“Doesn’t being my father’s delivery boy bother you?”
So much for getting through this without rancor.
“I am nobody’s delivery boy,” Kaz said harshly.
“Never mind. If it makes you feel better to view your job as routine, who am I to stop you?”
“And how, exactly, do you view it, Ms. Rostov?” They fell silent until the waiter had served their soup. Then Kaz leaned forward again. “You make it sound as if this is the fifteenth century and I’m the villain who will hand you off to an evil warlord.”
Katie looked at him. Then she unfolded her napkin and spread it neatly in her lap.
“You have the century wrong.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out, Mr. Savitch. “
“I’m not in the mood for games, Ekaterina. And skip the formality. My name is Kazimir. Kaz.”
“Mine is Katie.”
“It’s what?”
“Katie.” She shrugged. “I have lived a good portion of my life in America.”
Kaz sat back. He felt like a man trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle that had pieces missing. Ekaterina Rostov—Katie, of all things—was proving difficult to understand. Maybe she wasn’t the spoiled Queen of Mean. Was that possible? And was it possible she was less upset at having a bodyguard, a babysitter, hell, a delivery man or whatever you wanted to call what he was supposed to be, than she was by the job he was performing?
“I’m confused,” he said. “You’re heading home for your engagement party.”
“I am heading to Sardovia. For something called a betrothal ceremony. It’s much more formal than an engagement party—and it is legally binding.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. I’m half Sardovian, half American.” He shrugged, offered a quick smile. “There are times I’m not sure which half is which.”
She picked up her spoon, dipped it in the soup and brought it to her mouth.
“Good?” he said.
She nodded. She supposed that it was good, but ever since her father had told her his plans, whatever she ate tasted like sawdust.
“So, let’s start again. I’m taking you to Sardovia. To your betrothal ceremony. To the Sardovian prince. Once the ceremony’s over, you’ll be as good as married to him.”
She looked at him. “There will be no going back.”
“No way to change your mind, you mean. Well, why would you want to?”
The spoon clattered as she dropped it into the bowl.
“This marriage was arranged by my father.”
“But you agreed to it.”
Her eyes flashed. “I did not.”
“Of course you did. This is the twenty-first century.”