Chapter 18
KARINA
I know I have to tell him sooner or later.
I glare at the positive result on my pregnancy test with undisguised hatred.
It’s possible, I discover, to be ecstatic about the pregnancy and still furious about the timing with the unwanted swiftness with which it happened.
Admittedly, like most things in life, it’s a numbers game; statistically, two healthy adults were bound to succeed after so many attempts.
For a few minutes I try to tally them up and realize I’ve lost count.
I smile at the thought. However many women Dmitry Petrov has had, and there have been scores, surely, I’m the only one he’s been with this often in such a short time.
The only one he’s married. It’s foolish to crave any claim on him, but I want him with me.
I’d command him to come to me every night and most afternoons if I could.
It isn’t only the sex, although it’s fabulous.
I respect him, like him, even when he’s not being a complete ass.
And probably something far deeper than that.
Why else would I play games or hide things from him?
I’m no fifteen-year-old with a secret crush.
I’m a grown woman, successful and accomplished.
I speak three languages and run a successful business.
I spend at least ten hours a week doing Pilates.
But I’m acting as dumb and sneaky as a teenager over this man.
I can’t even muster disgust at myself because I practically dissolve into heart-eyes at the mere thought of him.
He keeps moving my painted screen. I knew he’d hate it which is partly why I kept it instead of leaving it at my dad’s country house.
Dima relocates it himself; he doesn’t even have a servant do it.
One minute it’s in the living room or the library; the next I have to track it down in a guest room, the attic, or, once, memorably, wedged in a corner of the hall bathroom.
I can’t tell whether he despises it or if he’s messing with me just to see if I notice.
Either way, I’m here for it. When I found the damn thing in the bathroom this morning, I folded it up and stashed it in his walk-in closet.
I can’t wait to hear the creative swearing he’ll unleash when he finds it there tonight.
The game reminds me of the playful, witty man I met on our honeymoon, the one I started to fall for.
The dour man of business is all work and no play, but for an hour every night I get my lover back.
Hunting for the Japanese screen has become the highlight of my long, lonesome days cooped up in this house.
When I went to the salon this week, I had to take guards, and they’re anything but inconspicuous, big, thuggish guys who look like they’ve broken their noses nine or ten times in bar fights.
Their looming presence spoiled the pampering; who can enjoy a highlight and mani-pedi with two men standing a yard away, looking like they bend steel beams for fun?
I draw the line at having them inside my home office.
They can wait in the hall or out on the lawn someplace.
I need a bit of privacy to conduct business and, more than that, I need space to think.
Mainly I think of my husband, I admit. Even when I’m double-checking alerts on the security software and putting the finishing touches on summative reports, I find myself growing distracted by flashes of the two of us together.
It isn’t always in bed. Sometimes it’s because he brought me a shawl on the balcony of our hotel in Croatia when the wind picked up at night.
Or the time he woke me before he left for work to kiss me goodbye.
It was romantic and made me feel special and wanted, even cherished.
Like I was more than just an incubator to him, or more than just the key to getting Sergei Koslov’s territory.
I survey the latest email from my team, checking every detail on Dima’s tech company.
When I rescan, the anomaly is gone and everything checks out normally.
I wrote the program, and it doesn’t flag anything that could be a simple user error.
The only way the original security breach I detected would disappear is if the malicious actor was tipped off and patched or deleted the evidence.
This sets my teeth on edge, the idea that there’s an adversary who’s trying to block me in real time, a virtual chess match for my husband’s data security.
We held that meeting, announced to hundreds of members of the bratva that we were using my cybersecurity program. He’s surely briefed his inner circle about the problem the initial scan flagged. The call is coming from inside the house, I think grimly. There’s a rat inside the brotherhood.
I comb through the data from the first scan and compare it to the second, using my override authorization to access the Petrov network remotely, and pore over activity logs until I can’t stay awake.
It’s tedious work, and I’m exhausted. I close my computer for the day and lie down for a nap.
I want to be well-rested when Dima gets home tonight; I have much to tell him about my suspicions.
I’m asleep when he enters my room. All he has to do is speak my name to summon me from even the deepest sleep. I sit up and reach for him.
“I missed you,” I murmur sleepily. He holds me, his palm cradling the back of my head.
I melt into the safety of his arms, those broad shoulders.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, something he’s never done before.
I have to force myself to pull away when I could sit like this forever.
He feels like home to me, and that terrifies me. I can’t tell him that.
“Come, I’ve ordered a late dinner,” he says. My hand goes to my head as soon as I try to stand up. I drop back onto the edge of the bed, head pounding, a little dizzy too.
“Are you okay?” he asks. I see his concern and I choose to misdirect.
“Oh, I have a headache. I thought I could sleep it off. Too much squinting over the activity log on the screen.” I say dismissively. “I don’t really want anything to eat. You go ahead.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I say.
“I’ll just have it brought up here and if you change your mind…” he offers.
I can’t protest any further without seeming suspicious, so I shrug. “I’m going to take a shower,” I say, “to help the headache. I’ll be right back. Go ahead and eat.”
When I come out of the bathroom, clad in black lingerie, I’m hit by the thick stink of cabbage permeating my bedroom.
I try not to show my disgust, but it’s too late.
I whirl back into the bathroom in time to throw up in the sink.
My eyes water and I cough, miserable as I try to keep my hair back.
Then, behind me, I feel his presence. His hand gathers my hair, holding it back for me.
I retch until I think I can’t breathe. Then he scoops me up and sets me on the counter.
My bare feet dangle above the floor as he runs a washcloth under warm water and wipes my face.
I shut my eyes and let him take care of me for a moment.
I feel shaky, vulnerable. A tear slips from the corner of my eye and he brushes it away with his thumb.
The tenderness of his movements, his careful attention, threatens to unravel me.
When he folds me into his arms, he rests his chin on top of my head.
I press my ear to his chest and listen to his heartbeat, steady and strong.
“You wait here,” he says and returns to my room.
I scramble down from the counter, rinse my mouth, and brush my teeth.
My face is blotchy and my hair’s a sweaty mess.
I brush it swiftly and pull it up. In the room outside, I hear the housekeeper’s voice and then the sound of windows being opened.
He returns to me. “That should take care of the smell.”
“Why do you have cabbage up here?” I ask, my voice pitiful and scraped raw from being sick.
“It was meant to be a little joke. The first time we met at your father’s house you described yourself as an unwanted side of cabbage. I thought I was being a little clever and perhaps romantic.”
“Nothing says romance like making your wife puke,” I grumble, “but it was a cute gesture.”
“Cute?” he says dubiously. I shrug.
“Cute is the best I can do now. I’m trying to be nice but my head’s pounding and you saw what I just did.” Even with the fresh air pouring in from the bank of windows, I can still smell the cabbage underneath.
“Perhaps this will take your mind off the smell,” he says, handing me a leather box, long and narrow. Excitement flutters through me.
“What is this?”
“A little something I got for you,” he says, trying to sound modest but I can see he is pleased with himself. I can’t help being pleased too.
Inside is a gold bracelet with bold clusters of bright green emeralds, tiny round diamonds, and gold filigree leaves. It’s unique and flashy, and I love it at once. I hold out my arm and he fastens it around my wrist.
“Thank you,” I say. “Is this an occasion?”
“Not really, but we could make it one. Next week will be our two-month wedding anniversary, so you have until then to get me a gift,” he teases.
“Unless you already have something for me.” I pause, thinking about this new pregnancy, the thing he’s wanted most from the very beginning.
Somehow, I hold the secret instead of blurting it out.