Page 20 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
She blinks as though trying to process my words.
“I’m happy to check in on her every now and then, and of course I can refer you to some great in-home aides.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” I tell her firmly. “I want you to be the one to take care of her.”
“Sergei, I have a job.” She gestures to the room. “I can’t just stop working so I can take care of one patient. It’s a flattering offer, but?—”
“I’ll pay you,” I cut in.
She stares at me, her expression shifting into something unreadable.
“I figured as much,” she says, arching a brow. “But no amount of money will make me leave.”
I don’t hesitate. “Not even a million dollars?”
Nicole laughs, the sound cutting through the chaos in my head. She thinks I’m joking, that I’ve just come up with some absurd sum. But she stops when she sees I’m completely serious.
“Come on, Sergei. Be serious,” she says, skepticism sharpening every syllable.
“There are two things I’m always deadly serious about,” I murmur. “My business and my mother’s health. I’m willing to pay you one million dollars, in cash, up front, if you will move into my house and take care of my mother until she’s fully recovered.”
“What are you, some kind of mob boss?” she asks, edging back with a shaky laugh.
I deflect. “She’s the most important woman in my life,” I say simply. “I want the best for her. And you’re the best I’ve seen.”
“This is insane,” she mutters, running a hand through her hair.
I notice the slight tremble in her fingers.
I step closer. “Two million.”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“Two million dollars,” I say. “If that makes the decision easier.”
Nicole blinks, stunned into silence. For a moment, I think she might walk away—or slap me.
“Listen, Sergei, this is a stressful time,” she says. Now she’s the one deflecting. “I know you’re worried about your mother, and of course I appreciate that you want the best for her. But you could get excellent care for less money. Trust me, I’m not worth that.”
“I disagree,” I challenge with a tilt of my head.
She lets out a stunned, sharp laugh. “You don’t even know me,” she says, verging on hysterical.
I step closer. “I know enough,” I murmur. “Two million dollars, tax-free, yours for the taking.”
She pauses.
And for a split second, I see it: her pupils dilate, her lips part, and suddenly there’s far more between us than this offer.
She feels it too. I know she does.
Whatever this is between us, this dark, hungry, and alive feeling, crackles like a live wire, begging to ignite.
“Take the deal, Nicole,” I say, my voice low and rough. “Please.”
She swallows hard, and I think I might have convinced her to say yes.
8
