“No, it wasn’t,” Cheslav agrees, his tone casual. But then his voice hardens as he says, “You will leave now.”
The easy going smile slithers off Tommy’s face. “Wait a minute. I have a few more questions. You see, my girl is missing, and I think Billie here might know something about that.”
Cheslav glances at me then returns his cold green eyes to Tommy. “You have no mask, and I suspect no warrant. You can come back when you have both.”
Now it’s Tommy’s and Cheslav’s stare down.
And Tommy seems a lot more intimidated by Cheslav than he was by me.
After a few tense moments, Tommy reaches for his shirt pocket. “Let me just give you my card,” he starts to say.
“Do you want his card, Billie?” Cheslav asks without looking away from their stare down.
“No,” I answer, my voice a little stronger now than it was when it was just me facing down Tommy.
“She does not want your card,” Cheslav says to Tommy. “My employee is standing right outside. You can hand him your little card if you really must give it to someone.”
Tommy’s hand wilts away from his pocket.
Another tense moment…then he leaves without another word.
I let out a sigh of relief as he goes through the screen door.
But then instead of following him out, Cheslav goes to the door and closes it.
I swallow.
Yes, Tommy is gone.
But now I have to deal with Cheslav.
“What was that about?” Cheslav demands. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” I answer.
Funny, I didn’t notice how messy my front room was until right this moment. I pick up the pizza box and empty cartons of Jeni’s Gooey Butter Cake ice cream. “What—what are you doing here?”
Cheslav isn’t a vampire—I’m almost sure about that. But the intense way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I’ve invited one into my home. “I came to see you, Billie.”
“Okay, hold on for a sec. I’ll be right back,” I say as I take the mess through the swinging door into the kitchen.
At least the door is supposed to swing. Cheslav catches it before it can rotate close and follows me into the kitchen like I didn’t ask him to wait for me in the front room.
Unfortunately, because I’m a hopeless southerner, I have to ask, “Would you like something to drink? Water? Coffee?”
Cheslav looks around my condo’s practical kitchen with a sneer. The kitchen isn’t tiny. It was the main selling point when I bought this place. But he takes up so much space, it suddenly seems small. I suddenly seem small. Everything I have suddenly seems small.
“Coffee,” he eventually answers. “Three sugars. No milk.”
I go over to my Keurig and grab a K-cup of the strongest brew I have in the machine.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?” he asks behind me. “I can have Vlad—”
“I’m fine with cereal,” I answer before he can offer up his manservant again. “And I’m sure Vlad has better things to do than running around getting me food.”
“I assure you; he does not,” Cheslav answers.
I’m too tired and freaked out by Tommy’s visit to argue with him. So I just push the button on the coffee maker and think about how crazy it is to have him here in my condo.
The coffee is done before I want it to be. I set that cup aside and grab a Starbucks Blonde roast.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Making myself a coffee too.”
“Is it decaf? Caffeine isn’t good for babies.”
I stop suddenly realizing what I was about to do. Cheslav is right. Caffeine isn’t good for babies. Luckily he said something—
That grateful thought trails off when the new penny drops. And I turn to face him, all thoughts of coffee forgotten.
He regards me, eyes blazing. “When?” he asks. “When were you going to tell me you are pregnant?”
Chapter Fourteen
He knows. Cheslav knows I’m pregnant. But how?
A dark thought occurs to me. “Oh my God, did you have me followed?”
“That was not necessary. After slip-up, I set calendar date to come visit. Today is April 6th, exactly thirty days after my seed found its way inside of you.”
I stare at him wide-eyed. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugs, like showing up at my condo unannounced is no big deal. “We Rustanovs have a bad history with secret baby. I wanted to be sure. When I see pizza box and all the ice cream, I am sure.”
I blink, wondering if this is an ESL issue or if I’m really hearing him right. “So you’re saying your family is in the habit of accidentally knocking women up. Women who don’t want to tell you they’re pregnant with your children. Even though you’re super rich.”
Cheslav shrugs. “Da. And…?”
“That’s kind of crazy, don’t you think?”
Cheslav shrugs again. “Da. And…?”
I let out a long breath. “Okay, consider yourself told. Now you can get out of here.”
“I have not yet drunk my coffee.”
At this point, I want to grab the coffee and throw it in his face.
But I also want him out of here.
I grab three cubes of sugar from the nearby bowl, throw them in the coffee, stir it two measly times with a spoon, then set it on the table.
“There you go. Feel free to take the cup with you.”
“No, I will sit with coffee, and we will talk about this baby problem. Are you sure no breakfast? Truly, it is NBD for Vlad. This is his job.”
I fold my arms under my breasts. “Okay, I’m not sure what you think there is to talk about, but—”
“We have baby on way. You will become my wife,” he says.
While at the same time, I say, “I’m not getting an abortion, and you can’t make me.”
We both stop.
Then I say, “What?”
“Why do you think I come here to make you get rid of our baby?” he demands, looking insulted.
I spread my arms and shake my head. “You called it ‘this baby problem.’”
“Yes, problem because I do not want baby out of wedlock,” he answers.
My mind reels. Of all the scenarios on my mental Excel sheet of possible outcomes from this pregnancy situation, Cheslav demanding that I marry him hadn’t been one.
“What are you? A time traveler from last century? People don’t get married just because one of them is pregnant anymore,” I inform him.
“That may be true of people. Not Rustanovs,” he answers. “
“Well, it’s true of me,” I answer right on back.
Cheslav goes very still, his eyes becoming hard as granite above his mask. “You will come home with me. While you grow baby, we will quarantine together and plan wedding. Do not fight me on this, Billie. Vlad is right outside the door. He extracted you from this condo once. He can do so again.”
My eyes widen at his threat, and fury races through my veins. “So that’s your plan, then? You’re going to force me out of my home and down the aisle at gunpoint?”
“No aisle. Courthouse,” he answers, his voice as light as mine is angry. “Then we will do big wedding when quarantine is over. Invite everybody. But if you want now, we can take engagement photos.”
“No, I don’t want that,” I say, a little flummoxed by his friendly tone.
“Okay, maybe later for engagement photos,” he says. Then he walks toward the kitchen door. “In meanwhile, I will tell Vlad to go get breakfast from Maple Street Biscuit company.”
Damn, breakfast biscuits sound delicious. But I follow him out of the kitchen to inform him, “I don’t want to have breakfast with you or go anywhere with you!”
If Cheslav hears me, he gives me no indication, just opens my front door and spits out a bunch of Russian to Vlad.
Then he closes it and informs me, “We will be having breakfast together for the rest of our lives. There is no t
alking me out of this. It is decided.”
I look at him for a hot second.
Then an angry second.
Then a determined one.
“Get out!” I yell at him. “Get out of my home! I don’t want you here!”
Enraged, I shove at him, but he doesn’t budge an inch.
“You will stop fighting me, Billie,” he growls. “Stop it now.”
Then he catches my arms, spins me, and the next thing I know, I’m pinned between his heavy body and the door he just closed.
And no matter how much I push and shove at him, I can’t get him to budge. In fact, he eventually captures both of my wrists and pins them above my head with what appears to be minimal effort.
“Do not fight me, krasotka.” His words are angry behind his mask. “Not on this.”
“How do you expect me to respond to any of this?” I ask him, breathing hard behind my own mask. “The only way you could get me to agree to five days with you was with threats and gun violence. And now you’re expecting me to what? Just roll over and say, ‘Sure, I’ll marry you. Sign me up for a life of not being respected by the man I call husband?’”
He stares at me, his green eyes blazing.
Then without warning, he lets me go. He steps back and scrapes a hand over his shorn hair.
“You are right.”
I lower my arms, not sure if I heard him correctly. “I’m right? So does that mean you’re letting me go?”
“No, but…” He looks me straight in the eye to say, “You are right. This is no way to start marriage.”
Oh. Disappointment sinks my heart. So he’s not letting me go.
“Or any relationship to be clear.” I rub my wrists, feeling aggravated.
“Or any relationship,” he agrees, his voice somber.
There’s a moment of quiet between us.
Then he says, “I will tell you truth, krasotka. When you leave, it was not end for me. I tried to let you go. I tell myself, ‘Chess don’t be crazy. She is not for you. It was a fun few days, and it is over now.’ But I cannot stop thinking of you. And I keep on staring at check you sent me. Not because I want to put it in bank, but because it was written by you. So I mark that April 6th date on my calendar. And I find myself obsessed with knowing. So obsessed, I can’t wait for you to get around to telling me whether you are pregnant or not.”
He shakes his head with a sneer. “Like desperate man, I show up at your door. Because I want you. I want you that much.”
Now it’s my turn to shake my head. “But why? Why do you want me so much?”
“Believe me, I have asked myself this question many times. I like being bachelor. It never bothered me before. But then, I saw you. So beautiful. And suddenly, you are all I can think of. This obsession might have ended after those five days, if not for other parts of you. You are not just pretty girl. You are loyal and clever and easy for me to be with in same space—that is not so common, you know. Especially for me.”
I stand there mute, not knowing what to say. I don’t date athletes, and I certainly don’t want to marry one. But I have a weird urge to take out my phone and call Cynda for outside analysis. Like, “Is this the most romantic thing you ever heard, or am I just being crazy?”
In the end, I tell him the truth. “I’ve been struggling with some of the same feelings. You’re not just a pretty boy. You’re interesting and sexy and clever.”
I expect him to smile at my wordplay, but he grimaces like I hit him. “Then why did you leave early?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t…I didn’t like it when you called me weak. I pride myself on being a strong black woman, so when you said that, it made me feel like you had no respect for me at all.”
He shakes his head back at me. “What I said was not about respect, krasotka. It was about emotion. You are weaker than me, and that makes me want to protect you. Like your brother didn’t. That is all I meant. No insult. Just desire to be man who stands between you and anything that would hurt you. But other than that, I believe you are very strong. Strong of mind. Strong of spirit. This is what I like so much about you.”
Okay, no need to consult Cynda on that one. When he puts it like that, being called weak definitely feels romantic. But…
“I’m not sure a few days of great sex is enough to base a relationship on. In fact, that feels like a crazy thing to base a relationship on.”
He nods. “It is enough. I promise you this, krasotka.”
Krasotka…the way he’s talking to me, looking at me…I feel beautiful in a way I never have before, even after qualifying for the Queen America pageant.
But I’m an accountant. A strong black woman who’s worked hard to get to where I am. And my brother’s life is no longer at stake. I can’t just give in to this crazy idea. Can I?
As if reading my hesitation, Cheslav takes another step back. Gives me some room.
“I have another deal for you, Billie,” he says. “A month. Five days wasn’t enough. A month is what I need to make you believe what I already know.”
Chapter Fifteen
So…
Less than fifteen minutes after declaring my intention to leave, I find myself agreeing to his month. We also decide to take off our masks. I’ve been isolating ever since my firm switched to remote work. And Cheslav assures me he has, too. He’s heard bad things about how long it takes athletes to recover from the virus, and he wants to be ready to go when hockey comes back.
So we both take off our barriers.
As soon as I see his lips, memories of how he used them all over my body pummel me.
His green eyes heat as if reading all my dirty thoughts. “We should seal our deal with kiss,” he suggests.
My entire body pulses. Once…twice…
But then I drag my thoughts away from that subject to say, “No sex. You’re way too good at that, and I don’t want it to influence our decision.”
“We’re way too good at that,” he corrects, placing his mask on a side table. “Do you think any other woman turns me into animal like you do?”
Yeah, it’s going to take me at least a month to get used to Cheslav’s intensity levels.
“Regardless. No sex,” I answer out loud.
His eyes darken, and he gives me a hooded up and down look. But in the end, he says, “Fine. No sex. Unless you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” I promise.
But the words don’t exactly sound firm. I had a way better “I got this” voice while advising clients who’d lost their livelihoods to COVID about the new July 15th deadline for their 2019 taxes.
Cheslav smirks. But if he’s thinking I’m full of it, he doesn’t say it out loud.
The doorbell rings, and Vlad appears with a paper takeout bag from the Maple Street Biscuit Company restaurant, one of my favorite Charleston restaurants.
Cheslav’s been asking me if I wanted to eat since he showed up on my doorstep. But I don’t realize how hungry I am until the smell of biscuits, bacon, and syrup hits my nose.
Cheslav and Vlad have a short conversation in Russian, and I guess there must have been instructions somewhere. After handing Cheslav the food, Vlad turns and goes right back out.
“Where’s he going?” I ask Cheslav when he takes me by the elbow.
“To retrieve a larger car,” Cheslav answers as he escorts me back into the kitchen. “We will go to my other place after we eat breakfast, and it is long drive.”
“Your other place?” I repeat.
His other place turns out to be a huge Mediterranean-style villa, sitting on the golden mile. I’d been up to Myrtle Beach for a couple of cheerleading events, but I’d never visited this particular stretch of beach. Mainly because there are no hotels on the golden mile, only million dollar plus, oceanfront homes.
“I can’t believe you own this place,” I say, my mind spinning as we walk out on to a second-floor balcony overlooking an Olympic sized swimming pool.
“Technically, my family owns it. We l
ike to invest in real estate wherever we live. But I have stake in company. If I had chance to do it again, I would choose house in Hilton Head. This place is good for parties but not so much for family.”
“Oh, I think a family would get along just fine here,” I answer, looking out at the breath-taking Atlantic Ocean view. “So is that what you plan to do after you’re done with hockey? Join your family’s business?”
Cheslav sneers. “Most likely.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“Were you happy about going into accounting after giving up cheerleading?” he asks.
“Actually, yes,” I answer with a little chuckle. “I did a lot of budgeting to help my mom stay ahead of the bills when I was growing up. And when the opportunity came to go back to school with my Princess South Carolina scholarship money, accounting felt like a natural fit. People laugh when I say this, but it has some of the same things going for it as cheerleading. Tax code and choreography have a lot in common. I like working with the numbers until they dance just like I want them too. And it’s beautiful when everything comes together to give our clients the outcome they want for life.”
Now Cheslav laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard him do so, and I love how rich and resonant it sounds. “You make handling money sound so much more interesting than my financial manager.”
My eyes widen. “You have a financial manager?”
“Yes,” Cheslav answers carefully. “Why does this delight you?”
“You have no idea how many of my brother’s teammates don’t have someone managing their funds. Some of these guys make and waste millions of dollars a year. Truthfully, as a Black accountant, I’d eventually love to provide financial management services to more athletes. That’s one of the reasons I’m studying so hard to get my CPA.”
He regards me with a considering look as if my boring aspirations are way more interesting than the majestic ocean right outside his door. “This sounds like, how you say, dream job for you.”
“I mean, I hope so. But I’m not great at pitching myself,” I admit. “A lot of athletes either think they have so much money it’s never going to run out. Or that they don’t make enough to pay someone else to manage their funds. Plus, there are a lot of horror stories about Black stars being swindled out of their earnings by unscrupulous money managers. You kind of can’t blame them for being wary of trusting someone else to put them on a plan and handle their hard-earned money. It took me years to finally convince my brother to let me manage his finances.”
Billie and the Russian Beast: An Enemies to Lovers Russian Hockey Player Sports Romance [50 Loving States, South Carolina] (QUARANTALES Book 2) Page 7
