Page 45 of Lethal Legacy

I find Papa in the central salon, eating a delicious-looking fresh salad at a wide wooden table that, for once, is spacious enough to easily accommodate him.

“This.” He lifts his fork and gestures around at the villa. “Expensive,” he manages, his brows lowered in a frown.

“We can afford it, Papa.” I sit down opposite him and smile reassuringly. “My salary is more than enough to cover all of this, and more besides.”

But his frown only deepens. “Who—pay—so much?”

He might be handicapped, but his brain is as sharp as ever.

“I think they have family money, Papa. And the Holy Week school holidays are coming soon. They couldn’t find anyone on short notice. Like I said, they’ve previously used this when their own parents come to stay.” I cross my fingers under the table and mentally apologize for the lies. “It would have just been empty if you weren’t in it. And besides, it’s only for a few months.” I cover his hand with my own and lower my voice. “We’ll move on after that. And this place is secure. Nobody can get in or out without the codes.” This is probably my biggest relief. At least here, Papa will be safe from whoever might be looking for us.

If locked up in a bratva-owned villa is considered safe, of course.

But then again, that’s the kind of safety I understand. And which, at the moment, we both need.

I just have to make sure Papa doesn’t learn who, exactly, is offering us that safety.

He looks only marginally relieved. “Need—to—move,” he grunts. “Not—safe.”

“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “We will, Papa. But we need this money, too. And you need medical care. You’ll have physical and speech therapy while you’re here, which means that when we move next time, you will be even fitter than you are now.” This at least gets a grunt of approval.

“As soon as school holidays finish I can come and see you every morning, after the children are off to school. But this week, I will be caring for them full-time, so I might not come often. I will call every day, though, so you know I’m safe.” He nods, but the frown is settling in again.

“Shouldn’t—be—working,” he says, and I suppress a sigh. I know how humiliating it is for him to think of me, who was raised with my own au pair, caring for somebody else’s children. But this is our life now.

And at least he doesn’t know all of it.

“It’s a much better job than the café, Papa.” He grunts again, this time slightly less begrudgingly. I know how much he hated watching me work those hours. “But I do have to go.” I stand up. “I need to get settled in before the children arrive from London.”

One of the male nurses appears at the door, a smiling, strong-looking man who has a gentle manner and, clearly, the strength to move Papa about. By the time I leave, they are engaged in a game of chess on the terrace, and Papa actually manages a smile.

Ilied about getting settled in.

What I actually need to do is shop.

Roman’s contract did, in fact, give quite explicit instructions about the dress code required—for both aspects of my job. And Dimitry has clearly been given equally explicit instructions about where to take me to purchase what I need.

Over the next few rather bewildering hours, I’m dropped off at one boutique store after another, where I’m met by staff who greet me by name and with an assortment of clothes that all carry price tags I would have balked at even back in the days when I had access to a black credit card of my own.

For daytime there is a selection of casual but elegant outfits, from designer jeans and knit tops to dainty summer dresses. Everything from beachwear to yachting has been considered, as well as multiple options for entertaining the children at home. It’s divine to feel quality fabric against my skin again, to wear clothing that looks and feels likeme.The more formal daywear of pantsuits, neat skirts, and blouses will cover any meetings with teachers or other parents. But it’s when we get to the boutique catering to the other part of my contract that things get really interesting.

Dimitry, thankfully, drops me at the door, which has innocent-enough evening gowns in the window, and diplomatically offers to collect me a little later. After being fitted out for gowns for everything from a cocktail gallery opening to a royal visit, the assistant opens a door into another room, and I almost choke on my complimentary glass of champagne.

No wonder Dimitry made himself scarce.

The room is gilded as any palace—and full of a vast lingerie selection that makes Victoria Secret look like a bargain basement.

“We have our own designers,” explains Nina, the French woman outfitting me. “But we also have pieces from Italy, and France, of course. Now, we start with the basics.”

The basicsare matching sets of lingerie in a variety of luxury fabrics and sexy, if reasonably demure, cuts. They’re actually surprisingly low-key, though still sensual enough against my skin to send a thrill through me.

Daywear, I’m guessing.

These are followed by nightwear I imagine is for the children’s benefit, silk lounging pajamas and cami sets with matching robes.

Then, however, come Roman’s choices.

“So now we think of the nights, yes? We think of the man.”

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