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“Good news,” he announces. “You’re moving.”
Obviously, I heard him wrong. “I’m what?”
“The estate has already transferred the Bel Air mansion under your name. You’re going home, Alexandra Romanov.”
This is a joke. It has to be a joke.
“To a crime scene?”
“Look at it as owning a slice of history.”
I fly off the couch, pacing in front of him like a wild animal. “Then you move there. Enjoy your thirty-eight thousand square feet of blood-soaked bullshit.”
He grabs my arm, swinging me around to face him. “Well, you can’t live here. The world is watching. Shacking up with the guy who found you doesn’t exactly feed the fairy tale, now does it?”
“I have money now.” I try to jerk away, but he pulls me even closer. “Why can’t I buy my own place?”
“Because that’s not what they want. Alexandra Romanov has been gone from the public eye for fifteen years along with the keys to California’s version of Camelot. The people are hard up for a happy ending, and I’m giving it to them if it kills us. So, you’ll move into that goddamn house, and you’ll do it with a smile on your face.”
I want to yell. I want to scream. I want to punch him in the face.
But I don’t. What do I do?
I say the most juvenile thing possible. “Who’s Michaela?”
The hard lines in Dominic’s face ease into the barest hint of a smile. “Green’s one hell of a color on you, rook.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss. “I’m not jealous.” I am so jealous. “I’m invested. The conversation was about me, was it not?”
His smile fades, and he releases me to massage his thumb against his temple. “You’re throwing a party.”
“I’m what?”
“Michaela is the public relations director for the Romanov estate,” he explains, like I give a shit anymore. That train left the station thirty seconds ago.
“So?”
His hand stills, and he stares up at me through his spread fingers. “So, apparently a big party celebrating your return to Hollywood was a stipulation attached to the reward.”
“Why did you seem so angry about it?”
“I’m not angry about the party. I’m angry about—” He never finishes his thought because as usual, the doorbell rings. And if it’s not the doorbell, it’s a telephone call, or a text chime, or a camera flash. It’s a never-ending communications shit parade stomping all over our privacy.
I sigh. “It’s probably another reporter. Maybe People magazine? Time?” Spinning around, I toss him an exaggerated smirk. “Oh, how about Maxim? That might be fun.”
Dominic pins me with a fiery glare, growling as he reaches for the doorknob. “Over my dead body.”
I’m too tired to decode what that means, so I tuck it away for later and turn to head down the hallway when I hear an unfamiliar baritone voice filtering through the living room.
“Mr. McCallum?”
“Who wants to know?”
Something in Dominic’s voice stops me cold, but it’s the man’s response that paralyzes me.
“I’m Detective Javier Rubio with the LAPD. Is Miss Romanov here?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
