Chapter 15 - Clem
Shocked into compliance, all I could do was follow Rurik to his car and get in.
I didn’t remember saying yes. When was there even a question?
The next thing I knew, I was buckled into the passenger seat, watching the city rush past the tinted windows like someone had dragged a wet brush across a watercolor.
My hands stayed folded too tightly in my lap, nails digging into my damp palms. The engine of his Ferrari hummed so quietly it felt as if we were gliding on air, not tires.
Everything about that moment was too smooth, too fast, too unreal.
Half an hour earlier, I’d been sitting in my dead car, staring at a brick wall, calculating how many nights I could stay in that hotel before my money ran out and I had to admit I’d failed spectacularly. It wasn’t like I could use Rurik as a reference, so I was back to square one.
But I didn’t really fail at anything, did I? I was great at my job, so why… how?
My apartment had vanished due to someone else’s bad behavior. My poor car succeeded valiantly in getting me here before wheezing its last breath. I found a company with a product worth millions and helped woo them. But I was still on the brink of losing everything.
And then Rurik appeared at the window like some dark prince from one of the novels I used to devour in high school. Tapping the glass, sliding in beside me, his voice low and certain.
I wasn’t out of a job, but I was married to him. Legally. Officially. Irrevocably. No, certainly not that. He wasn’t some sort of king who could take whatever he wanted. Except, he did, didn’t he?
I kept waiting for the panic to crest, for the scream that should have come the second I saw those bold black letters spelling out our names, side by side in official ink.
Instead, there was only this strange, fluttering hush inside my chest, like a bird trapped in a cage that had suddenly grown too big.
I was not trapped. Not again.
Shock. I was in shock.
After a few minutes of steadily making our way out of downtown and toward the hills, I stole a glance at him.
One hand rested on the wheel, the other on the gearshift, fingers long and steady, his brows furrowed as he randomly checked the rearview mirror.
He looked way too calm. As if secretly marrying his executive assistant and then whisking her off to his mansion was just another Tuesday.
My heart tripped over itself. Again. So many questions flapped around in my head, trying to get out past my lips, which I kept sealed shut, not certain if I was still in a frying pan situation or tipped over into fire territory.
I guess I could understand why he did this. The Koboyashi deal was that important, that huge. If it could improve someone like Rurik’s life, who was already at the top of the heap, it was poised to completely change mine for the better. I couldn’t argue that. But why the secrecy, why the tricks?
And another thought nagged at me and refused to shut up.
Didn’t he give me that giant stack of papers before I sprung the news on him about the Koboyashis only dealing with married business owners?
Before Mr. Bocharov refused to stand in as the face of the deal?
Oh, God, he was Gavril now, wasn’t he? He was now my in-law for the foreseeable future.
Everything was in a jumble, and I could hardly string a coherent thought together, so I gave up and stared out the window.
We turned off the main road onto a private drive lined with tall, evenly spaced palm trees, like the old Hollywood mansions in black-and-white films. The gates slid open without him touching anything at all.
Some invisible sensor recognized the car, or maybe just him, or maybe a discreetly hidden security guard.
The place was grand enough to warrant a security team.
We glided down a white stone path, past more trees and a riot of colorful tropical flowers.
The house, no, this was a mansion, and not a suburban McMansion, a luxurious estate with more windows than I could count at a glance, appeared at the end of the curve.
The sprawling Spanish silhouette rose against the bright afternoon sky—even the air seemed cleaner up here.
Red clay roof tiles and cream stucco walls, with intricately carved double doors.
Most of the windows were open, the sheer curtains fluttering in the softest of breezes onto the many balconies.
It was beautiful in a way that took my breath away. As if stories I’d love to read had already played out there, and new ones were just waiting to happen.
Rurik parked in a pebbled courtyard, cut the engine, and turned to me.
“Welcome home, Clem,” he said.
The words landed like stones in still water, and ripples spread through me.
Home. That was a word I stopped thinking would ever apply to me again when I left Vermont.
I swallowed hard, trying to force down the sudden knot in my throat.
This was temporary, just like the hotel and the crappy apartment before that.
Same as the slightly less crappy apartment I was waiting to get into.
He got out, circled around, and opened my door before I could remember how doors worked. His hand hovered near my elbow, not touching, just there. I stepped out on legs that felt borrowed from someone who’d been sitting in a lotus position for too long.
Inside, the foyer stole the breath I’d been saving to work up to one more protest. Holy cow.
High ceilings rose thirty feet in the air, crowned by a massive chandelier that dripped with crystals. Polished white marble gleamed underfoot. A sweeping double staircase swathed in a green velvet carpet curved upward on either side, inviting and intimidating all at once.
I stood frozen, clutching my purse like a shield. It was a hell of a sight better than the hotel with its untrustworthy vending machine. This place was better suited to a royal wife than to a forced, temporary one.
Rurik watched me, his expression unreadable, but there was a tiny upward tug at the corner of his mouth.
“Too much?” he asked.
I shook my head, then nodded, then shook it again. Words refused to form properly.
He let out a soft chuckle and guided me forward with the lightest pressure on my lower back. The touch burned through my blouse, searing into my skin, like he was branding me to make me his as well as capturing my signature. I should have stepped away. Why wasn’t I?
He showed me three guest suites, each more impossibly perfect than the last.
The first had pale dove-gray walls, enormous windows overlooking a private terrace, and a bed so large it could have swallowed us both whole. No, not going to think about us in bed together. Crisp white linens, a velvet chaise, a bathroom with a tub deep enough to drown my many problems in.
The second was warmer, with caramel wood floors and a gas fireplace with a reading nook tucked into the corner. The lamps on the side tables had glass shades shaped like flowers and bright artwork on the walls.
The third was soft blues and creams, with a canopy bed draped in gauzy fabric that swayed when he opened the door, as though the room itself were breathing.
I stood in the doorway of the third one, fingers trailing the doorframe. What was this little tour all about? Was I really going to be living here? I couldn’t decide if I was waiting to wake up from obviously sleeping in, or wanting to stay in this dream forever.
“Pick whichever you want,” he said behind me. “For now.”
The phrase hooked into me. For now. I turned to look at him full on, for the first time since I crashed into his office, expecting all this to be a joke. But Rurik didn’t joke around.
His eyes were deep moss green as he took in the thoughts I hoped weren’t written all over my face. I couldn’t explain what I was feeling myself at that moment; there was no way I wanted him to misconstrue anything.
“When the Koboyashis arrive, we’ll have to share, so of course you’ll move into the master suite. They’ll expect to see us together.”
Have to. The words echoed in my skull. Was I more infuriated at the command or disappointed that he might view it as a chore. Oh God, I was thinking about it again.
My pulse kicked up again, loud in my ears. Share a room. Share a bed. Share the fiction that this marriage was real in every way that mattered. The off-limits kisses wouldn’t be so off-limits anymore, would they?
Yes, of course they would.
Because this wasn’t real.
I should have been horrified. I should have been outraged at the audacity, the presumption, the sheer arrogance of orchestrating all this without asking.
Instead, disappointment won, sharp and unwelcome. Because part of me, the stupid, reckless part, had imagined… what? That the marriage certificate meant something more? That when he said “our house,” the ‘our’ carried weight?
Idiot.
I forced a smile, thin and professional, and steadied my shaking legs. “The blue one is lovely. Thank you.”
He nodded, but his gaze lingered a second too long. “Good choice.”
We walked back down the hall. He paused outside a set of double doors.
“And this,” he said, pushing them open, “is the moment you’ve been waiting for. At least, I hope so.”
I actually gasped as he nudged me into the room ahead of him.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves in rich, dark walnut.
Thousands of books, leather spines with gold foil lettering perfectly aligned, stacks of paperbacks on a long table in the middle of the room.
Huge, heavy, coffee table books full of rich photography, maps, art, and history resting on a rich Persian rug next to a baroque couch.
Rolling ladders. Leather armchairs arranged around a massive stone fireplace.
The air smelled of old paper, polished wood, and something faintly spicy.
I recognized it instantly. His cologne, lingering from earlier.