Page 36 of The Beast of Moscow

She didn’t even know what a water dog looked like.

A creak sent Vera spinning back around. The short woman with blonde and gray-streaked hair pulled into a tight bun wasn’t what she expected to see.

“Zdravstvuyte, miss,” the woman greeted. Her flat gray dress and the fact she wouldn’t meet Vera’s gaze, staring instead directly at her mouth, took her aback. If she noticed, the woman didn’t show it when she said, “I’m Mira. Mr. Pashkov is in the back. I’ll take you that way.”

She bet guests weren’t welcomed to wander, either.

Mira barely gave Vera time to learn her name properly before she had spun around to open the heavy, thick oak door wider. Slate gray tile welcomed the guests into a grand entrance complete with an hourglass shaped stairwell leading up to the south or east side of the upper levels. A second, smaller matching staircase continued above the glittering ropes of crystals hanging down from a massive chandelier to what must have been the third level.

She had been inside beautiful homes before. Danced in palaces, too. Even her own parents own a mansion in the gated suburbs of New York that their wealthy neighbors envied.

But as she walked over the worn black rug that started on the tile and crawled up the staircase, Vera thought there was something unique about this place. Not that she could quite put her finger on it, but it may have been the walls upon walls of history.

Of Moscow. A family. Photographs that spanned generations with just a quick look. There were even paintings hung high that she dared to say were too old to even dust—maybe only the frames. She mostly followed the sound of Mira’s footsteps leading her across the entrance as she tried to take in every high wall in the entrance, filled with ... too much.

Then, the woman cleared her throat. “Right down at the end.”

Vera wasn’t even embarrassed to be caught gawking at what could be considered a museum of images—but of what?

“Thanks,” she replied.

Mira dipped a bit her way, almost a bow but not quite. “Miss. Net, spasibo.”

She said nothing else before disappearing around the staircase, and Vera listened to the patter of Mira’s footsteps all the way to the very top.

The dark wood-paneled corridor leading into the back of the house waited for her once she was alone. On one side, she could see light spilling into the shadowed space. On the other, matching twin doors were closed tight.

She headed that way.

Once she stood in between the two, her stranger had already laid eyes on her.

“Do you have a place to plant the shrub?” he asked in Russian.

“Vaslav Pashkov?”

Standing behind his desk, he was visible from Vera’s position in the hall. Anyone walking into the man’s office would see him there, whether sitting or standing, and would probably be shocked at the side of the man against the big desk. It should have been the centerpiece.

She found he still kind of dominated the space and room.

Unlike Igor, Vaslav didn’t have the pounds of large muscle making his already tall frame imposing. Instead, he was just tall, his chest broad under his silk dress shirt, and the fabric was tight around strong arms.

“I’m sorry—did you want to do an introduction?” he asked her.

Vera shrugged, and stepped forward into the room to see the large TV on one wall, the rows of bookshelves and even the sitting area in front of the windows that already had tea waiting on the coffee table’s glass top.

“I only just learned your name today, and you could at least pretend like you don’t know mine,” she explained. “I couldn’t forget your face, but I didn’t know—”

“It scared you,” he said, frankly. “My ... spell.”

“Is that what you call it?”

That seemed like a medical event to her that would be important to understand. Especially if it was part of a larger picture.

Vaslav waved one hand, as if silently saying oh, well before dropping ungraciously into his chair. He dragged a hand through his black hair, his studious blue gaze still locked onto her. Vera didn’t think she was very much to look at, walking into that room—compared to the room. She still had on the leggings she had opted to wear over her leotard for class, and a white pair of sneakers that matched the color of her loose, cashmere shawl. He still took his time giving her a good once over.

“What, there weren’t enough pictures of me in all the information you gathered?”

At that question, Vaslav’s gaze lifted to slam into hers. “Actually, no. Not a lot of recent ones. I see Igor still needs his tongue pickled.”