Page 34 of The Oligarch's Daughter

“Verynice to meet you, Paul,” Polina said in a thick Russian accent, taking his hand in a two-handed clasp. “What a handsome man! How you and Tatyana meet?”

“At a gala at the Met,” Tatyana said with a smile. “He thought I was a waitress. A ‘cater waiter,’ he said.”

“Oh, yes?” Polina said, amused.

“I let him believe it.” Tatyana snaked her arm possessively around Paul’s waist.

“They must have very pretty waitresses at the Met,” Polina said.

“None as pretty as Tatyana,” said Paul. He could smell Polina’s perfume, something peppery and spicy.

“Or as smart.” Polina touched an index finger to her temple. “Or as . . . complicated.”

Tatyana took Polina’s elbow and kissed her cheek. They spoke briefly in Russian.

“She says you’re cuter than the last one,” Tatyana said to Paul, adding “which isn’t saying much.”

Polina said something else in Russian, shaking her head. Paul picked up some of the words. His Russian was starting to come back.

“She asks if you have a job, because the last one didn’t.” Tatyana said, then replied to her stepmother, saying something in Russian that sounded an awful lot like “hedge fund.” Turning back to Paul, she said, “My father doesn’t like lazy men.”

Polina kept speaking quickly in Russian.

Tatyana nodded, smiled politely. “Nyet, nyet.”

“Now what did she say?” His college Russian didn’t get him very far, but it had sounded to him like a compliment. He got the wordkrasivyy, or “handsome.”

“She says, ‘Don’t trust him. He’s too good-looking.’”

Paul smiled, shook his head, couldn’t stop a blush from appearing.

Then Polina spoke in English. “Be careful, Mr. Paul. Remember what Pushkin tells us. ‘The less we love a woman, the more she likes us.’”

A waitress came and handed him a fresh flute of champagne, took away the old one.

“Okay, Polina,” Tatyana said. “That’s enough. We have to leave,sestrichka.” She kissed her stepmother on both cheeks.

As they left, Paul said, “Spasibo.” Russian for “thank you.”

“Pozhaluista,” Polina said. “But why you leave before Michael Bublé sings?”

23

In their Uber back to Tatyana’s apartment, they sat in silence for several minutes. Paul struggled with his seat belt, trying to find the buckle, which was buried deep between the seat and the seat back.

Finally, Tatyana said, “You’re not going to say anything, Pasha?”

He didn’t look at her. “It’s an amazing house. Never seen anything like it.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Did you not trust me?” he said.

“Of course I trust you. What are you talking about?”

“You obviously didn’t trust me enough to tell me how rich you are. And you use a different surname, ‘Belkin.’ Is that a fake name? A cover name?”

“It’s my mother’s last name.”

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