Page 16 of Dirty Damage

“A moment, Oleg.”

Not a request. Never a request with her.

Her office is a study in calculated intimidation. Antique Russian furniture with fanged edges. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Palm Beach’s skyline. Awards and photosstrategically placed to remind visitors of exactly who they’re dealing with.

Oksana Pavlova didn’t climb to the upper echelons of male-dominated industries by accident.

She closes the door with a soft click that somehow sounds like a jail cell locking.

“You know,” she says, settling behind her desk, “it would be a lot cheaper to get married and have children than to keep sinking millions into one-upping your uncle.”

I lean against the credenza, arms folded across my chest. This again.

The marriage gambit.

“An angry ex-wife could easily take half my fortune,” I counter. “That’s substantially more than the money I’ve invested so far.”

Mother waves the thought away “Don’t piss off your wife, then. And get an iron-clad prenup.”

The morning light catches on her amber eyes—my eyes, our family’s eyes.

She leans forward, voice dropping low. “With a wife and heir, you can wrest power from Boris and take your rightful place aspakhan. If you prove you’re serious about carrying on the family legacy, the rest of the family in Russia will force him to retire.”

There’s a hunger in her expression I recognize all too well. She’s sensed weakness—blood in the water. She believes she’s closer than ever to securing my capitulation on this particular front.

Since Father’s death twelve years ago, she’s been waging a silent war against Uncle Boris. The throne, in her mind, should have passed directly to me, not sideways to my father’s brother.

“The Pavlov name needs continuity, Oleg.” She reaches for her phone, tapping at the screen with manicured nails.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t bother looking. I know exactly what she’s sent—more profiles of “suitable wives” for her wayward son to consider. Polished, accomplished women with the right backgrounds, the right connections, and the right level of malleability.

“Not my type,” I tell her without bothering to look.

Her answering smile is glacial. “At this point, I don’t care. Marry the first damn woman you see. Just get her contracted and get her pregnant.” She pauses, eyeing me. “I know you have it in you.”

A chuckle escapes me before I can stop it.

If my mother had seen the last woman I’d laid eyes on, she’d be whistling a different tune.

Heat surges through my body at the memory—the daycare teacher in the locker room yesterday. Feisty. Curves that didn’t quit.

And absolutely, completely inappropriate.

The way she clutched those paper towels to her chest, defiance in her eyes even as her nipples betrayed her…

I shift my stance, trying to redirect the blood flow in my body.

“Okay,” my mother says, sensing advantage in my momentary distraction. “Think about this. If you marry a woman andshe’s pregnant within the next year, I’ll throw all my shares, all my power, and a considerable chunk of cash at your anti-surveillance idea.”

That catches my attention. “Any woman I choose?”

She swallows audibly, the only tell in her perfect poker face. “Yes.”

I can’t control my laughter then. Mother has never approved of my revolving door of lovers—the models, the actresses, the socialites—but she knows I have my reasons for keeping it casual.

Which is precisely why her desperation amuses me. My reasons will never go away.

“It’s a generous offer.”

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