Page 11 of The Oligarch's Daughter

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Until the moment he laid eyes on Tatyana, Paul had been dreading the evening. His employer, Aquinnah Capital, had bought a table at the charity gala, and as one of the company’s star analysts, Paul had to attend. There were enough of these kinds of obligatory functions that he’d finally bought a tuxedo from Brooks Brothers a few months earlier. But wearing the monkey suit was a hassle. He was rusty on tying bow ties. Also, enduring a long evening of speeches about whomever they were celebrating—that took patience.

Paul and a couple of fellow analysts from Aquinnah were standing around a small round table drinking and trying to talk over the crowd noise when he noticed her. She appeared to be one of the catering staff, dressed in their uniform of black trousers and white shirt. She was behind the bar, grabbing a couple of freshly poured champagne flutes from the bartender.

Paul intercepted her on her way back into the crowd of partygoers. “Those spoken for?” he asked.

She smiled as she held out the tray and let him take a few of the six flutes. Hers was a winning smile, an open face. “Enjoy.” She was in her twenties, had blue eyes and long dark lashes. Dark blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. A slim waist and long legs. Stiletto heels. She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, but she was cute. Something about her—her gracefulness, maybe, or her self-confidence or the directness of her smile—or maybe all the above—appealed to him. She was a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room. He felt the spark of attraction.

“Champagne any good?” he asked, hoping he sounded more laid-back than he felt in the moment.

“It’s not Dom Perignon, put it that way.” She smiled, slightly amused. She had the barest trace of an accent that he couldn’t quite place.

He grinned. “But not swill, either.”

“Of course not. Not here.”

He nodded, looking around the magnificent, strikingly lit Great Hall and Balcony of the Met, both crowded with people in tuxes and ball gowns, before turning back to the young woman’s very attractive eyes. “So,” he said. “Long night, huh?”

“Umm. It’s okay, I guess?” She said this with a quizzical shrug.

This was her job, no big deal—she was used to it. She’d probably worked far more of these dull charity events than he could imagine.

“And are the guests generally well behaved tonight?” he asked.

“All but you.” That open smile again. “Excuse me.”

Later in the evening, on the way to the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of this same woman outside, smoking a cigarette and looking at her phone. He reversed direction and stepped outdoors—a crisp, cool fall evening—toward her.

“Could you spare a cigarette?” he asked. She looked up slowly, her face then registering recognition.

“Sure,” she said, handing him her pack. She watched as he fumbled to extract a cigarette, then flicked a lighter in his direction. He leaned in, lit up—and immediately started coughing.

She smiled. “You don’t smoke, do you?”

“Candidly, I do not,” he managed to admit when he’d recovered. “Thought I’d be better at faking it.”

She laughed. “What’s your name?”

“Paul Brightman. You?”

“Tatyana Belkin.”

“Pretty name. Russian?”

“Right.”

“When’s your night off, Tatyana?” There was something vaguely mysterious about her, more than just her Russian name and that hint of an accent. Maybe the way she held her cigarette, with one hand supporting her right elbow, like in an old black-and-white movie. With her long neck and her long waist, she was as graceful as a swan.

“My night off?”

“Mozhet poobyedaem vmeste?” Paul said. Meaning: “Can we have dinner together sometime?” In college, he’d taken two years of Russian.

She widened her eyes, smiled delightedly. “Tak vy govorite po-russki?” So you speak Russian?

“A little bit,” Paul conceded in English.

He asked her for her phone number. She asked for his cell, entered the digits. She started to hand his phone back, then stopped.

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