Russian Tattoos Obsession
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Authors: Kat Shehata
RUSSIAN TATTOOS
By Kat Shehata
RUSSIAN TATTOOS
Copyright © 2015 by Kat Shehata. All rights reserved.
First Print Edition: January 2016
Limitless Publishing, LLC
Kailua, HI 96734
Formatting: Limitless Publishing
ISBN-13: 978-1-68058-444-8
ISBN-10: 1-68058-444-8
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
For A.C.S.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Crooked
The old Camry turned onto a narrow driveway, overhung by naked tree branches, and stopped in front of a wrought-iron security gate. Dad popped a handful of mints into his mouth, then pressed an intercom button to announce our arrival. A buzzer sounded, and the gate opened. With barbed wire surrounding the compound and the elaborate security measures, it seemed more like a maximum-security prison than a private residence.
Dad rolled the car forward and eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Thanks for giving up your Friday night, Carter.” He has one of those round, jolly faces that put people at ease, but since his layoff, it was rare to see him smile. “Vladimir is anxious to meet you.”
“No problem. Campus is boring on the weekends, anyway,” I lied. I had no clue why some Russian billionaire had to meet
me
before he offered my dad a job, but since Dad had been unemployed since the spring, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“Fair warning, your dad’s been bragging about you,” my stepmom, Karen, said.
The tires crackled on the gravel as we inched our way toward a humungous estate—grander than any of the houses we had passed on the road. It was hard to imagine a twenty-seven-year-old techie could afford this swanky mansion.
“Where did you meet this Russian genius?”
“Funny story. He was behind me in line at Starbucks and noticed a logo on my computer bag from an IT conference I’d attended last year. We got to talking and it turns out he’s hiring a CIO, so I gave him my business card. I know it’s a big jump from my last job, but…”
I patted his shoulder assuredly. “It must be fate. He’d be crazy not to pick the greatest, uh, IT wizard, programmer, tech support, computer fixer guy ever, right?”
Karen put her hand on Dad’s leg and squeezed his knee in support of my mini pep talk. Her lips quivered, and then she tilted her head up, blotted her index fingers under her eyes, and flipped down the visor to check for mascara smears. Our financial situation had reached the tipping point. Dad had to get this job.
“There’s a peacock.” I tapped on the window.
I guess the bird heard me, or maybe it was afraid of the car, but it cawed and escaped to the safety of a low-hanging tree limb. It sounded totally freaked out.
Beware. Turn around. Run for your lives…
At the top of a flight of marble stairs, a scowling butler opened the double mahogany doors and swept his arm forward, but didn’t utter a word. His invitation skills could use some work. The scent of burning firewood greeted us in the entryway, which was illuminated by an impressive crystal chandelier that hung above our heads. If it fell, it would kill us all.
The butler handed us house slippers in exchange for our street shoes, a Russian thing, I surmised. I changed out of my flats, and a domineering man with bushy eyebrows met us in the foyer. His body was so massive, I bet he could bench press ten of me.
“Good evening Mr. and Mrs. Cook. I am Boris Chuchin, Vladimir Ivanov’s personal assistant.” His creepy Russian accent was so thick, I could barely understand him. Dad introduced Karen and presented Boris with a bottle of wine I was certain cost more than our weekly grocery budget. Boris didn’t smile or nod or even pretend to give a shit about the wine—or Karen.
“And this is my daughter, Carter.” Dad put his hands on my shoulders and nudged me toward the big guy like he was serving up some tasty offering to appease the Village Giant.
Boris, who resembled a buffalo standing on his hind legs, let out a
humph
sound and glared at me like I was something nasty Dad had dragged into the master’s house on the bottom of his shoe.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Ch-ch-chuch—” I held out my hand.
“Boris.” He stroked his bristly salt and pepper beard and eyed my hand like I had bird crap splattered across my palm. “I will let Vladimir know you have arrived.” He narrowed his eyes at me and then left to fetch his boss.
Jeez. Are college girls germy plague-carriers back in Russia?
As we waited, a black and white drawing of a woman with a lopsided face caught my attention. The picture hung on the wall next to an office to the right of the foyer. I squinted to see the signature: Picasso. The genius could afford anything he wanted.
From across the room, Boris opened a set of French doors, and Vladimir breezed into the living room with the confidence of a sexy, expensive-suit-wearing, long and lean Russian god.
“Ricky, my friend.” He cruised over to Dad and greeted him with a smile and a handshake like they had known each other for years. His perfectly tousled blond hair was slicked back in a devil-may-care manner, and soft ringlets congregated above his crisp, white collar. I made a mental note to sneak a picture of him for my best friend Kiki. I did not possess the vocabulary to do this sexy Russian justice.
Dad introduced Karen, and then Vladimir directed all his energy down on me. His stare was intense and his blue eyes lit up with adoration as though he
recognized
me. “
Privet
, Miss Cook.” His words were laced with a delicious Russian accent. “Your papa speaks highly of you. It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh.”
Flesh.
I felt my cheeks warm. “Nice to meet you.” I offered my hand for a businesslike shake, then pulled it back when I recalled Boris’s grossed-out reaction to my gesture. Vladimir’s lips curled into a smile. He lifted my hand. The warmth of his touch, the scent of his expensive cologne, and the rush of nervous excitement that his lips were about to make contact with my skin made my belly tingle with anticipation.
“Champagne?” Boris slid in between us with a silver tray glistening with five flutes of liquid gold, momentarily breaking the spell his boss had over me.
I inhaled a shaky breath and glanced away, embarrassed by my reaction to Dad’s incredibly hot, potential new employer. Vladimir placed his other hand on top of mine and patted it apologetically. “Pardon me for staring, but you have your sister’s beautiful hazel eyes.”
I blinked like a clubbed seal. “How do you know my sister? She’s
dead
.”
Neverland
Vladimir straightened his back and relaxed his penetrating stare. “My apologies, Miss Cook. I should have been more sensitive. The accident—such a pity.”
A pity? Sophia went up in flames.
“Sorry, I should’ve told you,” Dad said to me. “Funny story. After we got to talking the other day, we discovered Vladimir knew your sister way back when. He lived in Brooklyn at the same time we did.” Dad’s forehead was as shiny as a greased pig. He dabbed off the sweat beads onto his sleeve and then draped his arm across my shoulder. “Some coincidence, huh?”
I shook off my bewilderment and gave Dad a reassuring smile. “Yeah, what’re the odds?”
“Let’s get some fresh air and enjoy our drinks outside.” Vladimir extended his elbow to escort me to the patio. I shrugged off Dad’s arm, placed my hand on Vladimir’s ripped bicep, and strolled away with him out back to a tropical Ohio paradise.
Despite the early December weather, the patio felt toasty and inviting. Heat lamps and potted palm trees lined the terrace, and a fireplace burned real wood next to the built-in stone bar. Vladimir handed Karen a glass of champagne and then offered one to me.
“Oh, I’m not old enough.”
“One small glass for a toast. I insist.” He had rings on all of his fingers—some were real and the others were tattoos.
I glanced over at Dad.
“One glass.” Dad would have never agreed under different circumstances.
Vladimir handed out the rest of the champagne. We raised our drinks. He said something that sounded charming in Russian. Of course, the three of us had no idea what it meant. He lifted his glass higher and translated the toast, “To new beginnings.”
We repeated the sentiment, clinked, and sipped. The bubbles tickled my nose. I had never tasted champagne—beer, wine, tequila, vodka, bourbon, yes—but nothing fancier than a top-shelf margarita on the rocks.
Vladimir wrapped his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the chic seating area by the fireplace. “Your papa tells me you’re a tennis player.” When he lowered his arm, his hand swept over the long, bouncy, blonde waves I had curled into my hair. “You play for your college team?”
“Vladimir plays, too.” Dad sounded relieved to move on to a subject more palatable than his dead daughter.
“I’m on two teams. My college team is finished with competitions for the year, so my teammates and I play in an interclub league to stay competitive.”
“Carter is an incredible athlete,” Dad said. “Her team conditions every morning before class, and then they play in the afternoon for a couple hours. The best part is, she practices at the tennis club next to our house, Queensgate, so she can live at home and commute to campus.”
“Lucky me,” I said, more sarcastically than I’d intended.
“You must be a talented athlete,” Vladimir said, taking in my muscular biceps and shoulders. I bit my lip and fantasized about the cut of his body under his perfectly tailored suit. When his eyes finished making a lap around my body, he smiled, unashamed I had busted him checking me out. I liked his scrutiny. It felt different than those horny guys on campus whose hungry eyes practically stripped girls naked as they walked through the quad.
“Just competitive.” I smoothed down the fabric of the curve-hugging green velvet dress I’d borrowed from Kiki.
“Competitive is an understatement,” Dad scoffed. “Last year during a high school soccer game, she fell and broke her arm—”
“I didn’t
fall
. The fullback tripped me.”
“How awful,” Vladimir said. “Did your team win the match?”
I pointed at Dad. “See? He gets it. What matters is the
outcome
of the game. Details about broken bones are just background noise.”
Vladimir’s eyes sparkled. He understood my win-or-die trying competitive spirit.
Dad tossed his hands up and laughed. “See these grays, Vladimir? I had a full head of thick dark hair—then, she hit high school.”
There’s his happy face.
“Finish the story, princess.” Dad’s cheeks were rosy, his complexion glowing.
“I stayed in the game, scored two goals, my team won. The end.”
Vladimir licked his lips. “I admire your fire, Miss Cook.” He lifted his champagne glass and rattled off something in Russian that sounded incredibly bold and supremely confident—and toe-curlingly sexy. He tried to clink my glass, but I held it back.
“Not until you tell me what it means.” I challenged him with a wry smile.
He lifted an eyebrow, unaccustomed it seemed to being denied. “Something good.” He flashed a wicked grin and raised his glass, not willing to reveal his secret. His teeth were crooked, but dazzling white.
I sighed in mock defeat and raised my glass, momentarily giving him the impression he had won. Then I clinked his glass and replied, “
Za zdorov'ye.
” I was sure I’d butchered the
to your health
toast I’d picked up from Dad’s Russian culture book he’d been studying, but Vladimir seemed intrigued at my attempt to impress him.
“
Touché
, Miss Cook.” Vladimir winked and downed his drink, amused either by the idea I had outplayed him or my horrid attempt to speak his language.
The staff laid out a spread of hors d’oeuvres on the table behind us. I’m a vegetarian, and it’s chancy for me to find food at parties. Even if I thought I had a green light, sure enough, I would taste chicken broth or bacon and have to choke it out into my napkin. Just the smell of cooked meat was enough to trigger a gag reflex. I decided to play it safe and steer clear of the buffet, so Dad wouldn’t have to worry about my ‘overreaction’ to rotting flesh.
“My personal chef has prepared this meal with my tastes in mind. I don’t eat meat,” Vladimir said. “I hope it’s enough to sustain you.”
No. Freaking. Way.
Boris brought out a bottle of vodka and set it down in front of his boss. Worried I had stolen the limelight from Dad, I made a plate and wandered off to sit at an outdoor couch at the edge of the patio that overlooked the pool. I didn’t want to be a distraction as they imbibed and hopefully discussed the details of the job Dad so desperately needed.
I felt the searing heat of Boris’s intimidating gaze and tossed him an obligatory grin. He narrowed his eyes at me like I was some troublemaking rodent that needed to be exterminated and disappeared inside the house. Flipping through my phone, I saw my aunt had sent me a picture of my little sister cuddling a calico cat in her lap. Since we would be out way past her bedtime, Megan was spending the night with Karen’s sister. I texted her back.
Sweet! Tell Chloe meow, meow, meow.
Kiki had sent me a string of images from her downtown holiday adventure, including a hot one of our friend Ryan, who I’ve had a crush on since high school. She and our friends went to Fountain Square, which had ice-skating, and a nativity scene with a real reindeer, and a band…
I heard the tapping of toenails on the patterned concrete and set down my cell. Two big, poufy poodles pranced at my feet and whimpered for attention. “Hi, cuties.” I held out my hands to greet them.
Boris towered over me, restraining them with long, leather leashes. “This one is Gustav,” he pointed to the black one, “and gray bitch is Anastasia.”
“Oh, they’re so sweet. I used to carry twin poodles around with me when I was little, a black one and a white one—well, it started off white and then turned gray because I wouldn’t let Dad drown her in the washing machine.”
I picked up my cell and tapped the screen. “See?” I showed Boris a picture of my late sister Sophia hugging me as I cuddled my favorite stuffed animals in my arms. It was taken in Brooklyn before Dad moved us here to a suburb of Cincinnati. It was a windy day, and our wild hair was flying all over the place. I laughed, remembering the fun we’d had at Coney Island. Our biological mother ditched our family when I was a baby and Sophia was eight, leaving my big sister to fill her maternal shoes.
Boris glanced at the picture and managed a tiny smile that looked painful for him to conjure up. “You look like big sister.”
“Dad said my resemblance to her is
haunting
.”
He made a
humph
sound and handed me the dog’s leads. “Take them out back to play. Be careful of construction.” He picked up a remote from the bar and turned on the lights to illuminate the yard.
Across the patio, Karen and Dad cooed. I turned to see what they were gawking at, and then it was my turn to be wowed. The construction Boris was referring to was a nearly completed tennis court.
“Next time bring your racquet,” Vladimir called out to me. His meat-free bachelor pad was too good to be true. Alcohol, playful poodles, and a tennis court: My own personal
Neverland.
