by Lana Sky
“What about some braids first, sleepyhead?” She follows me into my old room, and I set her up at my vanity, watching her scan our surroundings with barely concealed interest.
“This was your room?” she asks, sounding skeptical once more.
I nod, but even I can admit that the décor and color scheme is a little outdated. “Sit still.”
I smooth a brush through her hair, and I’m finishing the second plait when I realize a fact that makes me stiffen. “Vadim is coming today,” I confess, surprised by how her features light up for a split second before she reigns in any excitement behind one of her neutral masks. “But my parents don’t really know the full…details.”
She nods, and I’m sure that a child as perceptive as she is picked up on way more nuances about those “details” than anyone else has.
“Lying is wrong,” I say to preface my next request. “But, probing questions are annoying, and my mother is the queen of them.”
“So, we have to pretend?” Magda inquires, an eyebrow raised. Damn. She’s copied her father’s inflection—when he’s in the middle of devising a devious twist or laying the foundation of some mind game or another. As if she’s testing me, waiting to see if I’ll say the right thing.
Or fail entirely.
“Not pretend,” I say softly.
To stall for time, I rifle through the drawers of my vanity, finding an old stash of hair ribbon. I select two light blue strands and weave them through the ends of her braids, tying them into bows.
“Let’s think of it more as…evading. Whatever we’re comfortable defending, we defend. And what we’re not, we compromise on. And not by lying,” I add, turning her chair so that she faces me. “But just by cleverly avoiding the truth. For now.”
My convoluted way of explaining that while Vadim and I may pretend to be a couple now, the reality couldn’t be further from the truth.
She nods, appearing to mull it over. Then she squares her shoulders and hops from the chair.
“Can I go to the garden now? I wanted to help out early.”
“Sure.” I tug one of her braids and watch her skip off. Then I claim her vacated seat and try to give myself my own “lying is for the benefit of society” pep talk. I don’t think I’ve made much progress by the time a commotion rising from downstairs warns of the impending approach of yet another visitor.
Much to my mother’s chagrin.
“Tiffy,” she scolds as I descend the stairs and—sure enough—discover an unfamiliar black car cruising up the driveway. “Is it too much to ask for a bit of forewarning as to when we can expect your guests?”
I murmur some form of an apology as I slip through the front door, beating the pack just in time to head off the figure climbing from the vehicle’s driver’s seat. Vadim, it seems, took the tactical approach of driving himself rather than hiring a driver to do so. His outfit also strikes me as deliberately calculated—a casual mixture of a less formal dark brown suit with a looser white dress shirt underneath and no tie.
The result is a man who looks no less approachable than any other suitor hoping to make a good first impression, be them a billionaire or not.
God. It’s unfair. I can sense every little extent he’s gone through to ensure as much. He probably forced himself to eat something during the plane ride because he isn’t shaking, his features refreshed after days of chronic lack of sleep. His hair has been neatly arranged, and I can imagine him having to physically stop himself from raking his fingers through it.
He eyes me warily as I circle the car and approach him, my arms crossed.
“You don’t plan on staying long?” I ask when he doesn’t move to grab a suitcase from the trunk. His nostrils twitch—he didn’t miss the audible relief in my voice.
“I booked a hotel,” he says. “I was able to schedule some business meetings while I’m here.”
Though he avoids mentioning a timeframe as to when he’ll depart. I sense myself frown, but I decide to leave that battle for another day.
“Tiffy?” I hear my mother calling from the front steps. “Are you going to introduce your gentleman caller or have him stand out in the hot sun all day?”
Here goes nothing… I inhale raggedly. Then I extend my hand for Vadim’s. Any shock he might feel at the gesture is damn near instantly suppressed, replaced by one of his light, quick smiles. He grabs for me in return, and his heat runs through me like a lance, enhancing the aches and pains I’d been able to ignore until this moment.
The soreness of tossing and turning at night—too many nights—while in bed alone. The throbbing awareness of how long it’s been since I’ve had him inside me—such a strange thing to notice, all things considered. A reprieve from passionless sex was one of the many benefits of my separation from Jim, but this…
Being taunted with Vadim’s nearness is a torture I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.
Though maybe I’m alone in that regard. He loosens his grip on my hand, releasing me and turns his attention to the backseat of the car. I’m surprised to find that—in lieu of a suitcase—he did bring a few items with him. A bouquet of gorgeous roses that must have cost a fortune, as well as three neatly wrapped boxes.
I’m flashed back to when I accompanied him to his brother’s home, insisting upon bringing presents. I think I’d explained it away as social etiquette—but I have a feeling he took those words to heart, studying such a concept as thoroughly as his foray into kink.
“Help me with these?” he asks, his tone soft—but he isn’t speaking to me. A small figure bounds to his side, her smile beaming.
“Okay!” she chirps, playing the role of a precocious innocent so thoroughly I almost forget that I’d asked her to. She holds her arms out while Vadim piles each present on top of the other. Then she leads the way into the house as my parents watch on.
I think it should bother me a little, the approval I find in my mother’s eyes as she takes in Vadim’s slender frame and handsome visage. My father, on the other hand, seems more interested in studying the quality of his tailored suit and rented car.
“Mother, Daddy, this is Vadim,” I say once we’re all crowded into the foyer.
“Welcome!” My mother exclaims, drifting forward to plant a French-style kiss on each of his cheeks. “I apologize for the lack of proper fanfare. If I would have known you were coming so soon—” She breaks character just long enough to shoot me a glare, “I would have prepared better. Regardless, I’ll have Gwen whip up a marvelous lunch. Do you plan on staying long?”
“As long as I’m welcome to,” Vadim says, his accent adding an extra flair to his usual charm. “Though, I do have business that may call me away later, unfortunately.”
Smart man, laying the foundation for an easy escape route should the need arise.
“Welcome, Vadim,” Daddy says, eyeing him skeptically. As Magda hovers near his side, I finally make out the telltale signs of dirt stains on the cuffs of their jeans, their hands equally filthy.
“Looks like someone’s been having fun,” Vadim remarks, inspecting his daughter from head to toe.
“I’ve been helping,” she says in response to his questioning look. Her eyes brim with excitement, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so animated. “We’re waging war against those goddamn caterpillars—”
“And, she’s been a good little gardening assistant,” my father says quickly. He places his hand on her shoulder and shoots her a conspiratorial wink.
Meanwhile, my mother’s cheeks flush blood-red, and I half-expect her to faint. “Please, come and sit—Tiffy, show him into the sunroom, will you? I’ll have Gwen prepare some tea. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” Vadim says, his smile so breathtaking that even my mother’s nerves seem put at ease. For now, at least. “And please, accept these small tokens of my appreciation for taking such good care of Magdalene.”
He offers my mother the roses, and she simpers. Internally, I know that, like me, s
he’s tallied up the potential cost of such a gesture and is more than pleased with her estimate. Material value means little to her, but in terms of hospitality, every good hostess appreciates being rewarded for her efforts.
And she shoots me yet another glare before flouncing off, murmuring something about needing Grandmamma’s old crystal vase.
Two of the presents, Vadim has divided between my parents, saving the final one for Magdalene.
“I thought I heard you mention something the other day about working in the garden,” he says teasingly as she rips open her package to discover a blue apron, complete with her own miniature gardening tools. She flashes one of those rare grins and throws her arms around his waist in the semblance of something that could be called a hug before she takes off, dragging my father with her.
Alone with Vadim, the awkward tension sets in, too potent for even my mother’s best hosting abilities to conquer.
“I… I’ll show you to the sunroom,” I tell him before guiding him through the house and out into the sun-dappled space. Beyond the screen walls, we can make out Magda standing patiently by as my father crouches on a gardening pad, cursing up a storm.
Rather than sit, Vadim strips his suit jacket and escapes into the fresh air to join them, much to Magda’s apparent delight.
I hang back, observing from a safe distance as he crouches down, no doubt ruining his priceless suit, and watches intently as she shows him how to use her new tools, her laughter infectious, smile contagious.
Soon my own lips are twitching despite myself, my heart throbbing as I watch them interact, easily including my father into their beautiful dynamic. Almost like…
Almost like a real family. The thought unfurls, too dangerous to indulge in. But I’m weak in this fight, and the fantasies persist.
Chapter Nine
I think my only saving grace when it comes to the potential of my mother murdering me in a fit of rage and burying me out in the garden is that Vadim doesn’t plan on spending the night—thus sparing her the trouble of having to scramble to prepare another guest bedroom. Instead, she whips poor Gwen into a frenzy in her attempt to produce a meal “worthy” of our guests.
The result is a grand affair of roasted chicken, vegetables, and a dessert catered specifically to both Magda and Vadim’s dietary needs. Somehow, Mother manages to arrange all of this while seeming as though meticulously planned meals and priceless, antique cutlery are trivial things someone might pull out as an everyday occurrence. In other words, I’m rendered inadequate, watching a master at work.
She somehow manages to get Vadim to let his guard down in ways that I suspect even he isn’t comfortable with—not intentionally. There’s a softness to his posture I’m not used to glimpsing in the presence of others. He’s still without his suit jacket, having had to change into a spare pair of my father’s slacks after his became coated in muck from the garden.
“Do tell us how you met Tiffany,” my mother instructs as she savors her third glass of wine for the evening. Ruthlessly, she inspects him in between swallows, hunting for any minor flaw to seize upon. “Our dear girl has her charms, but I’m curious as to what might attract someone of your…caliber.” It’s a testament to her skill of social navigation that she somehow manages to make the insult both sting and sound endearing all at once. I’m still not forgiven for the lack of notice, it seems.
“What might attract me?” Vadim laughs, and his eyes take on a soft, faraway gleam I’m sure is one-hundred percent intentional. It has to be. “Your daughter is…”
His gaze finds me, hesitant, and clouded with uncertainty. I can imagine him agonizing over the right words to say. How to say them. In the end, he clearly states, “When I met her, I noticed her instantly—the moment she entered the room, every other man did as well.” That hard note betrays a jealousy only I know the true extent of. An envy that led him to foil any attempt I made to forge a connection with another man. “She nearly slipped past me without a second glance,” he admits. “But, I was determined to earn her attention.”
His tone… His expression.
My throat goes dry, and I grapple for my own wine glass, inhaling the liquid within.
“That’s our Tiffy,” Daddy pitches in with a bellowing laugh. “She can be a whirlwind. Let’s just hope you haven’t gotten a taste of her temper yet. She’s an ace sulker—can hold a grudge for days. But just when you think she’ll hate you forever, she bakes you the most terrible cake you ever did taste as a peace offering. And you know what they say about redheads…”
He winks.
My mother fans herself.
Magda grins mischievously. It doesn’t escape my notice that she managed to wedge herself in between my father and Vadim. Both of them seem intent on “accidentally” slipping extra slices of sugar-free cake onto her plate. I don’t think there’s another little girl alive in danger of being so thoroughly spoiled.
“What do they say about redheads, Harold?” My mother lobbies him with a barely concealed bit of bait.
Bait that he wisely sidesteps with a contrite nod of his head. “That they are beautiful, intelligent creatures worthy of utter worship and devotion, sweetheart,” he says.
Satisfied, she takes a congratulatory sip of wine.
“How long did you say you were planning on staying, Vadim?” she asks a second time. “We would love to have you. Tomorrow, Magdalene is going to model some of Tiffy’s old pageant dresses. As long as I have your permission, she can have as many of them as she’d like. They were all handmade by some of the best designers of the time. I’m sure she’ll look just darling in them.”
“I agree,” Vadim says earnestly. His eyes, however, cut toward me, cautiously guarded. If he’s looking for a clue as to how to reply, I look down at my hands rather than convey an answer either way. Left to scramble for his own response, he says, “But I’m afraid my business may call me away.”
“What is it you do exactly?” Daddy asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m in investments, myself.”
“I work in pharmaceuticals,” Vadim explains. “Mainly German-based companies. Have you heard of Eingel Industries?”
My father’s eyes widen—he’s impressed. “Heard of it? I have stock in it!” He laughs heartily, smacking his hand on the table. “Damn, it’s been performing like a beauty these past few quarters. Son of a bitch—”
“Harold!” My mother sniffs in disgust.
“It’s one of many entities under my control,” Vadim confesses. “Lately, I will admit that I’ve been trying to take a lighter approach to the business aspect, however, so that I can spend as much time as possible with Magdalene.”
Both of my parents nod in approval, and I sense that we’re nearing a dangerous line that I doubt we ever crossed with Jim. They like him. They really like him.
God, they like him too much.
And when his voice takes on that deep, disarming rasp, I know I’m royally screwed.
“I want to thank you for your hospitality,” he says. While his voice resonates throughout the room, loud enough for everyone to hear, I feel like it’s directed solely toward me, running down my spine in an ominous thrill of vibration. “For my daughter, especially. I can’t tell you what your kindness means to us both.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, darling.” My mother dabs at her lips with a napkin, her cheeks pink, and my father coughs in that way he does when things become too emotional for his comfort.
“It’s no problem,” he declares, rising from his chair. “How about us three interlopers go sip lemonade and watch the stars while Tiffy and Vadim get reacquainted, huh?”
“Okay!” Magda lurches to her feet, following at his heels while my mother reluctantly rises as well.
“Night darling,” she murmurs to me, planting a kiss on my cheek. In a voice too low for Vadim to hear, she whispers, “Very good catch, darling.”
And I want to melt into a puddle of shame as they finally leave the dining room.
“I don’t have t
o stay,” Vadim says, rising to his feet. “I’ll be in town at least until it’s time for Magda to come home. Then I’ll—”
“Wait.” I suck in a breath and let it out slowly while parsing my options. Finally, I make up my mind and face him. Self-preservation trumps pride, and I eye his collar rather than meet his gaze. I’m not brave enough. “We need to talk.”
Preferably—given how our last few conversations have gone—somewhere far out of my parents’ earshot. And Magda’s for that matter.
Vadim frowns and, for the first time, a teeny hint of unease gnaws through my wall of anger. Could his hesitation be because he’d already picked up some floozy who—as I was in our first days of meeting—is now lounging around his suite, waiting for her next delivery of designer clothing? I let myself indulge in the possibility as though it were real.
And jealousy claws through my chest so violently I have to smother a gasp. Could I even blame him if he did have another woman in the wings? No, I realize as I scan his face and catch the glimpses of exhaustion, he’s so cleverly disguised until now. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.
And maybe he has, merely to drive that stake through my chest—punish me. “If you’ve already made plans—”
“No,” he says quickly, though his frown only deepens. “No… It’s that my hotel suite this time isn’t what you’re used to.”
I raise an eyebrow, my dread building, jealousy seething. “Oh?”
He seems to deflate and rakes his fingers through his hair, disrupting yet another aspect of his polished façade. “It’s just that, I wasn’t planning on sharing it with anyone.”
“I’m not staying,” I add, even as my curiosity is piqued tenfold. “We just need to discuss some logistics.”
“Alright.” He stands, and we take a detour into the sunroom to reclaim his jacket. In the distance, Magda is barely visible, sitting on my father’s lap, pointing up at the stars in the sky as both he and my mother babble on.
It’s a heartwarming sight even I can’t deny.
