Chapter Nine
Mirabel
The mansion swallows me whole the moment I cross the threshold.
Marble floors stretch beneath my feet like frozen rivers. Light fractures through a crystal chandelier, scattering diamonds of brightness across walls that could tell a hundred stories if they could speak. The air smells of money—that impossible-to-replicate scent of old wealth, polish, and power.
“This way,” Anfisa says, her accent wrapping around each word, distinctly Russian and utterly intimidating. “The boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
I follow her through corridors that seem to fold back on themselves, a labyrinth of luxury I’ll never navigate without a map.
What the hell am I doing?
Leaving everything behind. Stepping into a world I know nothing about. All for a father who has no one else.
Anfisa pauses before an imposing oak door. Her bony fingers wrap around the handle, but before she turns it, she fixes me with a stare that pins me in place.
“The boss values honesty,” she says, each word deliberate. “Remember this.”
The boss.
She says it like the man is some kind of god.
Probably an asshole.
The door swings open, and my stomach drops through the floor. Because the man casually lounging behind the desk is…
Holy fucking shitballs!
It’s him.
The man who walked out on his own wedding. The man whose face has haunted my dreams for days, though I’d rather die than admit it. Arkady Laurov rises from behind a desk that could double as a small yacht, and the air in the room changes—becomes charged, dangerous.
I know that face. Those ice-blue eyes that cut through pretense. That strong jaw shadowed with just the right amount of stubble. Those tattoos climbing up his throat like black wings, disappearing beneath his crisp white collar, only to reappear at the edges of his jaw.
Recognition flares in his eyes the moment they lock with mine.
“Miss McLeod,” he says, my name rolling off his tongue like he’s tasted it before. “Please, sit.”
Anfisa slips away, closing the door behind her. The sound of it closing might as well be a prison gate slamming shut.
I force my legs to move, settling into a chair upholstered in butter-soft leather. My skirt rides up slightly. I tug it down, hyperaware of his gaze tracking the movement.
“Is that how you dress for an interview?” he says.
“I- I’m sorry, what?” I blink in surprise.
Did he really just say that?
Did I just apologize?
He rises and circles his desk until he’s leaning against it, too close to me. “Your skirt. It’s too short for a professional interview. And that shirt is too tight.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “And your manners are too poor for a professional employer.” The words escape before I can trap them behind my teeth.
Stupid!
Stupid, stupid!
I need this job.
But instead of anger, something like amusement flickers across his face. “Touché.” He pushes off the desk and moves to a cabinet, extracting a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid. “Drink?”
“No, thank you,” I say, watching his hands—strong, capable, adorned with a single signet ring. The kind of hands that take what they want. And God help me, just the thought of that has something tingling in my panty-zone. “I don’t drink when I’m working.”
“First smart thing you’ve said today.” He pours himself two fingers of what I’m guessing is very expensive whiskey, but doesn’t drink it.
Just holds it, studying me over the rim.
I try not to press my thighs together because that tingle is flaring into sparks.
“So. The registrar from my wedding wants to be my housekeeper. Interesting coincidence.”
My pulse jumps.
Fuck. Of course he recognized me. Why wouldn’t he recognize me?
“Is it a problem that we’ve met before?” I keep my gaze steady, even though I can feel my pulse picking up.
“That depends.” He sets the untouched drink aside. “On why you’re really here.”
His intensity makes the room feel ten degrees warmer. I cross, then uncross my legs, fighting the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. It would be so much easier if I weren’t aware that my pussy was getting slick.
What the hell is wrong with you, Mirabel?
“I need a job that pays better than the registrar’s office,” I say, going for honesty. Something tells me he’d smell a lie before it fully formed on my tongue. “The salary you’re offering is… life-changing.”
“Life-changing,” he repeats, testing the word. “In what sense?”
I swallow hard. “I have… expenses,” I tell him.
“Expenses?” He cocks his head, an eyebrow raised. “I’m guessing a designer wardrobe wouldn’t be among them.”
I make a choking sound; I can’t help myself.
Seriously?
What an absolute dick!
“Well?” he presses, clearly waiting for an answer. Because he’s definitely a dick.
My back stiffens. “If you must know, my father has stage three cancer. Treatments are expensive. I need more money than I’m making now.”
His eyes narrow a fraction, but there’s no other sign that my response might have affected him in any way.
“And you’ll do anything to get it?” he says. “Even work for the man you saw humiliate his fiancée in public?”
“I’ll do anything legal,” I clarify, meeting his gaze steadily. “And what happened at that wedding is your business, not mine.”
A smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “Very diplomatic.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets,” I say. “And minding my own business.”
He studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, abruptly, he straightens and returns to his side of the desk.
“Why should I hire you?” he asks, tone shifting to something more businesslike. “You have no experience as a housekeeper.”
“I’m organized, detail-oriented, and I learn quickly.” I sit up straighter, grateful for the shift. “And I’m discreet.”
“Discreet enough not to ask questions about the security? The guards? The isolation?” His eyebrow arches. “Most people would be concerned.”
“I’m concerned with paying my father’s medical bills,” I say bluntly. “Everything else is secondary.”
“Even your safety?”
The question hits harder than it should. “Are you suggesting I wouldn’t be safe here?”
“I’m suggesting,” he says carefully, “that Ashwater Heights isn’t like other places. The rules are different. The stakes are higher.”
“What stakes?”
“You’d know if I told you.” He opens a drawer and extracts a file—my application, I realize. “You have no family besides your father.”
Again, not a question.
“My mother died when I was young,” I say, discomfort crawling up my spine. How much does he know about me? “And my twin sister disappeared six years ago.”
His eyes snap to mine, suddenly razor-sharp. “Disappeared how?”
Something about his intensity makes me hesitate. “She vanished during a school trip. We never found a body. She was just… gone.”
“Six years ago,” he says, more to himself than to me.
“Does that matter?”
He ignores my question. “No other family? No one who would miss you if you moved here?”
“Just my father.” I shift in my seat. I don’t mention Diane, who’s as close as a sister; he doesn’t need to know every damned thing about me.
“Good,” he says. Before I can ask what’s good about my isolation, he reaches into another drawer and pulls out a stack of cash so thick my breath catches.
“Ten thousand,” he says, setting it on the desk between us. “For your father’s treatment.”
I stare at the money, then at him, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”
“You’ll get another ten next week. It’s a loan. I’ll deduct payments from your salary.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he hasn’t just laid a mind-boggling sum in front of me. “You start Monday. Eight sharp.”
My head spins. This can’t be happening. Men like Arkady Laurov don’t just hand over twenty thousand dollars to women they barely know.
“Why would you do this?” The question tumbles out, breathless with disbelief.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see something raw beneath the ice. Then it’s gone, locked away behind walls I doubt anyone has ever breached.
“Because I can,” he says simply. “And because it solves a problem.”
“What problem?”
“The problem of your distraction.” He gestures to the money. “Now you can focus entirely on your duties here.”
I stare at him. It seems too good to be true. But with ten thousand dollars sitting in front of me—the exact amount needed for Dad’s next round of treatment—I can’t bring myself to push.
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.
“Say you’ll be here Sunday evening to begin training with Anfisa the next morning.” He slides a contract toward me. “And sign this.”
My hand shakes as I take the pen he offers. Our fingers brush, and heat shoots up my arm, pooling low in my belly. His eyes darken, and I know he felt it too—this inexplicable pull between us, dangerous and electric.
I should walk away. No… I should run from this man and his too-generous offer and the way he looks at me like I’m something he wants to take a bite out of.
Instead, I sign my name.
When I finish, he takes the contract and pushes the money toward me. “Welcome to Ashwater Heights, Mirabel McLeod.”
The way he says my name—like he’s committing it to memory, like it’s something he plans to say often—sends another wave of heat through my body. Dear Lord, I need a change of underwear. Because I’m sick. Clearly sick.
I gather the cash with numb fingers, still half-convinced it will vanish like a mirage.
“Thank you,” I say, the words totally inadequate.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies, and his smile holds no warmth at all. “You have no idea what you’ve signed up for, Mirabel McLeod.”
As I follow Anfisa out, his words echo in my mind, a warning I’m too desperate to heed.
Because I’ve just made a deal with a man who could destroy me without trying.
And some terrifying part of me wonders if I might let him.