4. Sierra
SIERRA
I cannot be considering this. My brain is screaming no, but my mouth has a mind of its own. “I assume there’s money involved?”
Nik’s mouth quirks up at the corner. Not a smile. Not even close to one. A mirthless twist to his sensual lips, nothing more. “Yeah.”
“A lot of money?” I let my gaze skim down his arm to the watch on his wrist, noticing the quality fabric and the custom tailoring now that my amygdala isn’t screaming at me to run for safety. Short of throwing myself from a moving vehicle into the empty desert, there’s nowhere for me to flee.
“Depends on your definition of ‘a lot.’”
“I want a million dollars to marry you. Cash.” It’s a crazy amount of money to ask for. What am I even going to do with it all? Can’t spend it, can’t deposit it, really don’t want to pay taxes on it. This is only a fantasy, though. A daydream to pass the time while I figure out how to escape.
“I’ll pay you ten million, but you have to stay married to me long enough to claim the prize,” he says. There’s a trace of amusement in his tone. Almost teasing.
“Deal.”
“Great. Let’s get to Vegas and get hitched.” Nik floors it. Highway signs flash by. Exhausted from the ordeal of being kidnapped, I lean my head against the window and drift off.
“Sierra.”
I jerk awake, disoriented.
“We’re here,” says a man’s voice, and for one bleary second I think, Dad? But that isn’t possible. He died when I was in high school.
“Where?” I ask, taking in the low-slung buildings around us and the mountains in the distance. Not much in the way of greenery. This isn’t Los Angeles.
“Vegas,” he says. It all comes rushing back. Trying on Alisa Morozov’s clothes. Being kidnapped. Agreeing to marry a stranger for ten million dollars. I sit up so fast we bonk heads.
“Ow.” I rub my temple.
“The chapel is right there. Bring your ID.”
“Wait. I can’t get married in this.” I gesture to the red silk gown that doesn’t zip all the way up. “I’m a mess. I have potato chip breath.”
His stern, sensual mouth pulls up at the corners. “There will be plenty of time for that later. I need this done.”
“Because the timestamp on the wedding certificate matters that much.” My disbelief must be evident. A muscle feathers in Nik’s jaw.
“Fine. I’ll take you to my place where you can clean up, but we’re coming right back.”
“I need a proper dress. We need rings.”
“All of that is superfluous. Do you want that ten million dollars or not?” He strides around the car and angrily slams into the driver’s seat. The white sedan with the cleaning service markings on the side peels out into traffic. Tension radiates between us.
“How do I know you even have that much money to pay me?” Now I think of this.
“I’ll show you.” He stares straight ahead. We ride in stiff silence for twenty minutes or so, until we pause for him to punch a code into a gate keypad. “This is my family’s compound. I have a private residence onsite.”
“No girlfriend?” I quip. Seems suspicious that a guy who looks like this, with money to burn, would need to kidnap a woman to find a wife.
“I don’t do relationships,” he says flatly.
“Why not? A guy who looks like you…” I trail off. Embarrassment heats my cheeks.
“Too complicated. Besides, my family normally does arranged marriages. It’s a Russian thing.”
That seems…not quite accurate? I guess arranged matches take place in many cultures. I’ve never heard of that being a feature of modern Russian culture, though I can’t claim I know much about it. With Nik acting so stiff and angry, I’m not going to press the point.
“What about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“Do you have a boyfriend, Sierra?” He cuts the engine.
Instead of answering, I get out. These stupid shoes are killing my feet.
The desert gets cold at night. I run my hands up and down my arms, shivering.
A shimmering pool is visible just beyond another gate.
Nick gestures to the stucco house straight ahead.
“I’m in between relationships,” I finally say. “Besides, if I did, I wouldn’t be agreeing to marry you. Not for any amount of money.”
“Are guys in Los Angeles blind or something?” He punches another code into the keypad on the door.
I don’t answer him. I can’t think of a response, and I don’t think he was looking for one anyway.
“There are cameras everywhere. Armed guards monitor the compound. If you attempt to run, you won’t get beyond the perimeter. ”
“I won’t.” I gaze around the house. I’ve cleaned a lot of homes in my twenty-two years.
I can size up a job with good accuracy. How long it will take.
How much the family can afford to pay, based on the quality of their furniture and decor.
This is a home on the upper end of the scale.
On par with Alisa Morozova’s house, if a different architectural style. It looks custom-built.
“I’ll ask my sister to bring over something for you to wear,” Nik says, striding away.
“Is she my size?”
“No. She’s taller than you are. But it’s that or borrowing from my mother, and that means a whole lot of questions that I don’t want to answer.” He motions me into a bedroom and points to the ensuite bath. “Get cleaned up. You’ll find an extra toothbrush in the vanity.”
“If she has any flats I can wear, I’d appreciate it. My feet are killing me.”
“I’ll see what we can do.”
Nik closes the door, leaving me in peace.
I fight my way out of the ruined red dress, kick off the fancy heels with a sigh of relief when the soles of my feet flatten on the floor, and step into the walk-in shower.
There are so many knobs it looks like a spaceship.
I turn one likely-looking sleek handle and get hit in the face with a spray.
Sputtering, I manage to find the right one and relax into the warm water, which stings my carpet-burned cheek.
I let my forehead rest against the cool glass.
What in the hell am I doing?
Nikolai
I’m aimlessly pacing around my bedroom waiting for my guest—my bride—to finish cleaning up.
I change into a proper suit while keeping one eye on the bathroom door.
I have better manners than to get married in the clothes I kidnapped a woman in, dark denim, a black T-shirt, and a blazer.
Mamushka would murder me if I didn’t. Literally.
When the doorbell rings I’m of half a mind to ignore it lest Sierra try to escape.
The promise of ten million seems to have convinced her to go through with this, however.
I stride to the front door and yank it open.
My brother, Rion, stands on the stoop holding a paper bag.
He cranes his neck, trying to peer past me.
“So you got a bride. I’ll be damned,” he says in Russian.
“Don’t be nosy.”
“I can’t help it. How did you, a guy who prides himself on never sleeping with a girl twice, find a chick stupid enough to let you put a ring on it?”
“Bribery.”
“Figures.” He chuckles and passes me the bag. “Lilia says this is the best wedding dress she can come up with on short notice.”
“Where is she?”
“Primping. She says she’s coming along to be a bridesmaid.” Rion smirks. I groan.
“The hell she is.”
“Figured I’d come, too. Be your groomsman.” My brother bumps my shoulder.
“Why aren’t you out looking for a wife?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Maybe I already have one,” he says with a lopsided grin. I slam the door in his face. I hear him laughing as he walks away. Asshole.