Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
I run a brush through my hair, grab my jacket, and head downstairs.
“Good morning, Sir. Breakfast is ready. Shall I serve it?” Muriel, my English housekeeper asks from the bottom of the stairs. She is wearing her customary black dress, and not a hair of her short iron-gray hair is out of place. Her face is, as always, stoic and expressionless. She is nearly four feet nine inches tall, but she is irreplaceable in my household. No matter where in the world I go, if I’m staying more than two weeks, she comes with me.
"Not today, Muriel," I throw over my shoulder as I stride towards the front door.
I hear the sound of her hard black shoes hurrying after me. "Will you be home for lunch then, Sir?" she asks just as the door is pulled open by one of my two bodyguards.
"No, but tell the Chefs to put a little more effort into dinner. I have a feeling I'll be particularly famished by then."
"Very well, Sir," she replies and steps back with a solemn nod.
I slip into the faintly perfumed backseat of my Rolls Royce. Vivaldi’s Winter is playing softly in the background.
“Turn it up,” I say to Nikolai and he meets my gaze in the mirror and turns up the volume. “More,” I say until the whole car is vibrating with the sound of violins.
I have to admit that it feels good, really good, to be exhilarated about something. I haven’t felt this alive for years. And so, I allow myself to look forward to meeting Miss Fitzpatrick. Perhaps she will be completely underwhelming to meet, and all of this time and effort would have been for nothing. If so, I will go back to wanting Muriel’s breakfasts and expanding my blood, sweat, and tears to making money I don’t need.
Chapter Five
LARA
“Let’s look at you, then,” Sasha says from the doorway.
I turn from the box of canapes that I’m carefully transferring onto a black lacquer tray and find Sasha looking breathtakingly beautiful. But when she comes forward, a slight frown is on her forehead. Her eyes critically inspect me from top to bottom.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, touching my new bangs uncertainly. The hairdresser said I have the perfect heart-shaped face for bangs, but I’m not used to having a bunch of hair on my forehead.
Sasha takes a deep breath. “I didn’t expect to see you in such a revealing outfit. I thought you were going for clean and presentable.”
My eyes widen with surprise. Sasha is dressed in a red dress that can only be described as sexy, with a plunging neckline and most of her long slim legs on show too. She actually looks like she is on her way to a party or a club. I choose my words carefully. “Olga, the shop assistant at the boutique you recommended, helped me choose this suit. She seemed to know you well and she told me this outfit is what you yourself would have chosen for an important showing.”
“Well, it looks a bit different on you,” she says cattily. “Never mind. Perhaps you can button up your jacket.”
I don’t agree that my top is too revealing and I’m not at all happy about the condescending way she is looking at me, but I bite back the sarcastic retort bubbling in my throat and silently button my jacket. This deal is too important to poison the air with a petty argument.
But Sasha is not finished. She comes closer and plucks a single strand of dog hair off my jacket. Shaking her head with disapproval, she puts it into my hand. I force a smile and let my fingers close over the offending hair, before stuffing it into my jacket pocket. I couldn’t resist taking Mrs. Winterman’s impossibly cute German Shepherd puppy into my arms when we shared the elevator earlier, and I really thought I’d brushed myself until I was fur free, but apparently, I hadn’t been successful.
“You’ll be serving the hors d'œuvres. Show me your nails,” she demands bossily.
I hold out my hands obediently, and she nods. “That’s fine.” Her eyes move upwards to meet mine. “Are you nervous?"
"Enough to shit my pants."
A small smirk tugs at her lovely mouth. "Don’t worry you'll be fine. All you have to do is smile sweetly and let me do all the talking.”
“Yup, I can definitely do that. Aren’t you even a bit nervous?” I ask curiously.
“Not at all.” She shrugs carelessly. “High-profile clients are usually the easiest to deal with. No fussy demands or protracted price negotiations. Ivan Ivanovich will probably spend ten to thirty minutes before deciding. His staff have already given him a rundown of why a property like this would be a good asset to acquire. Basically, he's just here to check out the aesthetic element and give the final stamp of approval."