Page 47 of Cognac Villain

Before the guilt can slither under my skin, I silence the phone and slide it back in my pocket.

As soon as I set foot on the brick patio, the door from the kitchen opens and Niles steps outside. I can tell he has been waiting for me.

“Mrs. Pu—Cora,” he corrects himself deftly. “A few of the things I’ve ordered for you have arrived. I wanted to let you know in case you wanted to unpack them yourself.”

“Already? It’s only been a few hours.”

His smile is slight, but proud. “I have a wonderful working relationship with many designers and boutiques. They were happy to put something together on short notice for Mr. Pushkin’s new bride.”

Bride. I’ll never get used to hearing that word. Certainly not when it’s aimed in my direction.

“You really didn’t have to go to all the trouble for me, Niles.”

“Of course I did,” he says. “It was my pleasure, but more than that, Ivan insisted.”

Appearances, I tell myself.This is just about appearances.

Everything we’re doing is for the charade. It will be more believable that a man like Ivan could be slumming it with a girl like me if I’m wearing the right clothes. As a bonus, a whole slew of shopkeepers and designers now know Ivan Pushkin is engaged. The word is spreading.

All part of his plan.

I swallow down my panic and force a smile to my face. “Thank you so much, Niles. I’ll be inside in a minute.”

He bows and slips away.

I go back and forth for a few moments on what I want to do, but in the end, exhaustion wins out. I’ll unpack and then take a nap. Everything will feel more manageable after a bit of rest.

I take one long look at the backyard and then steel myself as I walk through the doors into the kitchen.

Niles has disappeared and the kitchen is empty. There’s a tray of fruit and cheese left on the counter. It reminds me of going to open houses with my mom, back before she married my stepfather and after my biological dad left. I can’t count how many stale chocolate chip cookies, tiny pickles, and lukewarm finger sandwiches we pilfered from real estate agents who would never get our business.

I take a cheese square for old times’ sake and nibble on it as I walk out of the kitchen.

I cut across the formal living room and am almost to the entryway when I hear heavy footsteps on the stairs. I freeze. It’s too late to run back to the kitchen—whoever is coming would see me retreating. But I can’t force myself to keep walking into some unknown social situation.

Then a set of strong thighs come into view. Followed by a devastatingly tapered waist wrapped in a tight gray t-shirt. I don’t need to keep looking to know this body is topped with a square jaw and molten amber eyes.

Ivan jogs down the stairs.

He looks like he’s in a hurry. Maybe he’ll breeze right out the door. Maybe he won’t see me.

I stay still, watching him descend the stairs and start to turn in my direction. But before he can see me, a female voice cuts through the quiet.

“Why haven’t you called me?”

A woman steps into the doorway. Her back is to me, but she has an hourglass shape and dark, wavy hair that falls to her mid-back. She’s in a tall pair of wedges and a breezy summer dress. It doesn’t take a detective to recognize that she is gorgeous.

Nor to see how Ivan’s face lights up when he sees her.

The sight of his genuine smile nearly knocks me backwards. Straight, white teeth behind full lips.

My God in heaven above, is that a dimple in his right cheek?

The heat stirring in my core is immediately doused when the woman throws herself into Ivan’s arms…and he hugs her back.

“I’ve been busy,” he murmurs into her dark hair. “But I’m fine.”

“And how the hell was I supposed to know that?” She pulls back and squeezes his elbows as if she’s making sure they’re still properly attached. “Yasha told me there was a shooting and then immediately stopped responding. You need to talk to him about his phone etiquette.”

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