Devil’s Lair: Molotov Obsession: Book 1

by Zaires, Anna

  Suppressing the bizarre reaction, I flip the page back and read the info on the driver’s license.

  Chloe Emmons is twenty-three years old, five-foot-four, and resides in Boston, Massachusetts—which means she’s a long way from home.

  “How did she hear about this position?” I ask, glancing up at Alina. “I thought we only placed the ad in the local papers.”

  She moves the printouts with the photos aside and taps a glossy red nail on the page underneath. “Read the cover letter.”

  I turn my attention to the page. It appears Chloe Emmons is on a post-graduation road trip and just happened to be passing through Elkwood Creek when she saw our ad and decided to apply for the position. The cover letter is well written and neatly formatted, as is the resume that follows. I can see why Alina thought it promising. Though the girl has just received her Bachelor’s in Education Studies from Middlebury College, she’s had more teaching internships and babysitting jobs than the previous three candidates combined.

  Konstantin’s report on her is next. As usual, he’s had his team do a deep dive on her social media, criminal and DMV records, financial statements, school transcripts, medical records, and everything else about her life that had been computerized at any point. It’s a longer read, so I look up at Alina. “Any red flags?”

  She hesitates. “Maybe. Her mother passed away a month ago—apparent suicide. Since then, Chloe has basically been off the grid: no social media posts, no credit card transactions, no calls on her cell.”

  “So she’s either having trouble coping, or something else is going on.”

  Alina nods. “My bet is on the first; her mother was the only family she had.”

  I shut the folder and push it away. “That doesn’t explain the lack of credit card transactions. Something’s off here. But even if it’s what you think, an emotionally disturbed woman is the last thing we need.”

  A humorless smile touches Alina’s jade-green eyes. “Are you sure about that, Kolya? Because I feel like she might fit right in.”

  And before I can reply, my sister turns around and walks out.

  * * *

  I don’t know what makes me pick up the folder again an hour later—morbid curiosity, most likely. Flipping through the thick stack of papers, I find the police report on the mother’s suicide. Apparently, Marianna Emmons, waitress, age forty, was found on her kitchen floor, her wrists slit. It was a neighbor who called it in; the daughter, Chloe, was nowhere to be found—and she never showed up to identify or bury the body.

  Interesting. Could pretty little Chloe have offed her mom? Is that why she’s on her off-the-grid “road trip?”

  According to the police report, there was no suspicion of foul play. Marianna had a history of depression, and she’d tried to commit suicide once before, when she was sixteen. But I know how easy it is to stage a murder scene if you know what you’re doing.

  All it takes is a little foresight and skill.

  It’s a leap, of course, but I haven’t gotten where I am by assuming the best about people. Even if Chloe Emmons isn’t guilty of matricide, she’s guilty of something. My instincts are telling me there’s more to her story, and my instincts are rarely wrong.

  The girl is trouble. I know it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  Still, something keeps me from closing the folder. I read through Konstantin’s report in its entirety, then go through the screenshots of her social media. Surprisingly, it’s not a lot of selfies; for a girl that pretty, Chloe doesn’t seem overly focused on her looks. Instead, the majority of her posts consist of videos of baby animals and photos of scenic spots, along with links to blog posts and articles about childhood development and optimal teaching methods.

  If not for that police report and her month-long disappearance from the grid, Chloe Emmons would appear to be exactly what she claims: a brand-new college grad with a passion for teaching.

  Flipping back to the beginning of the folder, I study the photo of her laughing, trying to understand what it is about the girl that intrigues me. Her pretty face, for sure, but that’s only part of it. I’ve seen—and fucked—women far more classically beautiful than she. Even that porn-doll mouth is nothing special in the grand scheme of things, though no man in his right mind would pass up the chance to feel those plump, soft lips wrapped around his cock.

  No, it’s something else that exerts that magnetic pull on me, something to do with the radiance of her smile. It’s like spotting a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds on a winter day. I want to touch it, feel its warmth… capture it, so I can have it for my own.

  My body hardens at the thought, dark, X-rated images sliding through my mind. A better man—a better father—would shut that folder right away, if only because of the temptation it presents, but I’m not that man.

  I’m a Molotov, and we’ve never done something as prosaic as the right thing.

  Drumming my fingers on my desk, I come to a decision.

  Chloe Emmons might be too troubled to allow near my son, but I still want to meet her.

  I want to feel that ray of sunlight on my skin.

  3

  Chloe

  The twelve-foot-tall metal gate slides apart as I drive up, my Toyota’s motor whining at the steep incline of the unpaved road leading up the mountain to the estate. Gripping the wheel tightly, I drive through the open gate, my nervousness intensifying with each second.

  I still can’t believe I’m here. I was almost certain I would have nothing in my inbox when I went to the library this morning. It was way too soon to expect a response. Just in case, though, I wanted to check my email and then spend a few hours looking online for other gigs within a half-tank’s driving distance. But the email was already there when I logged in; it had arrived at ten p.m. yesterday.

  They want to interview me.

  At noon today.

  My palms are slippery with sweat, so I wipe first one hand, then the other on my jeans. I have nothing resembling an interview-appropriate outfit, so I’m wearing my only pair of clean jeans and a plain long-sleeved T-shirt—I need the sleeves to cover the scratches and scabs the glass shards left on my arm. Hopefully, my potential employers won’t hold the casual attire against me; after all, I’m interviewing for a tutor position in the middle of nowhere.

  Please let me get the job. Please let me get it.

  The sleek metal gate I just drove through is part of a metal wall of the same height that extends into the rugged mountain forest on each side of the road. I wonder if that means the wall loops around the entire estate. It’s hard to imagine—according to the librarian who gave me directions, the property consists of over a thousand acres of wild mountainous terrain—but I couldn’t see where the wall ended, so it’s possible. And since the gate opened on its own at my approach, there must be cameras in place as well—which, while somewhat alarming, is also reassuring.

  I have no idea why these people need so much security, but if I get this job, I’ll be safe inside their compound as well.

  The winding dirt road I’m on seems to go on forever, but finally, after about a mile, the forest on the sides begins to thin and the terrain flattens out. I must be approaching the peak of the mountain.

  Sure enough, as I round the next bend, the sleek two-story mansion comes into view.

  An ultra-modern marvel of glass and steel, it should stand out like a sore thumb among all this untamed nature, but instead, it’s skillfully integrated into its surroundings, with a portion of the house built into a rocky outcropping. As I pull up in front of it, I see an all-glass terrace wrapping around the back and realize that the house is perched on a cliff overlooking a deep ravine.

  The views inside must be to kill for.

  Deep breath, Chloe. You can do it.

  Turning off the car, I smooth my sweaty palms over my jeans, straighten my shirt, make sure my hair is still in a neat bun, and grab the resume I printed out at the library. I usually interview well, but I’ve never had so much at
stake before. Every nerve in my body is on edge, my heart pounding so fast I feel dizzy. Of course, I could also be dizzy because all I’ve had to eat today is the banana, but I don’t want to think about that and the fact that if I don’t get the job, hunger may be the least of my problems.

  Resume in hand, I step out of the car. I’m about a half hour early, which is better than being late but not optimal. I was afraid I’d get lost without a GPS, so I left the library and headed over here as soon as the librarian explained where to go and gave me a local map. I didn’t get lost, though, so now all I need is to walk over to that sleek, futuristic-looking front door and ring the doorbell.

  Steeling my spine, I prepare to do exactly that when the door swings open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in a pair of dark jeans and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

  “Hi,” I say, putting on a bright smile as I walk toward him. “I’m Chloe Emmons, here to interview for the…” I stop, my breath catching in my lungs as he steps out into the light and a pair of stunning hazel eyes meets mine.

  Except “hazel” is too generic a term for them. I’ve never seen eyes like that. A rich, dark amber mixed with forest green, they’re surrounded by thick black lashes and glitter with a peculiar fierceness, an intensity that wouldn’t look out of place on a jungle predator. Tiger eyes, belonging to a man who himself is power and danger personified—a man so cruelly handsome my already-elevated heart rate goes supersonic.

  High, wide cheekbones, a straight blade of a nose, jaw sharp enough to cut marble—the sheer symmetry of those striking features would’ve been enough for them to grace the covers of magazines, but when combined with that full, cynically curved mouth, the effect is absolutely devastating. Like his lashes, his eyebrows are thick and black, as is his hair, which is long enough to cover his ears and so straight it looks like a raven’s wing.

  Closing the distance between us with long, smooth strides, he extends his hand toward me. “Nikolai Molotov,” he says, pronouncing the name as a Russian native would—though there’s no trace of accent in his deep, rough-silk voice. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  4

  Chloe

  Dumbstruck, I shake his hand. It’s big and strong, his lightly tanned skin warm as his long fingers wrap around mine and squeeze with carefully restrained power. A shiver ripples down my spine at the sensation, my body heating all over, and it takes everything I have not to sway toward him as my knees turn to jelly underneath me.

  Get a grip, Chloe. This is a potential employer. Get a fucking grip.

  With a herculean effort, I pull my hand away and reach for what remains of my composure. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Molotov.” To my relief, my voice comes out steady, my tone calm and friendly, as befits a person interviewing for a job. Taking a half-step back, I smile up at my host. “I’m sorry I’m a bit early.”

  His tiger eyes gleam brighter. “No problem. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Chloe. And please, call me Nikolai.”

  “Nikolai,” I repeat, my stupid heartbeat accelerating further. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, why I’m having this reaction to this man. I’ve never been one to lose my mind over a chiseled jaw and washboard abs, not even when I was a hormonal teenager. While my friends were crushing on football players and movie stars, I dated boys whose personalities I liked, whose minds attracted me more than their bodies. For me, sexual chemistry has always been something that develops over time rather than being there from the start.

  Then again, I’ve never met a man who exudes such raw animal magnetism.

  I didn’t know men like this existed.

  Focus, Chloe. He’s most likely married.

  The thought is like a splash of cold water in my face, jerking me back to the reality of my situation. What the fuck am I doing, drooling over some kid’s father? I need this job to survive. The forty-mile drive here ate more than a quarter tank of gas, and if I don’t earn some money soon, I’ll be stranded, a sitting duck for the killers coming after me.

  The heat inside me cools at the thought, and when Nikolai says, “Follow me,” and walks back into the house, my nerves jangle with anxiety instead of whatever it was that came over me at the sight of him.

  Inside, the house is as ultra modern as it is on the outside. All around me are floor-to-ceiling windows with stunning views, modern-art-museum-worthy decorations, and sleek furniture that looks like it came straight out of some interior designer’s showroom. Everything is done in shades of gray and white, softened in a few places by natural wood and stone accents. It’s beautiful and more than a little intimidating, just like the man in front of me, and as he leads me through an open-layout living room to a spiral wood-and-glass staircase in the back, I can’t help feeling like a mangy pigeon that’s accidentally flown into a gilded concert hall.

  Tamping down on the unsettling sensation, I say, “You have a beautiful house. Have you been living here long?”

  “A few months,” he replies as we go up the stairs. He glances at me. “What about you? You said in your cover letter you’re on a road trip?”

  “That’s right.” Feeling on firmer ground, I explain that I graduated from Middlebury College in June and decided to see the country before diving into the working world. “But then of course, I saw your listing,” I conclude, “and it sounded too perfect to pass up, so here I am.”

  “Yes, indeed,” he says softly as we stop in front of a closed door. “Here you are.”

  My breath hitches again, my pulse speeding up uncontrollably. There’s something unnerving in the darkly sensual curve of his mouth, something almost… dangerous in the intensity of his stare. Maybe it’s the unusual color of his eyes, but I feel distinctly uneasy when he presses his palm to an unobtrusive panel on the wall and the door swings open in front of us, spy-movie style.

  “Please,” he murmurs, motioning for me to enter, and I do so, doing my best to ignore the unsettling sensation that I’m entering a predator’s lair.

  The “lair” turns out to be a large, sunlit office. Two of the walls are made entirely of glass, revealing breathtaking mountain vistas, while a sleek L-shaped desk in the middle holds several computer monitors. To the side is a small round table with two chairs, and that’s where Nikolai leads me.

  Hiding a relieved exhale, I take a seat and lay my resume on the table in front of him. Clearly, I’m on edge, my nerves so frayed after the past month that I’m seeing danger everywhere. This is an interview for a tutor position, nothing more, and I need to get a hold of myself before I blow it.

  Despite the admonition, my pulse spikes again as Nikolai leans back in his chair and regards me with those unsettlingly beautiful eyes. I can feel the growing dampness of my palms, and it’s all I can do not to wipe them again on my jeans. As ridiculous as it is, I feel stripped bare by that gaze, all my secrets and fears exposed.

  Stop it, Chloe. He knows nothing. You’re interviewing to be a tutor, nothing more.

  “So,” I say brightly to hide my anxiety, “may I ask about the child I’d be tutoring? Is it your son or daughter?”

  His face takes on an indecipherable expression. “My son. Miroslav. We call him Slava.”

  “That’s a great name. Is he—”

  “Tell me about yourself, Chloe.” Leaning forward, he picks up my resume but doesn’t look at it. Instead, his eyes are trained on my face, making me feel like a butterfly pinned under a microscope. “What is it about this position that intrigues you?”

  “Oh, everything.” Taking a breath to steady my voice, I describe all the babysitting and tutoring I’ve done throughout the years, and then I go over my internships, including my last summer job at a special-needs camp, where I worked with children of all ages. “It was a great experience,” I conclude, “both challenging and rewarding. My favorite part of it, though, was teaching math and reading to the younger kids—which is why I think I’d be perfect for this role. Teaching is my pa
ssion, and I’d love a chance to work with a child one-on-one, to tailor the curriculum to his or her interests and abilities.”

  He sets the resume down, still without bothering to look at it. “And how do you feel about living in a place that’s so removed from civilization? Where there’s nothing but wilderness for dozens of miles around and only minimal contact with the outside world?”

  “That sounds…” Like a haven. “…amazing.” I beam at him, my excitement unfeigned. “I’m a big fan of the wilderness, and nature in general. In fact, my alma mater—Middlebury College—was chosen partly because of its rural location. I love hiking and fishing, and I know my way around a campfire. Living here would be a dream come true.” Especially given all the security measures I spotted on the way in—but I don’t say that, of course.

  I can’t appear to be anything other than a brand-new college grad looking for adventure.

  He arches his eyebrows. “You won’t miss your friends? Or family?”

  “No, I—” To my dismay, my throat constricts with a sudden rush of grief. Swallowing, I try again. “I’m very independent. I’ve been traveling around the country on my own for the past month, and besides, there are always phones, videoconferencing apps, and social media.”

  He cocks his head. “Yet you haven’t been posting on your social media profiles for the past month. Why’s that?”

  I stare at him, my heartbeat skyrocketing. He’s looked at my social media? How? When? I have the highest privacy settings in place; he should be unable to see anything about me other than the fact that I exist and use social media like a normal person. Has he had me investigated? Hacked into my accounts somehow?

  Who is this man?

  “I actually don’t have a phone right now.” A trickle of sweat runs down my spine, but I succeed in keeping my tone level. “I got rid of it because I wanted to see if I could function on this road trip without all the electronics. A personal challenge of sorts.”