Page 49 of His to Ruin

“Do they?” Piotr speaks as if the notion is absurd.

I shake my head in disbelief and decide to steer the conversation toward safer waters.

“So, how was your morning?”

“Good. I sent some trusted envoys to help deal with a transport problem and I signed a deal to buy a plot of land in central London.”

“Is there land to buy in central London?” I ask, scowling as Piotr grabs a cube of cheese, his hand perilously close to the paper bag that contains my chocolate éclair.

“Yes, but it’s hard to find and very expensive.”

“I’m sure you got a good deal.”

Piotr flashes a shark-like grin. It’s deeply unsetting.

“After some negotiation, yes.”

“I know little about your business.” I drink some champagne from the half bottle I bought at the deli. Public drinking makes me feel naughty, but to hell with it. This is Paris and the rules are different here. “I know little about you.”

He spreads his arms out like he’s an open book. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, for a start, your age.”

“How old do you think I am?”

I am not playing a guessing game with him. “Somewhere on the right side of sixty.”

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“Young to be a Pakhan.”

Piotr shrugs. “Daniil Lenkov was in his early twenties when he formed his own organization. What else do you want to know?”

“When your birthday is.”

“October seventh.”

Does he possess typical Libran qualities? Perhaps. He does have an eye for beauty. He married me, after all.

“Mine is July twenty-sixth.”

“A few weeks away.” Piotr smiles. “You’ll be twenty-one, right?”

“Yes.” I shouldn’t be so pleased he knows how old I’ll be. It’s the bare minimum of information a couple should have about each other. “Where were you born?”

“Moscow, but I left there when I was three. I was raised in New York and London by my grandmother and Uncle Boris. I dropped out of an economics degree at Cambridge after six months to help my uncle win a war against the Irish.”

“You went to Cambridge?”

He quirks an eyebrow in response to my obvious incredulity. “Did you think I was all looks and no brain?”

I roll my eyes. “No, I thought you were all modesty and humility.”

“Those words are not in my vocabulary, nor do I think they’re in yours. You aren’t afraid to flaunt your beauty.”

I’ve been lauded for my physical attributes my entire life, so he’s right that I’m not shy about how I look. My issue is trying to show people I also have a brain. I wonder if there was a touch of judgment in Piotr’s tone just then.

“Are we back to that bullshit about my dress?”

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