I pour the milk into the mug and carry the pot to the sink. “He does?”
“The Turgenevs, for example. Mikhail Sergeyevich Turgenev and his family are regular callers. Mr. Volkov is a close friend of the family. Maybe you met them in New York? Like Mr. Volkov, Mr. Turgenev has a house in America for business purposes. The family spends one month there every year. They returned shortly after you, I believe.”
I still in the middle of rinsing the pot. “Dania Turgeneva? Those Turgenevs?”
“Ah.” She gives an approving nod. “Then you did meet them.”
“Briefly,” I say, putting the pot on the drip tray.
“At least you already have a friend in St. Petersburg.” She folds the napkin and sets it on top of the pile. “You should ask Mr. Volkov if you can invite Miss Turgeneva for tea. She’s such a charming young lady and from a good family too.” She gives me a sugary smile. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige, as close as they are.”
No, thanks. Not after Dania told me she was destined to marry Alex.
Lena waves a hand in the air and says with a dreamy light in her eyes, “Those dinners are simply marvelous. That’s when we take out the silver and crystal and polish everything to a shine.”
So, Dania is a regular visitor. Why does that bother me? I’ve never been the jealous type, but then again, I’ve never dated a man like Alex, a self-made zillionaire who wants me to wear a butt plug.
Warmth travels to my cheeks, and not from the hot drink I’m sipping.
Lena’s conversation has dried up. From the look on her face, she’s still at one of those fancy dinners with the Russian royals.
I’m about to take my hot chocolate to the library when the door in the back opens and Tima enters from the mudroom.
Shutting the door, he rubs his hands together. “It’s a blizzard out there.” When his gaze lands on me, he smiles. “How’s the rabbit today?”
His smile is contagious. My lips curve involuntarily in response. “I’m good, thanks.”
Lena switches off the iron and picks up the laundry basket. As she walks from the room, she says with her nose in the air, “Dinner is served at seven sharp.”
“Like every night,” Tima replies, making a face behind her back.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in my throat. I catch it just before it slips out.
“Don’t mind her,” he says, taking an apron from a hook and tying it around his waist. “She thinks her shit doesn’t stink.”
“Tima!” I say with a chuckle. “That’s mean.”
He winks. “It’s true.”
“She says she’s been working here for a long time.”
He takes a pan from the shelf and puts it on the stove. “She grew up in this house. Her mother was the housekeeper before her.”
“Wow. She didn’t tell me that. What about you?”
“Nah.” He takes a knife from the block and pulls it through the blade sharpener. “She was here way before me. That’s why she thinks she’s the boss.”
“How long have you known Alex?”
“A few years,” he says evasively.
“How did you meet?”
“Let’s just say our paths crossed when mine wasn’t very straight or narrow.”
Not wanting to pry when he’s obviously not comfortable discussing it, I drop the subject. Being used to working with people all day, I miss human contact. I’m enjoying the company and I’m reluctant to leave, but I don’t want to be under Tima’s feet when he has work to do.
“I’ll be—”
I’m about to say I’ll be in the library when the door crashes open with a bang, and Igor and one of the guards rush through it.
Tima’s hand tightens around the shaft of the knife. His stance is tense, as if he’s ready to pounce.
My heartbeat spikes. Are we under attack?
“What’s going on?” I ask Igor tensely.
The guard stumbles into the kitchen, clutching a towel that’s wrapped around his hand.
Igor shuts the door. “He’s hurt.”
My professional side kicks in, and I drag a chair out by the table. The man looks as if he might keel over.
“What’s his injury?” I ask as Igor helps him into the chair.
“He got cut,” Igor says. “Knife.”
“Let me see,” I say to the man, unwrapping the towel.
“He doesn’t speak English,” Igor says.
I direct my question at Igor. “Do you have a first-aid kit?”
“I’ll get it,” Tima says, leaving the knife in the block and dashing down the hallway.
The blood has soaked through the towel. The man flinches when I pull the towel from his skin. Blood seeps from a diagonal cut in his palm.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I take his hand to inspect the damage.
“Stepan,” Igor says.
“It doesn’t look as if any arteries are severed, but it needs stitches.” Meeting the man’s eyes, I say, “You’re going to be all right.”
“The sight of blood makes him…” Igor pauses. “How do you say? Woozy.”