Page 31 of The Bratva's Nanny
“You have a beautiful home. So, I did some looking around.”
There was a subtle flash of surprise, and then, it was gone.
“Looking around at twelve-forty. Doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”
“Don’t be paranoid.”
Double shit.
I expected a death glare, the type that would have sent the weak-minded to an early grave in seconds, or maybe an animalistic growl, ordering me out of his sight and up to my room for daring to accuse him of paranoia. But it was none of that.
He nodded, and his voice was calm when he spoke. “Isn’t that what you call being cautious?”
“I’m just saying, you don’t always have to think the world is against you.”
I shrugged and nibbled my lower lip. His eyes followed the movement, and a sudden burst of warmth flooded my chest and trickled down to my toes.
He frowned, his expression sour and unreadable once more. “You don’t wish you could have my head served on a platter for messing up your life?”
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach, and I stared, tight-lipped.
When I didn’t respond, he made an annoying motion with his head, sending his point across: He was right.
“Exactly what I thought.”
Even I was against him.
Awkward silence rested between us, and I chewed my lips, not sure what to say or how. Words failed me, and they seemed to be doing so a lot lately whenever he was around.
I didn’t want to ponder deeply on why guilt prodded like a fucking needle at the back of my mind for being against him—despite my many justifiable reasons. So, I refocused on something else that presented itself. Something that ate deep and created more puzzles as the day went by. Something that could cost me my job and probably my only opportunity to repay Finn Jameson.
I piped up, “I have a question.”
“Up until this very moment, you haven’t needed my permission to speak.”
Verified: He was pissed about the paranoia thing.
I chewed the inside of my cheek and smacked my lips. “I’ve been wondering…you and Polly…do the two of you, um, live here, in this house, alone?”
Roman didn’t need a minute, not even a second more, to process the question as soon as it went flying out of my mouth. His stare was solid, tentative, and as cryptic as the Voynich Manuscript. He knew what I was asking, and every sensible thing in me pointed to the slow construction of his lips as it formed a thinner line. He didn’t appreciate the question.
I held my breath.
He opened his mouth, and his jaw flexed. “Polina only has one parent. And that is me.”
That was his way of saying the conversation was over. It had come to a final close, had been locked in a big vault, wrapped with the thickest chains on planet Earth, and tossed into the ocean, never to see the light of day or be spoken of again.
I nodded.
And strangely, I felt a tingle zap to the core between my legs.
Great.
No talk of Polina’s mother or his wife, and there I was, experiencing a dark thrill. I wondered about who she was, where she might have been, and the reason she was not in the picture, but I didn’t want to risk having a bread knife aimed at my head. So, no more questions.
On the bright side—which was the reason I’d felt a thrill in the first place—I was the only woman in the house. And being the only woman in a house with Roman Varkov meant undivided attention.
Christ, Maria!