Katarina
Now
My hair slaps across my face as we hurry across the grass to escape the hot air being whipped up by helicopter blades.
I wasn’t prepared for the dramatic shift in climate, even with a stopover in Singapore.
The icy air in Siberia had taken my breath away, but this cloying heat two days later is making it just as hard to catch my breath.
The cobalt blue sky we’ve fallen from is clear, but there are storm clouds on the horizon where the sun will soon be setting.
There are only three more days until I marry a man I’ve yet to meet, and as I check out the two figures waiting for us beside a pair of golf carts, it’s clear I’ll be waiting a little longer.
One is a middle-aged woman in a corporate pant suit and the other is a man in his twenties, sporting a polo shirt.
Both have embroidered motifs on their uniforms. We’re being greeted by staff.
“Welcome to Blackwater Rock. I’m Emily, the housekeeper,” the woman says. Her accent is English and if she notices my uncle bristle at the perceived slight from not being met by our host, she doesn’t let it show.
I stifle a yawn. It could be jet lag or the humidity.
Or it could be the overpowering scent of Vasili’s cologne contaminating the air.
He’d kept us waiting while he changed into a perfectly tailored suit before we boarded the helicopter that took us on the final leg of our journey.
I’d still be in leggings and a sweatshirt if my uncle hadn’t made me change into a tight-fitting dress meant to impress my future husband, wherever the fuck he is. And wherever the fuck we are.
When Vasili said the wedding would take place on Eric’s private island in the South Pacific, I’d imagined a beautiful villa surrounded by white, sandy beaches, a turquoise sea and swaying palm trees.
Blackwater Rock is none of those things.
Eric’s home is a fortress built on ancient volcanic overspill and protected by impenetrable jungle and steep cliffs currently being lashed by dark, angry waves.
At first glance, it appears my chances of escaping are no better than they were back in Russia.
I know virtually nothing about Eric Peterson other than he’s a fifty-two-year-old billionaire with a digital footprint that’s even less discoverable than the Griffins’.
The only photo I’d found when my uncle first touted his name was a vague figure on a yacht that had been taken with a long-range lens. Not helpful.
“I’m here to help you settle in,” Emily continues. “Can we take your bags?”
“They can manage,” Vasili says gruffly, indicating the group of men behind us.
Alexei and two other bodyguards have travelled with us.
After the little mishap with Vlad, I don’t doubt they consider me the most likely threat to their pakhan.
They’re not wrong, but he can’t very well have his guards aiming Tasers at me here.
What would darling Eric think? We’re all at a disadvantage on this godforsaken rock.
“Let me take you to your rooms. You must be tired after your long flight,” Emily says when I don’t attempt to hide my next yawn.
“That’s me. Sick and tired,” I agree.
Vasili, Alexei and I take the first cart, my uncle sitting up front with Emily. The housekeeper sets off towards Eric’s two-story villa that’s the size of a medium-sized hotel, leaving the others to trail after us with our luggage.
As we cross the lush green lawn that stretches from the cliff edge to wrap around the house, I spot a long driveway that draws my gaze to a guarded entry point. On each side of the gates are high metal fences that hold back the jungle hugging the edges of the grounds.
Why would you need gated security when you own the entire goddamn island? Who does Eric need to keep out? Unless he’s more concerned with keeping people in. One of them will be me. This isn’t paradise. It’s another prison, albeit a warmer one.
When Emily continues past the entrance to the villa, Vasili snaps his head towards her.
“Where are we going?”
“Mr. Peterson has set aside one of the guest villas for his new bride and her family,” she says, glancing back to offer me a cheesy smile. “He thought Katarina would be more comfortable there until they get to know each other.”
“Let’s hope I’m there a while,” I mutter under my breath.
I don’t want to get to know the man. Or any man. I belong to Killian, now and always, and anyone who presumes otherwise will find themselves greeting the next life prematurely, as Vlad did.
There must have been something in the mountain air the night I fell for Killian McConkey because I fell hard.
I wasn’t fool enough to think it was an act of submission when he dropped to his knees and crawled to me.
That fool of an Irishman did it because he was plain crazy.
But by the end, so was I. What we had was never supposed to last. It was never supposed to happen in the first place. It just was. Until it wasn’t.
Tears clog my throat and as I go to swallow, I almost choke at the sight of a man rushing out of the main villa, waving at us to stop. Emily brakes quickly and we all lurch forward.
The man’s broad chest heaves as he reaches us and his toned thigh muscles ripple with tension, stretching his Bermuda shorts.
His feet are bare and his soaking wet, salt and pepper hair drips onto his grey t-shirt.
His jaw is a little too square, but he’s not the ogre I’d pictured Vasili pairing me with.
“My apologies,” he says, addressing Vasili and extending his arm to shake my uncle’s hand. “I was taking a shower and didn’t hear your helicopter arrive.” He gives his housekeeper a gentle look of reproach. “Next time, you have my permission to drag me out of my bathroom, Emily.”
Her smile is hesitant. “Of course. I’m sorry.”
He wafts away her apology while his gaze glides over to me. Alexei is positioned between us and for once, I’m grateful for his presence. Eric doesn’t attempt to reach over and offer a handshake or make a move to touch me at all. He nods. Almost shyly.
“Katarina,” he says, his voice like honey over oats. His South African accent is barely there, hidden like everything else about him. “It’s a pleasure.”
Vasili twists in his seat to observe our very first interaction and I tamp down all the ways I’d like to respond to my husband-to-be.
I don’t snarl or hiss, nor do I completely blank him, which I often find most effective in getting the measure of an adversary.
My approach needs to be different with the man I’m condemned to marry.
I can’t walk away. Not while I’m trapped on this fucking island.
I mirror Eric’s greeting, giving him exactly what he gave me. I nod politely. “Eric.”
The fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen a touch, but he smiles.
“I thought it best to leave you to relax and recover this evening after your long journey. You have your own private chef at the guest villa and if there’s anything else you need, you only have to ask,” he says. “The fun starts tomorrow.”
“Fun?” I repeat in a flat tone because, I’m sorry, but do I look like a girl who likes to have fun?
“Your friend is due to arrive. She and her husband will have the villa next to yours for the duration of their stay.”
It’s another phrase I can’t compute. I don’t have friends, not ones my uncle and his associates know about. “Who?” I demand, directing the question to Vasili.
“I’m afraid Eric has spoiled my little surprise,” he replies, chuckling ominously. The only thing that ever amuses my uncle is another person’s misery. “Sasha and Grigor wouldn’t want to miss your wedding, and I can’t think of anyone better suited to be your maid of honor.”
Despite the heat, goosebumps prick my skin. I resist the urge to rub my arms and reveal how much the news unsettles me.
Vasili turns to Eric. “Katarina and Sasha did a lot of their schooling together. They’re practically sisters.”
“Only if you have the kind of sister who sets fire to your bed,” I reply. “When you’re in it.”
Eric laughs, thinking it’s a joke. “We’ll be sure to lock away the matches.”
His assurances are wasted. I can handle Sasha. It’s the thought of her husband, Grigor that makes my skin crawl.
The schooling Vasili referred to was the time we spent at the training camp beneath the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
It’s where Sasha met her future husband.
She had started her training a few weeks before I arrived with my surviving sestras, Kira and Yana.
Grigor might have risen through the ranks in recent years, but back then he was our camp commander.
“Emily has your wedding dress fitting scheduled, and there are beauticians at your disposal,” Eric continues. He glances down at my hands and half-chewed fingernails. It’s a habit I thought I’d conquered. “This is your home now, Katarina, and I want you to have everything you need.”
“What I need is a meeting to finalize the deal,” Vasili interrupts.
“Business first, of course,” Eric replies, his tone hardening a touch. “Would ten o’clock tomorrow morning be acceptable?”
“Make it eight,” Vasili says in a crude attempt at dominance. “We can have a breakfast meeting.”
“Whatever you prefer, my good friend. Breakfast it is,” Eric agrees. “I’ll send one of my men to pick you up, but for now, have a good evening and I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
The second Eric turns to leave, Emily puts her foot down to whisk us away before my uncle can have the last word. I’d say Eric won that pissing contest.
As introductions go, that wasn’t awful, which leads me to two possible conclusions.
Either the rumors about Eric Peterson have been planted by his enemies and are undeserved, or his shiny exterior has been engineered to distract from the ugliness beneath his skin.
I should care, but good or bad, Eric isn’t Shorty.