Page 16 of Power's Fall

She leaned in, lips almost at Vadisk’s ear. “Is that Ukrainian?”

He tensed. “Sit back, you’re too close.”

Frowning, she did so, making a mental note to mind his personal space.

“And no,” he added. “I think it’s Crimean. My grandfather spoke it.”

“Interesting.” The Crimean language was under threat of extinction according to UNESCO, thanks to a systematic deportation of the native population, including Crimean Tartars. It was possible Vadisk’s grandfather, or great-grandparents depending on the timing, had been among those forced from their homeland for speaking their native language.

They turned off the highway, and Dahlia craned her neck to look at the twenty-room hotel building that also housed a spa and restaurant. She took note of the tops of white umbrellas visible along what looked to be a large, curved veranda.

The van turned right, taking a smaller one-lane road that branched off the main driveway to the resort. Where were they going?

Montana, who’d been quiet until now, carefully undid his seat belt, sitting forward. “What are we thinking?” he asked softly.

“Don’t react,” Vadisk breathed. “Let me.”

They’d been headed down toward the water, but the road turned left around a copse of trees. A beautiful two-story villa appeared, as if by magic. Trees hugged two sides, creating a privacy screen shielding them from the rest of the resort property, while a wide veranda on the upper story took advantage of the stunning view of the Black Sea.

The van pulled to a stop in the small circular drive that nestled against the side of the house. There were two golf carts parked off to one side, one of them draped in a cover.

A woman in a white and pale green uniform waited by the door, her smile poised and practiced.

“It’s okay. This is our villa,” Dahlia said, relieved. She leaned down a little to see all of the building as the driver hopped out. “I booked this one because it would offer us the most privacy.”

“We aren’t going to have privacy,” Vadisk said.

Montana made a noise that sounded like a grunt of agreement.

The driver opened the side door. Vadisk got out first, then Montana, who offered her his hand. She accepted his help but released his hand to make her way toward the waiting staff member.

“Welcome to Crimean Sky,” the woman said in English.

“Thank you, I can already tell we’re going to enjoy our stay here,” Dahlia answered in the same language as she mounted the steps. She waited to see what kind of greeting gesture would be used—extended hand to shake or leaning in to brush cheeks together.

“We’re delighted to have you here with us,” the woman said, forgoing any physical contact. “Let me give you a tour of Villa Olga.”

“Do you need us to check in or register?” Dahlia had planned to start building rapport with the resort staff at check-in. They were going to need access to people and records, and not going to the registration desk, while not totally unexpected given their first-class accommodations, was putting a crimp in her plans.

“No, I’ve taken care of all of that for you.” The woman took several keycards from her pocket and passed one to her, one to Montana who’d joined her, and then hesitated when looking at Vadisk.

“There’s accommodation in a separate wing from the primary bedroom, correct?” Dahlia raised her brow.

“Yes, of course. Your…attendant will have a room, and you will have privacy.”

“Vadisk is our guide and translator,” Dahlia said easily. “He also has a unique familial connection to the area that I plan to feature as part of the story.”

“Of course.” The woman leaned forward, passing a key to Vadisk, who had to take a step forward to accept it, but then immediately retreated, putting space between himself and her and Montana.

“And what’s your name?” Dahlia asked the woman as she turned, using a card strapped to a small retractable clip to open the door.

“I’m Masha.” She opened the door and stepped in, arm out to her side. “Welcome.”

Three hours later,Dahlia slumped on an elegant couch in the sumptuous upstairs living room. From here, she had a perfect view of the veranda and beyond that, the sea, which was a deep blue-gray in this light.

The ground floor had a dining room, small sitting room, library-like office, sauna and private massage room—all they had to do was call the front desk to send a masseuse. Glass doors in the sitting room led out to the pool deck. A teak table and chairs were positioned under the overhang created by the upstairs veranda, offering outdoor seating, while eight chaise lounges—eight was the maximum sleeping capacity of the four-bedroom villa—were ready for sunbathers, a folded towel topped by an orchid waiting on each chair. There was a chef’s kitchen too, and Masha had seemed a little scandalized that they’d foregone the option to have a private chef for the week.

The upper floor housed all four bedrooms—three to the left of the large central living room she currently sat in, one to the right—a small office, kitchenette, a temperature- and humidity-controlled wine closet, and several locked supply closets.

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