Page 27 of Beautiful Secrets

“To who?”

“Aleksandr Barisova,” she says in a deep, melodious voice before taking another sip of the tea.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?”

“No,” she practically spits out. “He is nobody, like me.”

“What’s the point then?”

I don’t expect her to reply—for all I know the reason behind her engagement is political—but she just sighs and pushes the hair out of her face before saying, “He wants to get rid of me, and he wants to punish Aleksandr.” She holds up a pair of fingers. “Two birds, one stone.”

“So you ran.”

She sighs again in response.

“So, what…you can’t say no? I mean, you’re old enough to be out of the house.”

She laughs dryly. “Father is…old fashioned. Very,veryold fashioned.”

I don’t prompt her when she falls silent. She toys with one of her wet curls, winding it around her finger as she drinks her tea. I take a moment to study her, glad to see there’s a touch of color back in her cheeks.

“Women in my family have two ways to leave home,” she says. “Out the back door in a hearse, or out the front in a man’s arms.” She looks at me, smiles grimly. “I climb out window.”

10

Cole

“Think I was kidding about that spanking?” I tell Mika through my teeth. “Try me.”

She glares up at me, her blue eyes bright as a welder’s torch. But the threat works, because she stops trying to move her head out of the way when I wrap a piece of ripped cloth over her eyes as a blindfold.

I can’t get over how tantalizing she looks this morning.

Maybe it’s the cigarette ash I smeared onto her throat to make it look like she’s bruised. Or the way I mussed up her hair. Or the fact that I ripped the tank top she’s wearing and got a peek of a dusky nipple while I was at it.

She growls when I tighten the blindfold, and then squirms a little in the chair, testing the knots at her wrists and ankles.

I’ve got her in the cheapest looking furniture this place had—a wooden office chair tucked away in one corner like an inheritance piece you feel too bad to toss out because Mum left it to you in her will.

We’re outside on the balcony, the rougher exterior paint looking tons better than the sleek wallpaper inside.

I have to convince Dimitri that his little girl is suffering under a cruel man in some despicable location—not holed up in the penthouse suite of a five-star hotel.

She needs every shred of sympathy and compassion he has—and I need him to get the fuck out of my country.

With the shadow of the nearby palm tree throwing vague lines over her face, and today’s newspaper leaning against her chest, Mika looks every inch a hostage.

I snap a few photos with my phone, and then hunker down in front of her. She rips away her head when I touch a damp curl dangling beside her face, and makes angry noises when I trail my knuckle down the front of her nose. “All done, my little rabbit.”

She lets out a muted growl.

I tug the gag from her mouth. She purses her lips, and then licks them. “You will untie me now?”

“Maybe.” I inhale her scent which, apart from a top note of ashtray, is far more appealing than when I first met her. “Maybe not.”

Her lips form a line, but then plump out again when I start untying her ankles. I leave her hands bound and grab her just above her elbow before herding her back inside. She complies when I force her down in one of the sofas, and turns to blindly follow me when I move across the room.

I send the picture to the number I have for Dimitri. No caption, nothing. Just beautiful little Mika, mussed up, tied up.