Page 68 of The Oligarch's Daughter

Tatyana flushed. “He might have mentioned . . .”

“He shouldn’t be telling you about what goes on at work.”

“I mean . . . why not? We’re family—why does that bother you?”

“Because he’s . . . lobbying you. He’s using you to get to me.”

“No, he’s not. He told me because he was . . . upset.”

Paul could see an ugly quarrel lurking nearby. They’d never really had a bad fight, and he didn’t want to start one. So he just shook his head, putting up mental guardrails to ward off an argument.

“Pasha,” she said more quietly now, “Papa says you make fun of him. Dunlop’s disease, something like that?”

So much for the guardrails. “It was a stupid joke, and I said it in the break room. And do you knowhowhe knows? He must have the place bugged.”

“Or maybe someone told him or Zhenya.”

“Zhenya?”

“Eugene Frost. You can’t make fun of my father. I mean,Ican, and I do, butyoucan’t. You really can’t. You’re not just his employee, you’re his future son-in-law.”

“True,” Paul conceded. “But I can be honest with you, can’t I? Flying me out to Chicago and back for a five-minute conversation is the act of a . . . a tyrant. A despot. A Mussolini.”

“My father is a warrior when he needs to be. He’s a self-made man. He’s had to be tough. But he’d do anything for those he loves.”

“Self-made . . . I guess so.”

Tatyana pulled up short. “What doesthatmean?”

Paul saw her pupils dilate, anger color her cheeks. He immediately regretted saying it. “Never mind,” he said. “Sorry I said anything.”

“When he was your age, he was already a billionaire.” She stopped. “I feel like you’re trying to estrange me from my own father because your father is such a disappointment to you. I don’t mean to lay you out on the couch, Pasha, but that’s how I feel. That’s what it seems like. Don’t make me choose between defending you and defending Papa. Don’t pit me against my father.”

Paul had seen his parents fight so many times, recognized the rhythm, the jousts, the moves and countermoves, the way an argument could quickly spiral out of control. He didn’t want to be that way with Tatyana—they weren’t even married yet.

So he shrugged. “Okay,dushen’kaya. Maybe so. I’ll try to be more careful. And just to be clear, I’m grateful for your father—today notwithstanding!” He forced a smile. “Oh, and did I mention? He wants me to go to Moscow with him. On Monday.”

“So soon!” She smiled. “He really must think you’re hot shit.”

“Who knows what he thinks.”

“Will you give me a kiss?” Tatyana said.

Paul hesitated a few seconds. “Of course,” he said, and he leaned over and kissed her.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she said.

“Neither do I.”

“Would you like a glass of wine? I told you I have some good news.”

“Sure,” he said.

By the time she returned with two glasses—something red for him, a rosé for herself—and handed his to him, he was already beginning to calm down. “An appointment at City Hall suddenly opened up, and I grabbed it.”

He was caught off guard. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

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