The Bratva's Accidental Bride

Chapter 1

NORA

Twenty-seven minutes into my decision to stop waiting for life, the man I'm supposed to meet still hasn't arrived. The stranger at the next table has noticed every minute I've spent alone.

The restaurant occupies an old customs hall at the lake's edge.

Cream limestone climbs toward a dark-wood ceiling, and bronze pendants pour amber light over the fortunate diners.

Beyond tall windows, snow drives across black water, sealing the room inside candlelit warmth.

I admired the effect when the hostess took my wool coat and walked me inside.

Now every crystal stem on this table seems arranged to draw the eye toward the chair nobody is sitting in.

White jackets move soundlessly between the tables, carrying plates composed with the solemnity of state documents. Each one gives me another excuse to look toward the entrance without appearing to look. By now every waiter has noticed that my date still hasn't arrived.

Everything here insists that pleasure should arrive quietly, on very small spoons.

My wine has gone from untouched to accusatory. I turn the stem between my fingers, leaving a wet ring on the linen. A waiter materializes, slides a fresh folded square under the glass and carries the damp one away with him.

"Thank you." He inclines his head with the restrained sympathy reserved for women who dressed carefully for men who don't come.

My attention drifts to my phone when it lights beside the bread plate.

Did he bring flowers?

Grandma's confidence is so complete that I nearly laugh out loud. I answer under the table.

He hasn't brought himself.

Three dots appear at once.

Then order dessert.

I laugh quietly into my hand. And when I look up, the man at the next table is watching me.

Once he has my attention, the service around him stops looking accidental.

A server tops up his water before the level drops.

The ma?tre d' has come by twice without being called.

Near the entrance, a broad man in a dark suit stands with his hands folded, watching the room instead of waiting to be seated.

The stranger accepts all of it without a glance.

There's an empty chair across from him, too.

It doesn't appear to have occurred to him to be humiliated by it.

He's already caught me staring, so I stop pretending and look properly.

He is in his late forties, with dark hair swept from a high forehead, silver at both temples.

Lean cheeks sharpen a stern mouth, while pale gray eyes take the candlelight without warming to it.

The black suit sits on his shoulders without pulling when he lifts his glass, revealing a dark-faced watch that offers no helpful logo.

There are fine lines beside his eyes. They tell me his age and improve him in the same breath.

I smooth my palm down the skirt of my green dress and hate that he catches me doing it.

The green knit is softer than anything I own for work, its neckline brave under department-store lights and more intimate here.

My brown hair is pinned up loosely, with one curl already worked free against my neck.

I painted my mouth red in Grandma's bathroom this evening while she offered advice from the doorway.

Let him see you.

After Grandfather died, looking after her became the quiet frame around everything else.

The furnace made a new noise, I drove over.

She couldn't bear the sight of the second place setting, so I stayed for television dinners.

When she asked whether I had plans, I learned to answer fast. Any hesitation let hope catch her, followed by guilt for wanting my evening.

I don't ask people to reorganize their lives for me. It's a habit that keeps everyone comfortable. It also leaves me alone at a table for two with a sweating glass of wine.

The profile seemed reasonable, one photograph accompanied by messages in complete sentences. He mentioned steady work without turning the conversation into a résumé, and when he suggested dinner, I gave him my number.

My last message is still stubbornly unread.

None of this was supposed to become destiny over appetizers. I wanted a pleasant meal and maybe a reason to wear the green dress again. Mostly I wanted to put one promise to myself ahead of the useful errands I can always find instead.

At the clinic this afternoon I spent forty minutes persuading a nervous teenager that the sound of the scraper was worse than the scraper.

My next patient was a grown man who needed to hear that bleeding gums are information, not persecution.

Patience is the job, making it particularly annoying to wilt over a man who couldn't manage a reservation.

When I look across the narrow gap between tables again, he's still watching.

I lift one eyebrow.

The corner of his mouth moves toward a smile and stops there. Then he rises, taller than the neighboring table led me to expect, forcing me to tip my chin higher than I anticipated.

Upright, he's broad through the chest, and some gifted tailor has shaped all of it into elegance. Across the room the ma?tre d' stops mid-sentence. By the entrance, the broad man shifts his stance. Those small changes tell me the other men in this room already know to pay attention to him.

He crosses the narrow aisle without looking left or right. I turn my phone facedown before he arrives.

"Your date is late." His voice is low, with an Eastern European accent beneath it. That's as close as I can place it. His words are fluent and unhurried. The sound of him belongs in this room far more convincingly than I do.

"His obituary had better be convincing."

The almost-smile comes back. I take it as a small victory.

"May I?" He nods at the empty chair. I make him wait, studying him until he returns the favor with equal care. Then I gesture at the seat.

"You have until my missing date bursts through the door carrying medical documentation."

"Ten minutes will do." He sits. The distance shrinks until I can see the dark ring around the gray of his eyes. When he leans in, faint cedar rises off his collar, far too intimate for a stranger. I catch myself wondering what it smells like closer to his skin.

"Konstantin," he says.

"Nora."

"What do you do, Nora?"

"I put sharp instruments into the mouths of people who ignore firm instructions."

His gaze drops to my lips and comes back up. I don't let myself check my lipstick.

"Medicine?"

"Dental hygiene. Less blood, unless someone lies about flossing."

"A useful profession."

I tilt my head. "Very useful when strangers approach me with mysterious ten-minute requirements."

The smile arrives in full this time, satisfying me out of all proportion to the accomplishment. It cuts the lines beside his eyes deeper while taking years off everything else. The stern older stranger from the next table becomes a man I could make a very poor decision about.

"My family arranged a meeting tonight," he says. "They hope I'll marry a woman I have no wish to marry."

I glance toward his abandoned table. "That chair has a lot of bad luck."

"The woman doesn't want me either."

I touch a hand to my chest. "Humbling."

"Devastating." He delivers it so dryly that another laugh escapes me. He watches it happen. The warmth drops somewhere lower, becoming a pulse.

"Her father is bringing her here," he continues. "She needs a reason to withdraw without being shamed for it. If they believe I'm already attached, she can refuse me with her dignity intact."

I consider his explanation and look for the catch. It sounds possible in the way of rich families, who have the resources to make misery ceremonial. "You want me to pretend I'm your girlfriend."

"For ten minutes."

I glance toward the waiting private room. "Does she know you're doing this?"

"She asked for a way out. She'll understand when she sees us."

"Her father won't accept that she simply doesn't want you?"

"He accepts facts. Preferences offend him."

My sympathy for a woman I've never met sharpens into anger. I've spent too many hours with people who hear a woman refuse and assume the negotiation has just opened.

"Why me?" I ask.

"You caught me looking," he says. "Then you raised your eyebrow as if I had disappointed you."

I lean back in my chair. "Perhaps you did."

"Then help me improve."

Beneath the formality, an ease keeps surfacing that I like.

He holds my gaze without trying to stare me down, letting his attention linger on my red mouth before traveling over the careful dress and returning to my eyes.

For one reckless second, I believe he sees the woman who came here hoping to be wanted.

My phone lies dark beside the bread plate. "What exactly would I have to do?"

"Sit with me. Let me touch your hand or your back. If they doubt us, I'll kiss you."

My breath catches before I can hide it, drawing my thighs closer under the table. Around us, silver touches china beneath low conversation while snow brushes the windows in long windblown white strokes.

"Confident."

"Do you object?"

"One kiss," I say. "Keep your hands where the ma?tre d' can admire his own discretion."

Konstantin glances toward the ma?tre d'. The man adjusts one white rose, then turns his back to us. "He is exceptionally discreet."

"Ten minutes," I remind him. "If I tap your wrist twice, the performance ends."

He inclines his head. "Ten. Understood."

He rises and offers his hand.

Years of sensible choices have kept the reckless part of me on very short rations. Tonight's red lipstick was supposed to be a meal. Being stood up left the hunger where it was.

I take his hand because I want to know what ten minutes of him can do.

His fingers close around mine without pulling. I stand. He walks me the few steps to his table, where the staff have added a place beside his. Nearby conversations soften, and two diners turn in their chairs to watch me join him as though I had been expected all evening.