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Montana put his arm around Dahlia, and her amusement faded at the reminder of the parts they had to play. Vadisk put the cart in gear, and they started up the long drive to the main resort building.
Like the villa, the main resort was made of two types of contrasting stone. An expansive lobby, bar, restaurant, and spa were in the center, while two long halls branched off the lobby and led to the hotel rooms that were almost affordable. At least when compared to the per-night price of the villas. Vadisk parked their cart in one of the small spaces near the front door, and then fell into step behind her and Montana as they walked into the lobby.
Since they’d gone straight to their villa upon arrival, and been nonstop busy ever since, they hadn’t actually seen the main resort. Several expensively dressed people lounged in the lobby, drinks at their elbows. They were speaking Russian and watching Dahlia and Montana as they passed. Her simple sleeveless dress was cut loose enough that she could wear it almost anywhere, with a shirt underneath that would cover her arms, but the curved seaming gave it interest, and those in the know might recognize it was from a famous Moroccan designer.
Expensive as it might be, she wasn’t dripping wealth the way the other women in the lobby were, and Montana…
Well, Montana looked American. Even in his logo-less, generic slacks and short-sleeved button-down shirt, his nationality was identifiable in the way he wore his clothes, the cut of his hair, and the way he held himself.
Dahlia felt restless and exposed in a way she wasn’t used to.
Masha, the same woman who’d met them at the villa to give them their keys, came out from behind the front desk, greeting them in English, her consonants crisp in a way that said her teacher had most likely been British. “Please follow me.”
Dahlia pulled away from Montana to walk beside the women. “After I talk to Ms. Ivanova, I’d like to talk to you too.”
Masha blinked, looking alarmed. “Me?”
“Yes. I’d love to hear what it’s like to work somewhere like this.”
She shook her head, but Dahlia couldn’t tell if it was in surprise at being asked or denial of the request.
They stopped at a door with a small brass plaque, and their guide knocked once before inclining her head and making a hasty retreat.
Dahlia had time to exchange a look with Montana—she didn’t dare look at Vadisk—before the door opened. A tall woman with dark hair and smooth features ushered them in, smiling.
“Welcome, Ms. McKean. Please come in.” They shook hands, and Dahlia moved deeper into the lush office.
“Thank you for seeing me, Ms. Ivanova. This is my partner, Dr. Kingston.”
Montana shook hands with Izolda Ivanova too, as he followed Dahlia into the office.
“And this is our guide and translator, Mr. Vadisk Kushnir.”
Vadisk shook Izolda’s hand briefly, then immediately positioned himself beside the door, back to the wall, looking more like a bodyguard than a guide.
Izolda closed the door, then motioned for them to join her at a small seating area. The office was large and, surprisingly, one wall was entirely windows. According to Dahlia’s mental map, this was an interior room, and it was, but the windows looked out over a small courtyard that hadn’t been shown on the resort maps. It made her wonder how many other things weren’t on the maps. There could be whole buildings that weren’t shown, and given the hilly coastline and trees, those buildings could easily be hidden unless you went looking.
Izolda perched on an armchair, while Dahlia settled onto the small two-seater couch, her back to the window. Montana had stopped to look at a picture on the wall.
“It was my understanding that you didn’t need a translator,” Izolda said with a smile. The comment was clearly meant to intimidate her—to show that Izolda knew things. But it didn’t quite ring true. The woman was younger than she’d first seemed, the heavy foundation she wore aging her. As Dahlia watched, she tucked her fingers under her thigh, almost sitting on her hand, probably to stop any nervous fiddling.
“I do speak some Russian,” Dahlia said with a self-deprecating smile. “But it has been a long time, and I didn’t want to miss anything important due to my own deficiencies in such a beautiful language.”
“And I don’t speak any Russian,” Montana said as he joined her. “So Vadisk is mostly here for me.”
“Ah, well, you should learn Russian, Dr. Kingston.”
“I should,” Montana agreed with a smile.
“What we’ve seen of Crimea so far is beautiful, and the history is so complex and rich,” Dahlia said, laying the compliments down thick.
They chatted for several minutes about the history of Crimea. Izolda skirted any mention of the recent conflicts or the current occupation, and referred to Crimea as if it was now, and always had been, a part of Russia, populated by Russians, ignoring that Crimean was its own unique entity with a native population that had been systematically displaced.
Eventually, Dahlia was able to steer the conversation back to the resort itself. “Tell me more about Crimean Sky. I chose this resort because, based on my research, it’s one of the oldest resorts in Crimea.”
“It is. The first building—a small hotel with only ten rooms—was constructed over sixty years ago. The private cottages, which are now villas, were added about ten years later.”
“That’s the original resort?” Montana pointed to the picture on the wall. The landscape in the grainy photo was recognizable as this section of the coast, but the building in the center of the photo was far different from what now stood on this location.
