid, who has apparently decided to remain beside her. “He’s coming over, Cass.”
Andrei crosses the pavilion without hurrying, yet people move aside before he reaches them. His eyes remain on me until he joins our group, where Sofia touches his sleeve and says something in Russian.
“I’m not late,” he replies in English, his accent becoming more noticeable. “I’m right on time.”
Whatever Sofia says next makes him lower his head so she can pat his cheek before returning to the seating arrangement she has been trying to fix.
“Mr. Dragorin,” Tessa says, placing an innocent emphasis on the formality, “this is Birdie Lawson and Cassie Brewster.”
A woman near the reception table calls Tessa’s name and raises a tablet in her direction.
“Apparently, I’m needed before someone assigns two restaurant owners to the same table,” Tessa says. She excuses herself with a quick smile and crosses the pavilion toward the woman.
Sofia appears beside Mila and Drew, carrying a large arrangement of roses and grape leaves that has begun leaning to one side. She says something to them in Russian and points toward an empty table near the terrace.
“That means we’ve been recruited,” Mila tells Drew, placing one hand beneath the arrangement. “Try not to drop my mother’s flowers.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Drew replies, amusement warming his voice as he takes the arrangement from Sofia.
Mila follows him toward the terrace, while Sofia walks beside them, offering instructions he appears wise enough not to question. Within moments, only Reid and Birdie remain with us, although the way Reid watches my cousin suggests he has no objection to the change.
“Welcome to Dragorin Vineyards,” Andrei says. He shakes Birdie’s hand before turning to me. “I’m pleased you could attend.”
His palm closes around mine, warm and rougher than any billionaire’s hand has a right to be. A thin scar crosses the back of his left hand, disappearing beneath his cuff, and his fingers are calloused in a way that suggests he works among the vines he owns.
