“For Babka,” he said.
He’d remembered.
Of course he had. That was something Alek would always do. He’d remember. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt that for the first time since I’d gotten the tattoo, the dove was finally able to lift her wings and fly free.20ClaraAs I hit the button on my phone, I smiled. With this last paycheck, I’d finally had more funds than necessary to just keep the lights on. I’d paid off the balance on my American Express card. While I still owed a few hundred dollars to those nice folks over at Visa, I decided they could wait another few weeks. I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the extra cash in my account. I knew she would resist, not wishing me to spend any money on her, but I wasn’t going to give her a choice. It was way past time I took my grandmother out for dinner.
Dropping the phone into my bag, I drove home with a smile on my face while I planned the rest of my day. Yuri had let us off early, which was a gift in itself, and gave me an idea. My babushka had yet to see where I spent every hour of the day I wasn’t with her.
I blushed as I corrected myself. Okay, where I spent every hour I wasn’t with her or Alek. Since that night at his home, we’d managed to get together a few more times. Each one had been incredible. Every time had been both exquisitely enchanting and delightfully dirty. I was still smiling like a loon when I turned the corner to head down my street.
What the fuck is this? I thought as I pulled up at home and saw a car parked there.
Since I joined Volkov Ballet, I hadn’t had many visitors at my house. Even my students had been given referrals to another teacher as I knew every ounce of my energy needed to be reserved for my own dancing if I had a chance in hell of regaining my career. Which had me wondering who had extended themselves an invitation to visit, as no one was left who knew where I lived. So, it was rather a shock to see a strange car in my driveway.
To make it worse, it wasn’t just a flashy sports car, it was a Lamborghini, which meant it belonged to someone who either had an ego that constantly needed stroking or a whole hell of a lot of money to burn. But I had no idea who it could be. Was it a recruiter from another theater trying to steal me away?
Yeah, right, Clara, because you are such a hot commodity, the devil on my shoulder sneered.
I wanted to tell him to go the fuck away, but he was right. Maybe in the olden days that could have happened, but not anymore. Even with a few well-received performances under my belt, I knew no one was going to want to take on the PR nightmare that I was other than Alek.
So, who, then?
It wasn’t until I stepped out of the car, and I spotted the very unwelcome, very familiar license plate, that it hit me. CzarNikolail1. Only one bastard was both narcissistic and considered himself untouchable enough to own a car like the sleek silver beast in my drive.
It belonged to Nikolai Kosloff, the man who had gotten me in this fucking mess in the first place. Basically no male attention for years and then, within a matter of a few weeks, another car, another Russian, and yet I knew whatever this man wanted had nothing to do with anything good.
If Nikolai was back in my life, he must want something. Even though I didn’t have a damn fucking thing left for him. He’d already taken absolutely everything of mine, and I never intended to ever give him another single piece of me.
I clenched my fists angrily at my sides as I looked around for his bodyguards. He never went anywhere alone. Not seeing anyone, my heart rate kicked up to a whole new level as I looked toward the house. I was about to panic when I realized I also didn’t see the little red SUV that belonged to Judy, the caregiver I’d hired to take care of my grandmother when I couldn’t. I let out my held breath when I remembered my babushka wasn’t inside. She had a doctor’s appointment. I had no idea how long I had, but it was absolutely vital I found Nikolai and sent him away before they returned.
My blood raced as I marched toward the front door, noticing he’d already let himself in regardless of whether the house had been properly locked up. Something he always used to do. Of course, back then, he was letting himself into my penthouse overlooking Central Park, wandering among the halls, helping himself to top-shelf booze on my mahogany bar that cost more than most people made in a year. Whereas now, he’d broken into a place that would fit into the penthouse several times over. And that enraged me even more. This small saltbox wasn’t just a house… it was a home… my home.