Let It Go: Sergey (Mikhailov Brothers Book 1) Page 3

  “Why don’t you look like a creepy homeless surfer?” I accused with panic.

  He smiled and ignored me. Holding his hand out for mine, he asked for my keys, eased me into the hall and locked the door behind us.

  My eyes stayed on him as we made our way to the lobby. I gave the doorman a wave of goodbye and stepped into the night with a re-purposed Creepy Homeless Surfer.

  He deposited me in the passenger seat of his Ford F-150 Raptor. I was instantly thankful that I agreed to the wraparound green dress the Toni wanted me to wear. No frills, tapered to the knees to minimize the view that climbing into the truck would offer.

  We had been driving for some time when I finally spoke. I cleared my throat. My mouth was dry.

  “Where does your sister live?”

  As I waited for his response, it occurred to me that I was driving with a man whose name I didn’t know to an unknown location. My imagination started me down a road of death and dismemberment at the hands of a sexy, diabolical cop.

  His voice brought me out of my daydream.

  “She and her husband bought an old colonial in Castle Hill. They have been renovating it for eighteen months. They’ve been living with our grandmother, Irina for about a year.”

  A renovated house in Castle Hill! If her husband was an architect I was going to freak out.

  “Is she your only sister?

  “No,” he laughed. “I have three sisters and two brothers.”

  “That must have been fun growing up. Such a big family.”

  “Only people from small families think big families are fun.”

  I chuckled and replied, “I suppose so. Do they all live in Austin?”

  “My mother died when I was sixteen. My sisters and I stayed in Austin. Both my brothers moved away with my father.”

  “Why didn’t you all stay together?” I could not imagine what would have led the family to split like that.

  “My father didn’t give my brothers a choice. My sisters and I were old enough to refuse.”

  By the tenor of his answer, I could tell there was a lot more to the story. I didn’t push it.

  After a moment of silence he asked, “What about you?”

  “You mean you didn’t discover all about me when you investigated me?”

  “No, smart ass, I didn’t investigate you. So?”

  “So what?”

  “So what about your family?”

  I always hated this question. People always gave me that pitiful little look that only served to piss me off. He deserved an answer. Just not the whole story.

  “Both my parents are gone. My dad when I was seven and my mom when I was ten...” That was enough.

  I felt his touch on my cheek. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  I hesitated for a moment then lied, “No.”

  I heard him sigh and then we fell into silence.

  When we arrived, the street was packed with cars. He parked the truck a block away, requested that I remained seated and came around to open my door. His hand extended and extracted me from the cab. Without a word, he put my hand into the crux of his arm and we made our way to his sister’s new home.

  The house, a stunning Queen Anne style building, perched above us on a hill top. Steps led up to the wraparound porch adorned with mature wisteria and vining roses. Lighting cast a soft buttery glow on the façade adding an air of mystery and romance. Above the porch another deck hugged the upper floor with a white lattice frame. Mike Brady would have been envious.

  My date’s hand stilled on the doorknob, my hand still resting on his arm, he turned and looked down at me. His brow knitted and he paused before asking, “You ready for this?” I wasn’t sure if he was asking me or himself.

  He raised his arm to knock when the door swung wide and a mountain of a man with a huge smile and a shiny baldhead greeted us.

  “Dobro pozhalovat, Sergey i miledi!” He extended his hand to me and pulled, enveloping me into a hug. The tips of my shoes barely on the floor. I felt a large, warm hand on the small of my back as I was plopped on my feet. My date, his hand continuing to steady me, came to stand beside me.

  The men shook hands and embraced and exchanged a few more pleasantries in, what I thought was, rapid fire Russian and then the mountain was gone, weaving around the clusters of partygoers.

  My date confirmed my suspicion that Russian was the language being spoken. “And that big man who answered the door. He called you...”

  “Sergey,” he finished.

  “I thought he said Sergey Emeladi.” Is Emeladi your last name?”

  “No, Boris said ‘Welcome Sergey and My Lady’.” My last name is Mikhailov.” He seemed to say it as an apology.

  As we made our way to the different clusters of relatives and friends, Sergey explained that his father’s parents immigrated to the United States from Russia before he was born.

  The house was filled with music that reminded me of “Fiddler on the Roof.” The warmth and camaraderie was contagious.

  Within an hour of our arrival I had met two sisters and their husbands. Countless nieces, nephews, aunts and uncles. Friends. Old and new neighbors. For whatever reason they spoke loudly and hugged hard.

  Sergey was a wonder. The gruff lout I had met in booking and saw at the grocery was gone. This man exuded affection for everyone he introduced me to. He had an elegant social grace that I had only ever seen in my best friend, David.

  His friends and family obviously loved him. Everyone was so glad to see him. So proud of his work as a police officer. I got the impression it had been awhile since he had made an appearance at a family function.

  As we made our way across the room, I tried to steal a few inconspicuous glances his way. I needed to reassess this man. My initial impressions were flawed.

  His smile was open and genuine. His eyes twinkled as he offered salutations to people as we walked. Everyone seemed to know him by name. And he knew everyone.

  I had been worried that I would have to carry the burden of generating all the social small talk. However, I was the liability tonight.

  Sergey had pulled me to a window seat. Together we sat and watched the party.

  “You are quieter than I thought you would be, Evelyn.” His observation startled me out of my contemplation.

  “Sorry, the night…” I paused and then continued “…you are not what I was expecting.”

  He took my hand into his and brushed my knuckles across his lips. Muscles in my abdomen reacted. “And what were you expecting, Moya zvezda?”

  Watching his lips as he spoke, my tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  “Well,” I started. “I was expecting the homeless surfer dude I met at booking. Rough and uncouth.” I grinned.

  He chuckled and his eyes left my face for a moment to watch something over my shoulder. Someone had just arrived. A line creased his forehead for a moment and then it was gone. His focus came back to me.

  “Well,” he mimicked. “I can be rough when the situation calls for it. And my sisters’ nickname for me is dikar.”

  “What does ‘de car’ mean?”

  Sergey grinned and we stood.

  One hand travelled around my waist to my back as he pressed me into his body. His head came down. We were nose to nose. “It means savage,” he said with a growl.

  My head was swimming when Sergey pulled me to a tall, dark-haired man. I hadn’t noticed him earlier. Perhaps he was the late arrival.

  He was handsome in a somber sort of way with inky black hair and a nose like Sergey’s that curved into a slope with an upturn at the end. Once they were next to one another, the resemblance was obvious. They shared many of the same features but Sergey had a certain luminosity. His smile, his demeanor, made you want to get closer. Looking at Sergey warmed me when I didn’t even know I was cold. This man, stood erect, his back to the wall, his eyes active and alert and his mouth in a thin stingy line. He made me uneasy. Sergey sensed my reticence and rested
his hand on my lower back. In fact, every time a man came near me, he was there. Touching. Discreetly marking his territory.

  The men nodded but exchanged no words of greeting. Then the man spoke.

  “Are you going to introduce me to your lady big brother or are you not affording me the honor?” His voice was thick, deep and rough, like lava pouring over rock. He had a faint Russian accent and he kept his eyes on me as he spoke to Sergey.

  “Evelyn Snow…this is my little brother, Dragan Mikhailov.”

  I extended my hand and smiled. “Nice to me you, Dragan.”

  He took my hand and folded it into his. They were large and heavily tattooed.

  I had watched Eastern Promises with Toni twelve times just to see Viggo Mortensen’s butt. I was certain I knew what all the tattoos meant.

  “My big brother is a lucky man. You are a beautiful woman.” His gaze ran down my body and back up. I felt myself move closer to Sergey, wrapping my arm around his.

  Sergey spat a string of gravelly alien words at Dragan. Both men looked agitated. Animosity seemed to radiate off them.

  “I am sorry, Sergey, but I am so thirsty. Would you mind showing me to the bar?”

  I hoped my request would break the tension. For a moment longer, both men stared at one another, eyes level. Dragan’s hands fisted at his side.

  “Of course,” Sergey finally responded.

  I nodded to Dragan and together Sergey and I walked toward the bar.

  With champagne flutes in hand, I could see my date visibly relax. I acknowledged a feeling of protectiveness that washed over me. He seemed hurt and I didn’t like it. I thought a little brevity was in order.

  With a nervous laugh I shared, “had I known you were so good looking under all that hair, I would have shaved my legs.”

  Sergey laughed then, the lines that had etched his face, smoothed. His smile uncomplicated by acrimony.

  He winked. “Just your legs, Moya zvezda?”

  I felt my face burn and he chuckled, guiding me through the party. After my second champagne, we approached a stunning raven-haired woman seated in an upholstered chair near the fireplace. Around her were at least ten other women of various ages. She looked like a queen holding court.

  Sergey, leaned down and kissed the woman on both cheeks. Her hands cupping his face, she rattled Russian at him then her eyes came to me.

  “Babushka, eto moy drug, Evelyn Snow.”

  “Evelyn, this is my grandmother, Irina Mikhailov.”

  I offered my hand and she stood, took it and kissed me as she had her grandson. How was she a grandmother? She looked no more than fifty-years old. Her skin was flawless and unlined.

  She stared back at me with amusement. “You look perplexed little lamb.”

  “I’m sorry. You are so lovely. How are you a grandmother?”

  “And you are a beauty, Miss Evelyn Snow.” Her accent was somehow guttural and melodious at the same time. Her hands kept going to Sergey’s face. Touching a cheek, his hair. Like she was confirming he was really there. Though she was a darker version of his sisters’ this woman lacked the warmth in her eyes. She reminded me of Toni. She saw everything and was rarely impressed.

  “You stayed away too long. It hurts your sisters. You need to be remember who your family is, boy.” The censor in her voice unnerved me. I could imagine that this was the only person who could talk to Sergey like that.

  “And you need to remember you don’t own me, Irina. Watch it,” my date corrected. Ok, maybe no one talked to him like that.

  Irina turned her attention back to me. The exchange with her grandson forgotten. She took my hands into hers. Her fingers were long and cold.

  “Have you ever been married?” she asked me.

  “No ma’am.”

  “Children?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Don’t you want babies?”

  “Irina,” Sergey began to protest. His hand started to extract me from the woman’s grasp.

  “Yes, ma’am. I would love to be a mother someday.”

  “Good,” she replied, smacking Sergey’s hand away. “I don’t trust those women who say they don’t want children. It is what God made us for, yes?”

  The question was clearly rhetorical because she abruptly turned back to her seat and resumed her conversation with no one and everyone.

  We found Brenna Orlov in the kitchen. Of the three Mikhailov sisters, she was the only one to marry a Russian immigrant—Boris, the mountain. A fact that was relayed to me many times over the course of the night. As catering and wait staff buzzed around her, she sat in a breakfast nook at the far end of the room, spooning something pureed a bright orange into a baby’s mouth. When she saw her brother, a huge grin spread across her face, her head shaking in laughter.

  “Sergey, I have never been so glad to see a man’s face. Thank goodness you removed all that awful hair.” Her eyes sparkled at her brother then moved to me.

  “You must be Evelyn. I am so glad to meet you.”

  I nodded and smiled. “Congratulations on your lovely home. I brought you a little something.”

  I opened my clutch and retrieved a small black sachet tied with yellow ribbon. It stored the nuggets of pink Himalayan sea salt.

  “How wonderful!” Brenna exclaimed. “This is a traditional housewarming gift in Russia. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I responded. In truth, I had searched Google the night before looking for gift ideas because I had never been to a housewarming party before. I did not tell her that.

  I let the pair wax on about my thoughtfulness. I had proven once again that the internet was good for something more than shopping and porn.

  Brenna spoke, jerking me from my thoughts, “When Sergey announced at dinner last night that he was bringing a date to the party we all nearly fainted. The last time he brought a woman into one of our houses, it nearly ended in bloodshed.”

  Sergey caught my look of surprise and clarified. “My sisters used to think it was fun to torment my dates. It was just a few tears,” he corrected. “...and... as I recall I got a kick in the balls for my trouble.”

  I looked at Brenna, assuming she had been the aggressor.

  “I didn’t do it. The girl, Sally or Slutty, some name like that, kicked him. What was her name, little brother?”

  I looked at Sergey and waited. It was comical to hear the massive man beside me being referred to as “little.” There was nothing little about him.

  “Brooke. And just because you work in adult entertainment, it doesn’t make you a slut?” he corrected

  Incredulous, I asked. “You brought a porn star to your sister’s home?” I heard Brenna giggle. Her focus back on the waiting mouth of the baby.

  “No, she was a stripper,” he said.

  “Oh, that is so much better,” I responded sarcastically.

  Brenna jumped in, “I know, right? We all knew he did it for the shock value but,” she paused, wiping the baby’s face and passing her on to me. “Hold Sylvie won’t you? I need to wash my hands.”

  As she cleaned the sticky sweet potatoes from her hands, she continued. “Like I was saying, all of us had been nagging Sergey to get married and settle down. He had just turned thirty-years old.

  Therefore, he thought it would be funny to bring the antithesis of what we want for him. A skinny blonde with a boob job and the personality of a throw rug.”

  As brother and sister debated the virtues of the slut named Brooke, I played with the little one in my arms.

  I loved babies. The smell of their heads, the cooing little laughs.

  I had contemplated pediatric nursing but I couldn’t deal with sick children. As a nurse, you have to maintain some professional distance. When I did my rotation in pediatrics while in college, I learned quickly that it wasn’t for me. I cried after my shifts and spent my meager disposable income on games and toys for the little patients with chronic conditions.

  I found Sergey watching with amusement while I did this
little piggy went to market on the baby’s toes. Brenna’s expression was different. Thoughtful. She undoubtedly realized she had just found a new babysitter.

  I reluctantly gave the baby back to Brenna who disappeared with baby Sylvie up a flight of stairs. I turned to find Sergey watching me.

  “You look good with a baby on your hip, Moya zvezda,” he said with a grin.

  I arched a brow, “What an unenlightened thing to say.” I scolded.

  He laughed. “Oh, I am full of uncivilized things to say. This is just the beginning,” he promised.

  After another hour of introductions, including more cousins and an odd little man known as Tump who resembled a potato, Sergey made us a plate of hors d'oeuvres to share. Without a word, he took my hand and led me into a small closed off pantry beyond the buffet.

  Door closed, seated and facing one another, he explained the various nibbles to me. There were blintzes with smoked salmon and sour cream and chives, pickled tomatoes and cucumbers, marinated beef and honeyed cake.

  “What do you want to try first?”

  I wanted to say the cake, but thought better of it.

  “A blintz,” I decided, reaching. Sergey beat me to it, scooped the fluffy little pancake up and told me to open my mouth.

  I did as I was told and bit, tasting the sweetness and smoke on my tongue. The sour cream was thick and tart. Sergey took the half I didn’t eat and plopped it in his mouth. His thumb brushed across my bottom lip to wipe away some cream. Without thinking, I took the tip of his thumb between my teeth and sucked it clean. Little shocks of excitement danced through me. The feel of him hard and calloused in my warm mouth was too much. My eyes fluttered shut for a moment. I heard the staccato of his breath as he withdrew his digit.

  When I opened my eyes, I watched the change in his irises. The foamy green was going dark, dangerous. My knees were between his now. Somehow, our bodies were closer.

  “What do you want to taste next, Moya zvezda?”

  “What does that word mean?”

  He hesitated a moment and replied. “It is a term of endearment.”