Page 64 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Paul took a long sip of his Scotch and put the tumbler down firmly on the wooden table. “The answer is no, Mr. Addison,” he said. “You’re asking me to turn against my bride-to-be and the father she adores, my future father-in-law. That’s not who I am.”

Addison slid a business card across the table. “Keep this in your wallet in case you change your mind.”

Paul pushed the card back. He didn’t want to chance Tatyana’s looking in his wallet for something and wondering why he had a business card for someone in the FBI. “No, thanks.”

“Well, you know how to reach me,” Addison said. “Call Bernie.”

41

By the time Paul got home, Tatyana was already in her pajamas, which were Paul’s boxers, and a little white tank top. She was sitting at the kitchen table opening letters and bills with the little jeweled gold penknife she always used. Once, when Paul had admired it and asked if it was from Tiffany, she’d told him it used to belong to Czar Nicholas II.

She barely looked up at him, and her face was set in a scowl. Was she angry at him for being home so late? He’d texted her a few times to let her know where he was, so his late arrival time wouldn’t have been a surprise.

“Who did you have drinks with?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Bernie.”

“Bernie? Why? Are you thinking about going back to work for him?”

“Well, he did ask,” Paul replied, which wasn’t really a lie.

“Will you always be home this late?” she said. She was deep into a bottle of Whispering Angel and was also vaping.

He thought about pouring himself a couple of fingers of Scotch but decided he’d had enough alcohol for the evening, and he was thirsty. Instead, he poured himself a glass of club soda and took a few refreshing gulps.

“Only if I have a drink after work, which I don’t think I’ll make a habit of.”

“How do I make plans?”

“I’m sorry,milaya. In the future, I’ll call you or text you, let you know if I’m going to be late.”

“What if I want to have dinner with you?” She took a sip of rosé.

“You know this job, sweetie. I work till seven or eight most nights.”

“So no dinners?”

He shrugged. “Or late dinners?”

She jutted out her lower lip. “You’re no fun.” She took a puff from her e-cigarette.

“I’m sorry. It’s a long day. Your dad’s not an easy boss to work for.”

“You never said that about Bernie.”

“Bernie wasn’t such a hard taskmaster.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumped, and tears came to her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Paul said, stroking her back.

“I’m sorry. I’m in a bad mood.”

“Because I’m so late?”

“Because of Papa.”

“Did you have a fight with him?”

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