“You have my word,” Dmitry assured. There was a smile in his voice, brought out by the overwhelming pride he felt for his son’s growth. Of course, there was no need to speak on it. Men like them didn’t get bogged down with sentiment, but they understood silence didn’t take away from the affirmed telepathic transaction.
Just then there was a knock on the door before the guards opened it and Royal came in carrying a tray of food. She was still in her pajamas, a wardrobe of tight-fitting yoga pants and low-cut black tank top exposing her voluptuous breasts. She wore her long hair in a ponytail that hung lazily over her shoulder and a fresh face free of make-up.
Dmitry half expected a scowl on his wife’s face after last night’s argument, but instead, she greeted him with a genuine smile. He sat up in his chair at the sight of her, always transfixed by her beauty.
Anatoly twisted in his chair to see Royal and then turned back to his father. “Remember what I said. Happy or right,” he said under his breath. He stood up and excused himself to leave his parents to hash out whatever was going on between them.
Royal brought the tray over to Dmitry’s desk and placed it in front of him. “I figured you’d be hungry,” she explained in a soft voice.
Dmitry looked at the tray, a plate of hot pan-cakes covered in a sheen of syrup and Irish butter, fruits, scrambled eggs and a pile of finely cut potatoes and veggies. A tall glass of orange juice was situated beside a small vase with a yellow rose she had cut herself. He understood it was a peace offering, and he wanted her to understand that he gladly accepted.
“Thank you,” he said sincerely, looking into her eyes.
“You’re welcome.” Royal’s eyes darted around the room. Arguments with Dmitry always made her anxious. Taking a deep breath, she tried to move the conversation along. “I set out your clothes for this morning. Everyone’s getting ready as we speak.”
Dmitry wasn’t concerned with that now. Waving her toward him, he pushed his chair back from his desk. “Come here,” he ordered.
She walked behind his desk and stood in front of him. Pulling her to his lap, Dmitry made her sit down and then picked up a small cut of watermelon. He placed it to her lips with his fingers, watching her eat it.
“I’m sorry,” he confessed. His deep voice croaked with regret. “Last night…”
Royal cut him off before he could finish. “Today is not about us. We have plenty of time to talk. Right now, we need to focus on Anil, and making sure he gets through this the best he can.”
Dmitry held her in his embrace. “Then, we will talk later.” His strong hands massaged her arm. “But you know I love you, right?”
Royal nodded at him and managed a smile. It wasn’t that she was not still incredibly hurt by last night, but she knew that her feelings couldn’t cloud the events that were forced on them today. “Yes, I know you love me. I love you too.”
That was all Dmitry needed to hear. Picking up his fork, he made her sit with him while he had his breakfast. Even if they sat in complete silence, it would be fine by him, but he wanted her to know, he wasn’t handling her – not this time. She had more than enough reason to ask for another child and he had an obligation to fulfil it. He just couldn’t do it right now – not until he made sure she was safe.
Chapter Nine
Billionaire’s Row
London, England
3:00 p.m. same day
T he caller on the other end of the line spoke quietly, whispering to ensure no one could hear her. Zoya listened without uttering a word and then when the caller was done with her report, she finally spoke. “Make sure she gets the right applications. I want it packed on in gobs, extra helpings if time allows.” She lifted her finger as another thought crossed her mind. “And remember you’ve already been handsomely rewarded. This better go undetected or else.” Hanging up the phone, she felt a rush of adrenaline course through her veins. Sneaky business was always the best. Too bad she’s missing the fireworks. It was sure to be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
A sinister smile crept across her face as she laid out the perfect outfit for this evening on her bed. It was a sexy little pink chiffon sundress, cut high to show her long legs and cut low to show her augmented breasts. Perking them up as she glanced across the room at her reflection in the mirror, she giggled. “I’d fuck me,” she joked to her dog, sitting dutifully by the bedroom door, ready to be taken out for his daily walk.
“Soon,” she said to him as she walked naked into the bathroom. Standing in front of the large, gold-rimmed mirror, she pulled the hot pink and purple rollers from her golden tresses. “But for now, Mommy has to get into character.”
After planning for a few weeks, she finally had Erik Popov’s wife’s schedule down to a science. It was no small feat. She had to pay people, follow in her own car, duck, dive and bribe. But today, all that reconnaissance work would come to a head.
Earlier this morning, she cried hysterically to her boyfriend before he could even rise from his bed about her desire to become his wife. Her rant scared him so that he left by mid-afternoon for an unexpected meeting back in the states. As soon as he left, she packed her bags, certain he would call before the night’s end demanding their breakup. Now, she had the house to herself. Having already given the staff the night off, she was free to get ready for her big scene.
“And action,” she said, slipping on her new pink lace thongs. Turning to the side, she analyzed her profile. Perfect.
Tatiana Popov had grown accustomed to her way of life after nearly two years of matrimony to one of the world’s richest men. She had spent all her formidable years in luxury thanks to her mother’s guidance, but nothing compared to being Erik Popov’s wife – not even being his mistress. And she had done that well – being an apprentice impatiently awaiting the opportunity to usurp the former wife.
Her silver fox had only one mantra in this life. Nothing but the best, and the best in gaudy excess. Since the day Erik met her, the night she failed to secure the crown of Ms. Universe, in a high-end hotel suite in Moscow with other pageant losers who had been courted by the Kremlin for high-roller entertainment, Popov had opened up the world to her, offering opulent adventures in an existence only available to those who had the audacity to be considered mega-rich. The two-percent were a fickle group that she had learned to maneuver around. They wore their money like the crown she had chased and demanded all who served them to kiss the ring.
At first, she thought she might spend her whole life bowing and bending the knee to these privileged demons, but now she was one of them and the world bowed to her – not because of anything she had done in her own life, but who she had married. Erik Popov – heir to one of the five Russian mafia families who ran the world. She didn’t know much about his business life, and she didn’t care to, but what she did know was that this life was one she never wanted to get rid of.
Others had told her being Mrs. Popov had a shelf life, and she had heeded their warnings. She monitored her weight, went under the knife, made sure to remain dazzling and always subservient to her husband, but after two years of being treated like a princess, she started to doubt that her husband would ever leave her.
As she arrived at the front doors of Aremar Day Spa, a place reserved for only the richest women of London, she abandoned her bodyguards at the entrance and shed her clothes in the locker room for an afternoon of pampering.
Emerging from the private quarters in a black terry cloth robe, she followed her assigned assistant to the massage room, where she was to receive her weekly treatment. It included a four-person massage, a wine bath and white caviar face treatment atop 24-carat gold mud mask with anti-aging treatment. The cost was ridiculous, but never presented to her directly. The bill was charged to one of Erik’s cards and forgotten until the next week when she showed up again, ready to be mollycoddled for four-straight hours.
It was the least Erik could do for her, considering the stress he put her under on a daily basis. She was never allowed
to be normal, never allowed to wear yoga pants, pull her hair into a ponytail, wear cotton panties or eat carbohydrates. Instead, she was always held to a higher standard. He threatened in his own way with rude comments the angst of divorce if she ever got fat or became less attractive than the date he met her, forcing her to live in a state of panic. And when he wasn’t threatening her to maintain her beauty, he was reminding her that despite his overactive sex life, he never wanted children.
“Don’t even tell me,” he once advised her over brunch. “If you ever do get pregnant, kindly go and get rid of it immediately. I don’t want kids…ever.”
It had come as a shock to her considering most older rich men wanted an heir with their beautiful wives – something to assert their dominance and legacy over the world. But Erik was clear about his path. He wanted to live this life to the fullest and leave nothing on the table when he was gone.
Often, though he was extremely virile, she wondered if he was not secretly sterile, because no matter if she avoided birth control or not, she had never conceived – nor had any wife before him. But he put on airs and claimed that the choice was his own because of his Vor dedication.
But despite his many demands, she never complained because she had been chosen, among all others who vied for the title, to be his newest trophy wife. And by that standard, he treated her like a queen. As long as she played that part in his life – a distant role that was better seen than heard – she could enjoy the finer things without putting forth much effort. All she had to do was show up beautiful, well-dressed, smelling great, arrogant and entitled. What woman couldn’t do that when her husband was a billionaire?
Disrobing, she crawled on top of the massage table in the finely decorated room and prepared for her facial – a thing she demanded before the massage itself began. With her eyes closed and her tits up, she listened to the blissful music piped into the room.
Her normal therapist came into the room and closed the door behind her oblivious to the poison in Tatiana’s bowl awaiting application. Zoya had paid top dollar to commission the help of another employee to switch her regimen for the one she had paid a chemist in Ibiza to create.
“Hello, Mrs. Popov,” the young woman said with a smile. “Are you ready to get started?” She stood at Tatiana’s side and opened the mud mask container, sealed for protection with a plastic covering that had to be pried open before using.
“Would I be lying here in the nude if I were not?” Tatiana asked snidely without opening her eyes. She bit down on her lip in irritation. Make sure to cover my entire face this time. Last time, you missed several inches of my lower lids. Do you want my eyes to get bags under them the size of your ass or what?”
The therapist nodded, holding back a quick response as she dipped two fingers into the container. “We won’t miss a thing this time. Head to toe,” she promised.
Applying the mud mask to Tatiana’s body, the poor woman had no idea that the acid in the compound would activate five minutes after the white caviar topical was applied.
“Put extra on my nipples,” Tatianna ordered, unashamed of her perfect form laying bare for the help to attend. “And don’t skimp on the caviar. I’ll know if you do.”
“Very well, madam.”
Erik Popov was a man of many talents, but patience was not one of them. He sat looking out of the window in his study as he normally did awaiting a call from Memphis informing him that Dmitry Medlov was no more. With his wife away at her normal weekly spa visit, he was left alone with idle hands, and though she was oblivious to his need, he was angry at her for not being present to keep his mind occupied. He had half a mind to snatch the maid from downstairs and make her give him a blow job, but last time, she had used too much teeth.
He tapped his foot impatiently, tugging at his three-piece tailored suit as his gaze landed squarely on the bitch with the dog again. Perking up, he pulled the sheer curtains so that he could see her better. She was wearing a short pink dress today. Her long blonde tendril hair danced in the breeze as the dog pulled her along the sidewalk.
“Got you,” he said, jumping up from his chair. In the last twenty-four hours, his men had brought him a report on the girl. Evidently, she was arm candy for the little computer geek down the street, before that she had a variety of boyfriends, jumping from billionaire to billionaire. Either she was horrible in the sack or despised commitment. Neither kept him from finding out more about her for himself.
Jogging down the spiral staircase to the first floor, he burst out of the double doors and the security doors of his home to the staircase where he could see her.
She glanced up at the ruckus, still trying to control the large dog as he walked down the street. Flipping her hair, she smiled at him, but didn’t seem very interested.
Erik took her arrogance as a dare. “You there!” he said, straightening his suit jacket as he pranced down the flight of stairs. “What are you doing walking your own animal?”
Zoya stopped. The wind brought her ensemble up just enough for him to see her lace panties. Without bothering to pull down her dress, she turned to him with a frown. “Why do you care?” she asked with a pout.
Erik liked her insolence. “Because it’s my street.”
“Correction, it’s our street.” She watched him as he approached, his guards watching carefully from a few feet away.
“What are you doing walking that animal down our street, then,” he said, coming to stand right in front of her. She smelled intoxicating. And unlike many women of their stature, when he got up close, her face was still flawless.
Zoya yanked her dog’s chain. “If you must know, I’m relieving myself of frustration.”
Now Erik was curious. “What kind of frustration.”
“The worst kind.” With a huff, she looked down the street toward her boyfriend’s home. “Leave me alone. Let me get on with my day.”
As she turned to walk away, Erik caught her by her dainty wrist and pulled her toward him. “Not until you tell me what I want to know.” His eyes burned with lust as he trailed his gaze from her face down to her breasts.
She looked down at her breasts and then back up at him. “It’s none of your business.” Snatching way, she made sure to control her scowl. She wanted to turn him on, not piss him off. “Sit,” she ordered her dot. Giving Erik her full attention, she looked him up and down, giving an approving grin. “Who are you?” she asked, licking her lips.
“Who are you?” he toyed.
“I’m Zoya.” Without offering her hand, she put her hand on her hip. “Why do you care that I walk my dog?”
“Because no one here walks their own dog. It’s like taking out your own garbage or cooking your own food.”
Zoya laughed. “You’re funny,” she said, moving strands of hair from her face. “I’m glad. I have not in a while.”
“What else haven’t you done for a while?” he asked directly.
Zoya raised her brow. “Is it that obvious?” Her two-carat diamond studs caught the fleeting light and reflected in his eyes. “My boyfriend is a very rich man, very successful, but he’s not…”
Erik waited for her reply.
“You know,” she feigned embarrassment. “I come out here to walk the dog and try to tire myself out. After all, a girl can’t masturbate all day, can she?”
Erik felt a strange arousal for the woman. “A girl shouldn’t have to.” His eyes narrowed. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” she lied. “I guess it’s just my nature. I know he must have the world on his shoulders. Getting me off isn’t exactly at the top of his list.” She put her hand over her mouth like she had said too much. “I’m really not in a good place to talk. There is just too much on my mind. Forgive me for being so rude.”
“It’s okay,” Erik said, turning to look down the street. He liked her, the way she smelled, the way she looked, the way she wore that damned dress. All he could do at the moment was imagine shoving his cock up her…
“I
’ve never seen you before,” Zoya interrupted. “You live here?” She glanced beyond him to the mansion.
“I do.” He stepped closer.
“Are you here all the time?” she asked, voice softer.
“I am.” He slipped his hands in his pockets to keep from putting them on her. “If you ever just want to stop by, need someone to talk to about those…problems, you have my permission.”
Zoya ran a hand over the top of her dress. “Don’t offer, if you don’t mean it.” She knew she had him just where she wanted him. He was eating out of the palm of her hand. If he caught a whiff of her sex right now, he’d drop to his knees and give her head on the sidewalk.
“I never offer anything without a price,” he warned.
The wind blew up Zoya’s dress again. Pulling it down, she stepped closer to him. “I’ve never known a price I couldn’t pay…Erik.”
Her words gave him an instant hard-on. It prodded at the zipper of his pants begging to be released. Swallowing hard, he felt his cell phone ring. Normally, he would not have answered it, but it couldn’t take the risk of it being about Dmitry. Shit!
“Don’t you dare move,” he said, pulling out his phone. Turning away from her, he answered quickly. “What?” He stepped a few feet away.
“Boss,” one of Tatiana’s guards said frantically, “we have a problem.”
“What is it?” Erik said in a strained voice.
“It’s your wife. She’s headed to the hospital from the spa. Her mud mask gave her a serious chemical burn. It’s all over her face and her body. She is bleeding out of her pores. It looks like she’s melting. They say it could be fatal.” The guard paused, awaiting his boss’s reaction.
Erik huffed at his guard’s hysteria. At first, he thought it was something important. “Where are they taking her. As a matter of fact, never mind. Text me the address of the hospital. I’ll meet you there.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Zoya. “I’ll meet you when I can.” Hanging up the phone, he turned back to the woman as she stood waiting. With a smile, he walked back up to her.
Dmitry's Redemption: Book One (The Medlov Men 7) Page 13
