* * *
Alina doesn’t join us for dinner—another headache, Lyudmila tells me gruffly—so Slava and I have another relaxed meal before I go up to my room for the evening. Changing out of the formal dinner attire, I make myself comfortable on the bed and open the laptop—to do some more research, I tell myself. Not to wait for Nikolai’s call like some lovesick girlfriend. So what if he promised he’d call? Maybe he will, or maybe he won’t.
I shouldn’t care either way.
Determined not to sit there biting my nails, I resume my research into Mom’s death. The reporter I emailed last night hasn’t replied, so I find the contact info of a few more Boston-area journalists and message them. I also research the owner of the restaurant where Mom worked, as well as the corporation behind the upscale hotel where the restaurant is located.
There has to be a reason those men killed my mom.
I find the same thing as yesterday: nothing. What I really need is a private investigator, but there’s no way I can afford one right now. Although… it doesn’t hurt to get some rate quotes. Come Tuesday, I’ll have money, and if I’m staying here—which I don’t see why I wouldn’t—I might as well use that money to get some answers.
Yes, that’s it.
That’s exactly what I’ll do.
Encouraged, I look up a few promising leads and email them for a quote. Then, feeling accomplished for the evening, I switch over to my other project: learning everything I can about Nikolai.
I’ve thought of a few more phrases I can translate into Russian, and my search turns up several tabloid photos. One is of Nikolai at a Warsaw charity gala with a tall blond beauty on his arm; another is of him at a Moscow fashion show, sitting next to a bored-looking Alina. A couple more show him vacationing at various exotic destinations, invariably with some leggy model at his side staring at him with adoration.
I was right. He’s all but drowning in gorgeous women. For all I know, he might be in bed with some stunning model at this very moment, having picked her up at some VIP nightclub last night.
The thought is like a splash of boiling water on my chest. I have no right to feel this way, but I suddenly want to rip out every hair on the head of this imaginary woman—right before I do the same to Nikolai.
Setting the laptop aside, I jump off the bed and start to pace.
Why isn’t he calling?
He said he would.
He promised.
He has to know it’s getting later here by the minute.
Is it because he’s busy with work—or with some woman? I picture her glossy red lips wrapped around his cock, her eyes peering up at him through skillfully applied fake lashes as she—
A soft chime sounds from the bed, and I lunge toward the open laptop, my pulse skyrocketing. Plopping down on my stomach, I pull the computer toward me and, with an unsteady finger, hit “Accept” on Nikolai’s videocall request.
His face fills the screen, his hotel room visible behind him, and I exhale a shaky breath, my irrational jealousy fading as I see the tender look in his tiger eyes.
“Hi, zaychik,” he murmurs, his deep voice so velvety I want to rub it against my cheek. “How was your day?”
“It was good. How was yours? I mean, your morning—or your day yesterday?” I sound out of breath, but I can’t help it. My heart is pounding in a techno beat, and every cell in my body is vibrating with excitement. As pathetic as it is, I’ve been looking forward to this call all day. Even when I wasn’t consciously thinking about it, it was lurking at the back of my mind.
He gives me a wry smile. “My morning was okay, and so was the rest of yesterday. Some meetings, some bullshit—business as usual.”
“What kind of business?” Realizing how nosy that sounds, I open my mouth to take back the question, but he’s already answering.
“Clean energy. Specifically, nuclear energy. One of our companies has developed a proprietary technology that allows for small, portable nuclear reactors that can be used to provide low-cost electricity in small villages and other remote settlements.”
“Wow. And they’re safe? Not like—what was that famous one in Ukraine?”
“Chernobyl? No, they’re nothing like that. For one thing, each reactor is only about the size of a car, so even if there was an accident, the amount of radiation released would be much less. More importantly, our engineers have added so many redundancies that an accident is next to impossible. Our moto is Safety First—unlike our rivals.’” His voice hardens on the last part.
“There are other companies doing the same thing?” I ask, fascinated by this glimpse into a world I know nothing about.
His eyes glint darkly. “One. They’re bidding against us for a huge contract with the Tajik government. Whoever wins it will dominate this nascent industry in Central Asia—which is why my brother asked me to get involved.”