Page 14 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
“You’re on,” I declare, with upmost confidence.
But something tells me that the stakes of this little venture may result in more than just his finances being at risk. Like my resolve for one.
And my boundaries, too.
* * *
After a morning spent shopping,we have lunch and then take a detour to a high-rise that I recognize as one of his offices. Eingel Industries reads the name emblazoned on the corridors as he leads me inside.
“I need to grab some legal documents,” he tells me. “I’ll be just a moment.”
And yet, he didn’t have me wait in the car or come here himself. Could this be a reclusive billionaire’s attempt at transparency? My heart flutters, unsure of how to accept this deliberate turn of events.
As a good thing, I decide.
“I’ll wait out here,” I suggest, spotting a pair of glass doors that appear to lead into an enclosed courtyard. Vadim nods and sets off while I venture out into a small, beautiful garden brimming with carefully cultivated bushes and flower beds. A bubbling fountain ties the peaceful scenery together but when I spy a golden plaque my heart constricts as I read the simple phrase inscribed on it—Hiram Gorgoshev Memorial Garden.
A family member of his? Given what little he’s revealed about his past, I’m not even sure if I should risk asking.
I’m instantly aware the second he steps out to join me. It’s as if the entire atmosphere shifts. Thickens. Mellows.
A lazy smile is already playing on my lips even before I feel his hands on my waist as he comes up behind me. “My accounts are settled,” he murmurs against the nape of my neck. “You may continue to spend as you please.”
My brain reels at that, considering that—together, based mainly on his input—we’ve already spent a small fortune on enough furniture and small knick knacks to please any seven-year-old.
“I’ll turn you into a shopaholic yet,” I declare, spinning around to face him. He looks so freaking pretty in the pale, overcast daylight. Like a fallen angel finally remembering to unfurl his wings after an eternity of damnation. Hopeful.
I hate myself for daring to mention, “This garden… It’s beautiful.”
He shoots me an odd look, an eyebrow raised. “Do you think she’d want one like it?” Before I can reply he slips an arm around my shoulders and steers me back through the building, out to the car.
“A garden would be a nice touch,” I say, letting the subject drop.
As we pull away from the building, his eyes linger on it, and for a split second, his expression slips. Raw pain distorts his features and I want to kick myself for ever bringing up the subject.
Whoever Hiram Gorgoshev was to him, I suspect he doesn’t think on him with quite the same hostility he utilizes toward his brother or his past.
But he isn’t ready to talk about him either, and I can’t help but wonder why.
