Chapter 4
Ioffer her my hand and as if she’s operating on autopilot, she grasps it with a firmness that surprises me. For all her brave words, I can tell she’s terrified and overwhelmed by the situation, which makes my job easier.
I am trying to focus on the job at hand rather than how attractive my victim is because it hasn’t escaped my attention that Pollyanna Scott-Stanley is an English rose of the most desirable kind.
Her hair is scraped back into a tight bun that rests just above the nape of her neck. It gleams like burnished copper and frames her porcelain skin that is as flawless as her outfit. She is wearing minimal make-up, and her huge green eyes are filled with curious awe as she gazes at a place she obviously wasn’t expecting. Her ruby red lips are slightly parted as she glances around her, and her soft hand feels fragile in my own rough grasp.
She is wearing a fawn colored full-length coat and black boots that are doing an excellent job of disguising what’s underneath and, for some inexplicable reason, I’m a little protective over the woman I came here to intimidate and bully into agreement.
We begin a tour of a house that is both grand and yet lived in and I may be ambivalent about my surroundings but not to my companion. I view the house through her eyes as we enter rooms that wouldn’t look out of place in a fashion spread. It’s obviously the work of a professional and I stir the deep resentment inside me for the man who probably paid for it all.
I am struggling with the prospect that he cheated on my mom and with every step we take, the anger deepens as I recognize little touches of home that only he could have provided.
We linger in a small sitting room where two formal couches are set on either side of another ornate fireplace, the patterned rug under our feet slightly stained from the ash of the now cold fire.
Pollyanna stares around with mounting excitement and I can tell she is falling in love with a house that is now solely hers.
“I can’t believe it.” She repeats, over and over again as we take it all in and, as she gazes in wonder, my attention is riveted on several silver photograph frames nestling on an antique polished table beneath the sash window.
I head over and lift one into my hand and the rage deepens when I see my father grinning out at me, appearing a lot more relaxed than he ever did at home.
It was obviously taken here, in the garden we saw at the front of the house because nestled behind him is the front door we passed through. He is staring into the camera lens with a look of pure love, and it can only be directed at one person. Pollyanna’s aunt.
So many venomous thoughts are exploding in my head right now, and I set the frame back carefully on the table and reach for my phone. As I take a picture, I forward it to my brother Titus, and I have no doubt at all he will be as enraged as I’m feeling now.
“Is that your father?” A soft voice behind me wafts across my soul like the lightest feather and I say simply, “Yes.”
“Was he my aunt’s boyfriend?”
It’s a simple enough question and I hate the answer may be yes and merely snap, “It’s looking that way.”
She hovers beside me and then says softly, “He looks nice.”
It makes me laugh out loud.
“Nice?”
I turn and stare into the greenest eyes I have ever seen and snap, “He was never nice. He was a Romanov and nice isn’t an attribute we associate with anyone bearing that name.”
“Why not?”
Her eyes widen and I laugh bitterly. “Because nice gets you killed or loses money.”
“Money?”
It amuses me that out of the two options she settled on the money one and I regard her differently as she whispers, “I’ve never had money; not enough to stop worrying about it, anyway, but I try to be nice because I happen to believe that’s more valuable.”
She smiles nervously and then turns away, leaving her words wafting around my soul like poison. It was a simple enough statement and not one I want to dwell on too long, so I say abruptly, “Come. We’re wasting time.”
We advance through the house, and I don’t allow her to linger over the details because there is only one room that interests me. We soon locate what must have been her aunt’s office, although it only contains one antique desk set against a wall with a huge tapestry above it.
I sweep the room with an interested gaze as I search for information and Polly wanders over to the window and settles on a cushioned seat on the window ledge.
“I can’t believe this is all mine.”
I ignore her ramblings and focus my attention on the desk, sweeping open the drawer and pulling out several manila envelopes that rest inside.
“Um, excuse me, but what are you doing?”
Her sudden comment momentarily distracts me, and I respond gruffly, “Searching for something that will expedite my exit from your life. Do you have a problem with that?”
“You could have asked.”
She sounds offended, but that doesn’t concern me, and I ignore her as I take a seat on the padded chair and set about opening the envelopes.
Her soft sigh doesn’t distract me in the slightest as I scan the documents that are obviously of no use to me. It appears that Veronica was involved in many charities, and these are merely correspondence regarding those and as Artem heads into the room, I say gruffly, “Any luck?”
He hesitates from answering, which causes my eyes to raise, and he nods toward Polly.
He inclines his head to the hallway outside and I waste no time in joining him, leaving her gazing out of the window at the glorious gardens that appear to stretch to the hills.
“What is it?” I ask in a low murmur and he answers, “Either Veronica was extremely untidy, or somebody got here before us.”
“Tell me.”
“The coach house down by the lake. Viktor and Krem went to search it, and it appears to have been used as an office.”
“Appears?”
“It’s been trashed. The drawers upended, filing cabinets open, and the contents spilled onto the floor. The pictures on the wall have been torn down, and the floor ripped up. Nothing has been left untouched, and it’s obvious the person responsible was searching for something of great importance to them because if it were burglars, why leave the house untouched?”
“Show me.”
I waste no time and follow him outside and make the short journey to the coach house and as I step inside, I stare in anger at the evidence littered before my angry eyes.
Fuck!
Artem waits silently beside me, and I growl, “Clean this shit up and get the guys working on sorting the trash from the ones of interest. This could take weeks to filter through, but there may be something we can use.”
Artem nods and I add, “Was there a safe?”
“No.” He shrugs.
“Not in here, anyway. We have yet to finish the search of the house.”
“Keep me informed.”
As I regard the devastation before me, my heart sinks. It’s obvious that what I hoped would be a quick visit to this woman’s home is turning out to be a mammoth task and I am resigned to a longer stay than I first anticipated.
Fuck! Why did I even volunteer for this shit?