Page 19 of Blood Mosaic

Tatyana continued. “In fact, you could take Pushkin and go up to the farm for a week or so. The weather will be better than the city.”

“You think I want to listen to that cat howling for three hours?”

Tatyana pressed her eyes closed. Her mother had been given a grey Siberian kitten when Tatyana was twenty and away at school. Even though she hadn’t known the cat from birth,Pushkin immediately took to Tatyana when she came home for holidays, and Anna had never truly forgiven the animal for preferring Tatyana when Anna was the one who fed and brushed him.

“I know Pushkin doesn’t like his carrier, but he loves being at the farm. Three hours isn’t that much if you’re staying for the week. It’s just an idea.” She noticed the driver turning onto the tree-lined street where SMO was located. “I need to go to work.”

“Don’t cause trouble.”

“I won’t, Mama.” She ended the call and noticed the driver watching her in the rearview mirror. “Parents.”

“I have two of them.” He shrugged. “I know.”

She muttered, “I only have the one, but most days she feels like three.”

The driver chuckled. “What would we do without them though?”

It was a horrible thought, so Tatyana didn’t even entertain it. “Do you only work for SMO? Is this a company car? I didn’t even ask if I should pay you.”

“No, no.” He waved a hand. “I’m always on call. A lot of the upper-level executives don’t drive. At least this car has power steering.”

Tatyana blinked. “Some of them don’t?”

“Mr. Sokolov and Mr. Arakis prefer antique vehicles.”

A flash of something in her memory.

“Relax, Tatyana.”

“Who are you?”

“Oleg.”

Another voice from outside the luxurious old car.

“The concierge is bringing a chair over.”

She’d been in an antique car with Mr. Sokolov the night before.

“OlegSokolov?”

The driver nodded. “Yes, Mr. Sokolov.”

But that was… impossible. The Oleg Sokolov she’d met couldn’t have been over fifty. If he was over forty, she would be shocked.

“What’s to stop me from taking that bag with all your documents and your computer and getting rid of you tonight?”

“Oleg.”

“Maybe I don’t want to give her a percentage of thirty million dollars she didn’t earn.”

Caught in the shock of thirty million dollars and the stressful negotiations with Sokolov the night before, the man’s first name had hardly registered.

It was a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. Oleg wasn’t a common name. It wasn’t uncommon either.

Because there was no way that the Oleg Sokolov—the beautiful and terrifying man who ran SMO International—was Zara’s own father.

Chapter Six

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