Chapter 8
Paige
Vanya drives me out of town and up to the larger city to the north, where we pull up outside of Coquette, a high-class, reservation-only, French-inspired restaurant.
You don’t order off the menu at this kind of place. You eat what the chef serves, one course at a time, on a schedule set by the restaurant. I’ve never tried to get a table. Even if I managed to snag a coveted spot, I could never justify spending so much money on myself just for artful cuisine.
At the door, a thirtysomething hostess with a high auburn ponytail and a tasteful black dress greets us. Despite dinner starting over twenty minutes ago, the woman smiles and waves us inside after she and Vanya exchange a few quiet words.
With Vanya clutching my elbow, I trail behind the host, glancing around at the shocking opulence.
Shadows hide the walls, and hanging swaths of pearlescent fabric cover the ceiling.
Shimmering and swaying, the cloth imitates a night sky lit with stars and miniature galaxies.
The tables form a wide circle, leaving about five feet in between them.
The host motions for us to sit in the last unoccupied spot.
Vanya releases my elbow, and with my limbs numb and my mouth pinned shut, I slide into the high-backed, padded booth angled toward the center of the room. We’re in one of the most secluded spots in the restaurant, but with the best seat in the house.
Above a candle placed in a shallow tray of water, fabric-draped drop lights hang from the unseen ceiling. Barely a hum of noise comes from other patrons due to the subtle sound-dampening of the plush benches.
If I hadn’t walked by a full dining room to get here, I might believe we had the place to ourselves.
And like the planets with the sun, everything orbits the center.
Under the heavy rings of lighting, the chef works his craft with a crisp, white coat and matching fluffy hat. He’s a culinary conductor directing all the other cooks.
Every eye remains on him.
No one even spares us a glance.
The booth’s soft fabric causes me to momentarily forget how tense I am. I shift, my fingers twitching, my legs tapping, until Vanya places a hand on my arm.
He leans in so close, the heat from his breath tickles my ear. “Relax. You look like you’re about to bolt.”
No kidding.
He invaded my workplace, confused the hell out of me when he kissed me, broke into my home, and showed me the evidence that would end my career if exposed.
The folder remains at home, a neat stack of blackmail just waiting for him to bring into the light. Vanya sits with his hand on my arm beneath the table, holding me hostage with a smile.
So, yeah, I’m a little uptight.
As part of the room’s choreography, a waiter with sunny blond hair materializes from the shadows separating the tables. The servers move in counterpoint, rotating around the central kitchen where the chef and his staff create the next course.
The server smiles, displaying dimples in his tanned cheeks. “Professor Orlov, wonderful to see you again.”
Again?
He’s been here often enough that the staff remember and greet him? I know he’s not a local. How long has he been in the area?
Or maybe I should simply ask how fast he works.
“Julian.” Vanya’s unrecognizably pleasant, nothing like the man who picked my lock and made himself at home in my living room. The asshole who stole my Lamy Safari fountain pen and left a dead sparrow on my doorstep. “Always a pleasure. How’s the family?”
“Growing.” Julian sprouts a grin he can’t hide behind his professional guise. “Baby number three is a girl. We found out yesterday.”
Vanya offers an easy smile as he claps the shoulder of a man he’s likely only known for a matter of days but already treats like a childhood friend.
“Congratulations. We’ll toast to that. Bring us the Maison Roche de Bellene Chambolle-Musigny.
And,” his gaze finds me, “start with the Sancerre for the lady.”
Julian slips away after giving me the briefest nod and smile.
I barely notice, too busy trying not to panic as Vanya’s words sink in.
He ordered my favorite wine.
The one I get for myself every year as a birthday treat. My little ration of joy. I’ve never told anyone that. No one ever cared enough to ask, and I never celebrate birthdays with others. I haven’t bought a bottle since last December, nearly a year ago.
Fear slithers through my stomach and settles at the pit.
“How did you—”
“I know all sorts of things about you, Paige. Daughter of Paul and Donna Kisner. Your mother passed away, and your father is estranged. Alumni of Quenton High School. Southeastern University. One year of grad school before you dropped out.” The timbre of his voice drops, scoring its way down my spine like a brand.
“That wine. Your shoes. The grad school paper on medieval illumination techniques that got you so much attention. After reading it, I can see why they never checked your credentials. Too impressed. Add that to your ability, and why would anyone accuse you of being a fraud?”
He dug deeper into my life than I believed possible and unburied my secrets.
“How long have you been investigating me?” I can sort of understand him uncovering the academic details, but what the hell does he mean about my shoes?
And why has he been excavating my life?
Just how far does this book thing go?
“Long enough.” He presses his shoulder against mine, anchoring me. “But tonight isn’t about your past. Tonight, we enjoy ourselves.”
Julian swans his way back to our table and sets two glasses down.
The vibrant color of Vanya’s wine matches ink or old blood. The Sancerre in front of me shimmers a pale white.
Vanya lifts the glass to eye-level and tilts it while peering inside. Next, he swirls the wine and sniffs. Seemingly satisfied so far, he tips the glass to his lips, sips, pauses, and then nods with approval.
Julian beams. “Chef has a very special tasting menu tonight. Several courses. Scallops, wagyu beef, Cornish hen, and swordfish. Are there any allergies?”
Wagyu beef? I rarely eat red meat, but I’m not going to decline this experience.
Not that I have much choice.
Perhaps today doesn’t have to be all bad. I may be screwed, but at least I’ll get a fancy steak.
Vanya shakes his head. “The lady and I have no allergies.”
My blood runs cold. He’s right. He wouldn’t risk my health, not when he still needs me to do a job for him. But how can he know so much about me?
“Very good.” Julian hands over a small card. “Here are the drink pairings.”
With his focus on the list, Vanya doesn’t seem to notice the way the air puffs out of my nose as I try to keep my rising panic at bay.
This man perceives things that no one else does.
How and why he’s even managed to find out about these strange little factoids baffles me.
I’m just an archivist and acquisitions curator. Why torment me like this?
I don’t touch my favorite wine, my thoughts too consumed by that folder.
That was just the blackmail list. What else did he dig up? Does he have another file? Does he know about that summer on the island?
My throat goes dry as I ponder him reading my darkest secrets. No. My name was never in any articles about that night. I’ve checked. Vanya couldn’t possibly have found that information, and if he did, why invite me out to such an expensive dinner?
A woman like me, who did what I did, doesn’t deserve such a good life. I hardly deserve the bare minimum.
“Drink.” Vanya tips his lifted glass toward me. “It’s your favorite, isn’t it?”
I pick up the beverage with a shaking hand and nearly slam the contents down in one gulp. The soft burn tickles my throat.
He keeps his eyes trained on the chef. “Tell me about the book.”
I lick my lips, tasting the remnants of pear and citrus.
“If there’s no title, it’s basically hopeless.
Sometimes, stuff isn’t even entered into the main system.
We get backlogged, and things pile up. If you only have one quote, it could be difficult to determine which book you mean, even if I do have it in the library. ”
He doesn’t even flinch at the block I hurl in his path. Not so much as a flicker of disappointment passes his handsome face. Instead, that lazy smile ghosts his lips, softening him and making him look younger.
Except for his hungry, deadly eyes, which are currently fixed on me. “Agreed. Most people couldn’t fulfill such an impossible ask. But you can, right? With your excellent memory.”
Shit. He’s aware of that too. And knows exactly how to turn every conversation into a chess game…one that I’m already losing.
“You might not know the book, Paige, but you can find it for me.”
He’s both right and wrong.
I do know the book.
My memory is like a videotape, complete with timestamps and references. Paper, leather, the glitter of gold leaf, the echoes of illustrations pressed into pulp… My mind contains every volume I’ve ever touched, every page I’ve ever seen.
The book he seeks, which features the Snow Maiden, is impossible to forget.
It’s a Russian collection of fairy tales someone recently donated that’s still waiting for cataloguing, the blue leather faded to dusk, the gilded edges dulled by too many hands. I still need an expert to look at some markings on the spine.
I might’ve screwed up an evaluation early in my career, but I learn from my mistakes.
The book with Vanya’s quote sits among thousands of others at the library.
But surely he’s not yet aware of that.
“It’s going to take time. If I can even find it.” I rush to continue before Vanya can up the pressure by reminding me who holds all the levers. “What do you need to know? How the story ends? I can make a copy when I find it.”
Vanya sips his wine. “Not the story. I need the book itself. Don’t ask why. It’ll only get you in more trouble.”
Exhaling, I ask the question that’s been bothering me this whole time. “Are you going to damage the book?” How can I trust a man who refuses to use the available gloves on the reading tables?