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P iotr

F rom the moment we left her family’s mansion in Connecticut, Olivia has been delightfully on edge.

As we drove to the helipad, she fidgeted with her necklace, the one I gave her.

Seeing the silver heart resting at the base of her throat fills me with more pride than I imagined possible.

The treasured pendant my grandmother wore so often is perfect with the V neckline of Olivia’s dress.

I’m pleased she didn’t have time to change her clothes before we left.

I really want to strip her out of the virginal white gown myself.

We didn’t talk on the helicopter ride to the airport.

Olivia was too distracted by whatever thoughts were racing through her head and I wanted to draw out the silence, to unsettle her further.

I don’t appreciate being lied to, and my pretty new bride has been less than honest with me more than once.

She needs to suffer, wondering what’s going to happen to her.

It was impossible to miss the way she tensed when she opened the envelope the waitress delivered to her.

I was across the room and I saw her shoulders stiffen.

When I asked her what was in the envelope, she blatantly lied, writing it off as some practical joke.

If that’s all it was, she’d have shown me.

Instead, she passed whatever it was to her cousin and had her scurry off to dispose of the evidence.

The little brat was obviously counting on me not wanting to cause a major incident by detaining Alessia.

If my wife thinks she’ll get away with playing games, she’s in for a shock.

As we walk up the steps to my Dessault Falcon jet, Olivia trips on the hem of her dress. She pitches forward, but I catch her before she falls. Grabbing her around the waist, I haul her back against me.

“Careful,” I warn her. “You don’t want to get hurt.”

A tremor runs through her, and she shrugs me off.

Lifting her skirts higher, she hurries up the remaining steps.

At the entrance to the plane, Polina, one of my regular flight attendants, greets her.

Olivia chats to her for almost a minute, warmly inquiring about her life.

While other women might view the six-foot blonde bombshell as a threat, my bride speaks to her as if they’re old friends.

Her apparent lack of concern at the presence of a beauty like Polina among my staff surprises me.

I’d have thought Olivia would be jealous.

If she doesn’t suffer from that affliction, I’m glad.

Jealousy is an ugly emotion. It turns people into fools.

My wife will never have reason to feel insecure around other women.

Fidelity matters to me. A psychologist would no doubt say it’s a reaction to my feckless parents, who showed no loyalty to anyone, least of all each other.

It would be a fair assessment. I will never allow myself to be weak like them.

Now that I’ve made a commitment to Olivia, my attention won’t be diverted elsewhere, and she’d damned well better not give any other man the time of day. I don’t like to share.

Finally, Olivia moves on, giving me room to ascend the last couple of steps.

Polina greets me with a smile that’s friendly rather than flirtatious.

She’s never tried to blur the lines of our professional relationship, though she has fucked some of the men who’ve traveled with me.

She prefers the more openly passionate type.

Until recently, she warmed the bed of Damiano Volante.

I suspect the earrings she’s wearing were a payoff from him when his attention drifted elsewhere.

She didn’t land herself a wealthy husband, but she got some nice jewelry as a consolation prize.

“Everything is set up for your comfort, Mr. Reznov.” Polina must be referring to the bedroom I asked her to ensure was ready for us.

We’ll be arriving in Paris in the early hours of the morning, so sleep will be necessary, not that I intend to get much.

There’s the consummation of my marriage to deal with, the one part of the day I’ve genuinely looked forward to.

“Thank you, Polina. Please serve the champagne immediately.”

“Of course, sir.”

While Polina hurries off to the small galley kitchen that sits between the main cabin and the bedroom, I join Olivia. She’s standing in the aisle, looking lost.

“Sit wherever you like,” I tell her. “I have no preference.”

Olivia nods and scans the space around us. There are two sofas at the rear of the cabin, and four pairs of individual seats that face each other and have a small table between them. She goes to the front of the plane and chooses a seat on the left.

“I prefer to face forward when traveling,” she explains as I sit opposite her, my back to the cockpit. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“It’s all the same to me, malyskha .”

I look up as Polina approaches with two glasses of champagne on a silver tray. She offers it to me first. I take both glasses and hand one to Olivia.

“That will be all, Polina. Please prepare for departure.”

“Yes, Mr. Reznov.”

As she rushes to secure the doors and tell my pilot, Yan, that we’re ready to leave as soon as he gets clearance, I raise my glass. Olivia gives me an expectant look.

“To my deceitful bride. May she soon learn to tell the truth.”

My wife’s jaw tightens. She sets her glass down on the table that separates us.

“Don’t you want your champagne?”

“No.” She pushes her crimson lips into a pout.

“Why not?” I ask, though I know exactly why she has that petulant expression.

“Because I don’t appreciate that bullshit toast you made.”

I didn’t imagine she would. “You deny you’ve been less than honest with me?”

She drops her gaze to the floor, her lack of response an answer in itself. I suppose I should give her credit for not compounding her lies with some false protestation of innocence.

I sip my champagne and watch her closely as she turns to look out of the window. She remains stubbornly focused on the tarmac until Polina returns to collect our glasses and check we’re safely buckled in as the plane taxis to the runway.

“Was the champagne not to your liking, Mrs. Rezanova?”

Olivia turns to acknowledge her, a tight smile forming on her luscious lips.

“It gives me heartburn.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Polina gushes. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault.” Olivia puts a reassuring hand on her arm. “Something else has left a foul taste in my mouth.”

Polina correctly reads the tension emanating from my bride and hurries away.

Olivia returns her attention to the window.

Her focus on the view doesn’t waver as the plane accelerates down the runway.

It isn’t until we reach our cruising altitude and Yan announces it’s safe to get up and move around the cabin that Olivia looks at me again.

Unfastening my seatbelt, I get to my feet. I hold out a hand to her. “Come on.”

Olivia blinks twice. “What?”

“Come. With. Me.” I enunciate each word clearly since she didn’t register what I said the first time.

Olivia unclips her seatbelt and stands. She obstinately refuses the hand I offer her.

If that’s the way she wants to play, so be it.

Gripping her upper arm tightly, I lead her to the back of the plane.

I shove her through the door into the bedroom and she stumbles to a stop.

Her shoulders stiffen as she takes in the pure white linens on the bed, scattered with blood-red rose petals.

This is Polina’s doing. I’d imagine most women would see it as romantic, but when Olivia turns to me, her furious expression suggests she views it more as a taunt.

“What is this?” she demands.

Glancing past her, I shrug. “It looks like a bed.”

“Don’t be obtuse.” Her lips thin as she makes her disapproval clear. “I know it’s a bed. Why are there rose petals on it?”

“I suppose Polina thought it was romantic.”

Olivia folds her arms across her chest. “Why would it need to be romantic? Why are we even in here?”

“Now who’s being obtuse?”

Olivia’s lip wobbles, and she sucks in a breath. “Do you really plan to do it right here on the plane?”

“Do what?” I’m not letting her get away with such vagueness.

“You know.” She waves a hand in the air, then throws up her hands in exasperation. “Ugh! Have relations.”

Have relations? I don’t know why Olivia’s so outraged by the notion. It’s like she’s regressed to the Victorian era.

“I intend to fuck my wife,” I tell her bluntly. “Does that offend you?”

“Of course it does. The idea of you jumping on me the minute we’re alone is pretty offensive. I might as well be one of those sex dolls.”

“You think I want to fuck an inanimate object?” I throw back my head and laugh at the absurdity of her remark.

“An inanimate object would probably suit you better. It wouldn’t bother you with thoughts and opinions.”

“Oh, no, my dear sweet wife, I want you, a flesh and blood woman, not some toy.” I give her a moment to digest that. “And I’m not going to jump on you. I’m going to possess every inch of your body so thoroughly you’ll never be free of me.”

Olivia makes a strangled sound that could be shock, dread, desire, or a combination of all three.

“But first we’re going to play a game.” My hands go to the buckle of my belt.

Olivia’s face blanches. “What sort of game?”

“One where I ask you questions and then punish you for each lie that spills from your beautiful lips.”

My wife’s eyes widen. “Punish me how?”

Rather than answering, I slowly unfasten my belt and slide it through the loops on my pants. Doubling it over, I snap the two halves together. The crack makes Olivia jump.

“Piotr?” She backs away, but there’s not much room in here and she soon comes up against the wall. “What are you doing?”