Page 13 of Scarlet Angel

“No, thank you. I’m good. For now.”

“Thank god,” Lina says. “I swear the temperature is dropping. Do we need to go back to the Savoy to retrieve your luggage? We can be on the way in?—”

“She has her luggage,” Nikolai says. “And after an emotional day, I imagine Scarlet would enjoy a night by the fire.”

A misty fog blankets the horizon, and the damp chill penetrates my funeral attire. “A fire sounds heavenly,” I admit.

Nikolai studies me with an intimate intensity. I’m not sure what it is about those judgmental, stormy eyes, but I swear his gaze lasers every inch of skin he peruses.

Lina looks between us, still grinning, and leaves us, humming a silly tune.

“Tomorrow, the weather should be a touch warmer. You can return any time you wish.”

He’s perceptive. And, I suppose, kind when it suits. “Thank you.”

Nikolai gives a polite, dismissive nod, and heads in the opposite direction to the two vehicles parked further down the lane. A man in a black overcoat leans against a black four-door Audi. He might be security or a driver. He didn’t attend the service.

“Are you not coming with us?” I call after Nikolai.

Should I follow him? Or his sister?

“I’ll catch up,” he says without turning around.

His sister it is. Upon catching up to Lina, I ask, “How far is it to the house?”

We flew to Nikolai’s estate in a helicopter this morning. I saw the property from the air, but my bearings were off. We were whisked away into an awaiting processional of limousines, and we drove to the church and then to the graveyard.

“It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. Five-minute drive. Would you rather drive?”

“Isn’t Nikolai taking the car?”

“Nick. Don’t call him Nikolai. He hates it.” She taps into her phone, and the black limousine pulls forward, leaving Nikolai and the man with the black overcoat. “On second thought, do. Always call him Nikolai.”

She grins like the devil. There’s a balled-up tissue in her hand, but that’s the only sign she’s straight off a funeral.

“Will Nikolai walk?” She looks victorious at my use of his name, but I don’t know him well enough to apply a nickname.

“No need to fret. He won’t be long.”

I’m hardly fretting. “Do you always take limousines?”

“That would be pretentious, don’t you think? Nick thought your family would appreciate a traditional funeral procession.”

“So, he rented them?”

“Well, he doesn’t own one.”

Interesting. Nikolai performs the same as my mother.

“But we have hired drivers, so let’s take advantage, shall we? I’m cold, and my feet hurt.”

Lina scrolls on her phone for the duration of the short ride to the stone mansion. The expansive, manicured lawn, even when coated in fall’s yellows and browns, impresses. A fountain in front splatters water over four tiers of stone. Small pebbles in alabaster tones adorn the circular area around the fountain, and cobblestone graces the drive and the courtyard.

“You have a beautiful home,” I say.

The uniformed driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview, but he quickly averts his gaze.

“It’s not mine,” Lina says.

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