Page 8 of Cruel Russian King
Fifteen minutes later, I jumped out of my car and dialed Ninel’s number. She answered on the first ring.
“Ninel, I’m here. Where exactly are you?”
She gave me quick instructions, and I followed them through the park. When she saw me approaching, she ran towards me…face red, and puffy eyed. She crashed into me, and I caught her against me. We stood there, wrapped around each other in silence. The longer she stayed in my arms, the more I became aware of just how good she felt against me, how the scent of her shampoo frazzled my senses and how hard I was getting.
I pulled back, gently, and tipped her chin up so I could see her face.
“Ninel, tell me what happened.”
She hesitated, glancing away.
“Ninel…” My voice lowered. I waited until her eyes met mine. “I can’t fix what happened, if I don’t know what happened. Talk to me.”
She swallowed hard. “I met Scott here for a picnic. Things were going fine…until his hand went from my knee and started sliding up under my dress. I told him to stop but he didn’t. So I broke his nose, and he left.”
A cold, proud smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.
“You did good. Your brothers would be proud.”
She stiffened, her eyes going wide. “You’re not going to tell them, are you?”
“I’m not,” I said. “That’s between us. Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to lunch so you can clear your head. That okay?”
She nodded.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She slid hers around my waist. Together, we strolled out of the park, and for a second, I let myself imagine we were a real couple.
At the car, I opened the door and helped her in before taking my place behind the wheel. She stayed quiet the whole ride. I didn’t push her to talk about what just happened.
Ten minutes later, I pulled into the restaurant parking lot.
“Stay there,” I told her, already out of the car.
I circled around and opened her door, helping her out. With a hand on the small of her back, we walked inside together.
The hostess greeted us with a smile.
“Mr. Rykov, always a pleasure. Good afternoon, ma’am.”
“Hi,” Ninel said softly beside me.
“Your usual booth?”
“Yes, please,” I answered.
The hostess guided us down the hallway to the private booths at the back of the restaurant. Ninel slid into one side of the booth and I took the other. The hostess handed us our menus with a polite nod.
“Someone will be with you shortly to take your order,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied.
She walked away, leaving us alone.
The booth was more like a velvet box, enclosed on three sides, the red suede walls padded and soft. Dim lights glowed faintly from fixtures tucked into the corners, casting shadows that played across Ninel’s face. It was private, and discreet. Exactly how I needed it to be.
“Ninel, are you okay?” I asked softly.
Her gaze met mine, tenderly. “I'll be fine.” Then she smiled and slid the menu toward me. “So, Mr. Rykov, since you’re the expert here, I’ll let you order for me.”
