“Oh.” Onward we drove.
We passed a stable that must have had fifty stalls. “How many horses are there?”
“Dozens. Kovalev loves animals.”
White tigers, anyone? Maybe he’d have caged Russian bears.
As we rounded a curve, a mansion came into view. No, not a mansion—a palace.
Jaw drop.
“That is it,” Sevastyan said.
From a main three-story building, two wings stretched beyond my line of sight. It was the size of a freaking state building, but with so much more charm. I realized that the lakeside folly was a miniature of the mansion. The late afternoon sun gleamed off more copper domes. “I . . . this . . .”
“It’s a former tsar’s residence,” Sevastyan said. “Twenty years ago, it was in bad shape, about to be renovated as a museum and Russian landmark. Kovalev bought it instead and painstakingly restored it.”
“So it’s historical.” My heart was racing. “You didn’t tell me I’d be staying in . . . in history.”
The limo parked in front, near a line of high-end cars of all makes and models. Before the driver could reach my door, I scrambled out, Sevastyan following. I craned my head up. “Spectacular,” I eventually managed.
He gave me a satisfied nod. “Horosho, to.” Good, then. “I’m glad.”
“This must be Natalie Kovaleva!” A young man about my age strolled out of the grand copper doors. When the sun hit his face, my lips parted. He was . . . stunning. His dark blond hair was rakishly cut, his features a study in symmetry. His vivid gray eyes were devilish and alight with intellect.
I’d just recovered speech after the sight of this estate. Now my brain was overloaded again.
“That’s Filip Liukin,” Sevastyan said in a tone rife with disapproval.
If Sevastyan was ruggedly hot and sex on a stick, this Filip was blindingly beautiful. While I was trying to form words, Sevastyan grated, “He’s your cousin.”
Awkward.
Filip was quick to point out: “Distant, far removed, and all that.” His accent sounded British. He flashed me an easy grin, all dimples and flawless teeth.
Filip reached out as if to clap Sevastyan on the shoulder. “Welcome back, bratan!”
The look on Sevastyan’s face deterred Filip from touching him. “Do not ever call me brother.”
Whoa. Sevastyan acted as if Filip had just sliced an exposed nerve.
“You got it,” Filip said easily, unperturbed. “Welcome back, all the same. I know you’re glad to be relieved of this lengthy job.”
Did everyone think I’d been merely work to Sevastyan? An onerous task that took him from home for a month? I hadn’t been, right? Maybe I was misremembering his response to me. As icy as he’d been on and off today, I had to wonder. . . .
Filip opened his arms. “Come, Cuz, give us a hug.”
Still stung to think of myself as a task, I let Filip embrace me. As I drew back, I glanced over at Sevastyan, saw that his jaw was clenched, that muscle ticking. He wasn’t liking this whatsoever, as if he was jealous.
Attention fully on Filip—not a chore—I asked, “Do you live here?”
“I might as well,” he said, adding in a flirtatious tone, “And with you here at Berezka, I plan to stick around. No one told me you were gorgeous.”
My manalyzer sense began tingling, but I couldn’t read it, for good or ill. If I felt a touch of unease, my opinion had probably been tainted by Sevastyan’s reaction to him. I changed the subject. “Your English is so perfect.” Sevastyan’s was flawless as well, but unlike Filip, he’d retained his thick accent. “Did you grow up outside of Russia?”
“I was educated at Oxford, got my MBA there. Now I’ve returned.” In an affectionate tone, he said, “I’m trying to update your old man’s operation, dragging it into this century.” At the front doors, he offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Was I being passed off, just like that? From Sevastyan to Filip? I’d been so excited before. Now I was out of sorts. Still, I eked out a smile. “I suppose so.”
“I’ll take her inside.” Sevastyan’s hand covered my shoulder in a possessive grip, sending pleasure through me. I wanted to sag against him.
Filip’s smile barely faded. “I’ve got this. I’m sure you’re tired from your stakeout.”
Sevastyan didn’t say anything more, didn’t have to. One dark glance and Filip backed down.
“Easy on the trigger, Siberian.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I have something to take care of anyway. See you tonight, Cuz.” He strode off toward that line of parked cars.
Sevastyan called, “Where’s your own car?”
Without slowing, Filip called back, “In the shop.”
I stared after the guy, because it was difficult to pry my eyes from him. Like watching a retreating comet.
When I turned back, Sevastyan looked like he was grinding his teeth. “Be wary of him. Appearances can be deceiving.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re jealous.”
“That is not at issue,” he said, spinning his thumb ring. “Come.” He waved me across the threshold.
Inside, I gasped at the opulence. A grand staircase curved gracefully up from an immense foyer. Marble gleamed beneath our feet. Alcoves housed delicate statuary, and oil landscapes adorned the walls. Instead of the garish mishmash I’d anticipated, everything was refined and tasteful.