The Professional Part 1 (The Game Maker Series) by Cole Kresley

Author:Cole, Kresley [Cole, Kresley]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster UK
Published: 2013-12-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Guard dogs and machine guns. Why was I even surprised?

At the beginning of the driveway, a pair of two-story white stone towers formed an arc over ornate iron gates. Uniformed men were poised in front of the structure, weapons at the ready, dogs snarling.

Our driver rolled down the window and spoke to a guard, who seemed to be trying to get a look at me. I supposed they must be curious about Kovalev’s long-lost daughter.

A motor whirred as the gates opened. When they closed behind us, Sevastyan relaxed a degree, just as he had once we’d gotten into the air. His expression grew a shade less grim.

“Well.” I exhaled a surprised breath. “That was different.”

“The security has been increased for your presence. Kovalev will take no chances. But you shouldn’t be frightened. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I’m not frightened, I’ve just never been out of the Corn Belt before. And now this . . .”

“I know, pet.” I caught his glance at my lap, where I was twining my fingers together, and thought he had the impulse to hold my hands again. But he didn’t.

The drive meandered through what looked like a park, with hill after hill of golf course–quality lawn. The sun began to break through lowering clouds.

I wanted to pay attention to everything, to memorize my first experience here, but again I was distracted by Sevastyan.

As we crossed a charming wooden bridge, I noticed he was analyzing me. Determining my reaction to this place?

The trees grew more numerous, dense forests changing colors with the fall. The leaves on the birches and other hardwoods were a riot of burnished orange, russet, and gold—gold like Sevastyan’s eyes.

When we neared a colossal structure beside a lake, I cried, “Is that it?” The walls and columns were ivory, the tiled roof topped with three copper domes, green with patina. “Domes! Oh, it’s gorgeous!” No dingy, Soviet-era monolith here. The lake was so glassy, the building cast a surreal reflection. I was in love, ready to declare myself home—

“That’s the lake folly.” At my raised brows, Sevastyan added, “A quaint place for guests to take tea.”

“Oh.” Onward we drove.

We passed a stable that must have had fifty stalls. “How many horses are there?”

“Dozens. Kovalev loves animals.”

White tigers, anyone? Maybe he’d have caged Russian bears.

As we rounded a curve, a mansion came into view. No, not a mansion—a palace.

Jaw drop.

“That is it,” Sevastyan said.

From a main three-story building, two wings stretched beyond my line of sight. It was the size of a freaking state building, but with so much more charm. I realized that the lakeside folly was a miniature of the mansion. The late afternoon sun gleamed off more copper domes. “I . . . this . . .”

“It’s a former tsar’s residence,” Sevastyan said. “Twenty years ago, it was in bad shape, about to be renovated as a museum and Russian landmark. Kovalev bought it instead and painstakingly restored it.”

“So it’s historical.” My heart was racing. “You didn’t tell me I’d be staying in .

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