Page 50 of Lord of Passion

"First question," I say. If Nikandr is at all observant, and I know he is, he will note the tone of my voice, which should tell him that my composure is rapidly cracking. "Who the fuck touched my underwear? You let some stranger touch your wife's underwear?"

Taking another slow, deliberate swallow of Macallan, Nikandr watches me. I'll wait it out. He's giving me an answer.

"My family has specialty movers. Any move with this organization is of a sensitive nature. Delores handled yourparticular job. She's very kind. She's also extremely OCD, so she's perfect for this kind of move."

Perhaps I'm projecting, but the crushed ruins of my most beloved items makes me think Delores is not that kind. At least, not to a woman she had to move into Nikandr's place.

"Did it not occur to you that perhaps I would like to oversee something like this? That it would be my right as an adult to oversee people grabbing and touching my personal items?"

He's watching me with interest now and I toss the perfume bottle in the air again, catching it without looking at it. Basketball is great training for spatial awareness.

"I did mention that Dolores handled your personal items and would have shown great discretion had you had sex toys." He gives me a sly, curling grin that I want to smack right off his face.

"If I were to go into your lower drawers, or maybe that shelf above all of your nicely hanging suits - that navy blue one is spectacular, by the way - that has to be a Tom Ford. But I digress. If I started pawing throughthoseplaces, looking in boxes, rifling through items that are important to you, how would that make you feel?"

He swirls his drink thoughtfully. "As my wife, I would have to assume that it would be your right to look." There's a twist to his mouth now though, that tells me he wouldhateit. "On the bright side," he shrugs again, "I didn't see any of your personal things, only the mover did."

"Oh, thank god that Dolores and I, who are so intunewith each other, have shared this beautiful moment. I have folded underwear and boxes full of rubble and… it's very late. I'm tired. I'm going to sleep in the guest room."

"We share the same bed. We are husband and wife." There's a cold finality to his voice that I haven't heard before.

I'm still holding the perfume bottle. I could knock his ass right out with it.

"I recognize that asSovietnik-"Iloveemphasizing the 'k' at the end of his title, because every time I say it, it makes his left eye twitch. "You are used to people jumping like loyal little serfs and doing whatever you tell them. 'Yes,Sovietnik!'Well, I don't work for you."

"The Hotel Lyric under the umbrella of the Morozov Hospitality-" he begins. I cut him off, and it feels good.

"Yes, I know, but we're not talking about corporate structure here. However long this tortuous union lasts, I won't be jumping at your command. You know how to make life miserable, well, believe me, so do I. That is why I'm going to take my nightgown and my toothbrush and I am going to go to the guest room and nowhere near you, or your things, or the pillows that smell like you –"

Okay, he didn't need to know that.

"- and I'm going to take a night for myself. This is not having a fight like a regular couple. This is me needing space." He rests his jaw on his hand, watching me as a silent sigh goes through him.

"Even though you're feeling angry, I appreciate your rational approach to communicating with me," he finally says. "I'm used to women screaming and crying."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be driving them to do it," I say.

"Oh, darling don't worry," he says, smiling malevolently. "The only woman I'll be making scream and cry now is my wife. And you will be doing plenty of both."

It takes every ounce of control I have to put the perfume bottle back on the counter instead of hurling it at him, because the fantasy is sovivid.I can picture the expression on his pretty face with his nose smooshed sideways and blood dripping down his chin…

I might be feeling a little homicidal.

So, I grab a big T-shirt and I stride down the hall, finding a guest room and shutting the door between me and Satan in a good suit.

Chapter Twenty-Three

In which Caroline is given two bodyguards and a shiny new Maybach, which is even better than wedding china.

Caroline…

The upstairs is silent when I wake up, and I scamper into the master bedroom to get dressed before Nikandr catches me. I notice that the bed is made, every crease pulled tight. The man makes his own bed. Probably just because he just can't stand disorder, but I like it. I despise people who have the, "let theservantstake care of it." Any functional adult can make a bed.

Black trousers and suit jacket on, armed with my work makeup of swooping eyeliner and screaming red lipstick, I push my luck, heading downstairs for a cup of coffee and a quick exit.

If someone put me in this penthouse without the slightest hint of who owned it, I would still think immediately ofSovietnikNikandr Morozov. The penthouse's main room is a two-story wall of glass. It's a heart stopping view of the New York Bay and the city skyline.

The main room is huge enough for three or four different groupings of furniture, but they're all angled toward the view. The floors are walnut, glowing with countless polishings, leadinginto the kitchen, which is of course, a masterpiece. The counters are black granite shot through with silver and gold threads. The cabinets are black.