Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (52)

I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you campaigning so hard for this?”

Bogdan shrugs. “You’ve come alive in the last few weeks. It’s no mystery why.”

“It’s because I’m closer than ever to wrangling the motherfucker who killed our father,” I say firmly. “Nothing else.”

Bogdan raises his eyebrows, clearly disbelieving, but he doesn’t argue with me.

Which, as I’m sure he knows, just annoys me all the more.

“Just tell Vlad to accompany her tomorrow,” I say sternly. “And take a full team with him. I don’t want anyone getting to Camila. For all we know, Maxim has eyes on us, too.”

“No one’s getting anywhere near her,” Bogdan assures me. “Just one question, though.”

“What?”

“Why aren’t I accompanying Camila on this shopping trip?”

I get to my feet and head for the door. “Because,” I say, trying to suppress my smirk, “you talk too much.”





20





Camila





“What do you think about this one, Miss Camila?”

I sigh and stare at the cashmere dress that Edith is holding up for me. It’s nothing short of stunning, but I have less than zero interest in trying it on or buying it.

“No, thank you.”

The three salespeople that surround me look positively distressed. Apparently, my complete lack of interest is reading like disapproval, and they feel the need to compensate for that.

“Champagne, ma’am?” an impeccably dressed man named Trevor asks, offering me a tray filled with golden flutes.

“No, thank you.”

His face falls immediately. “If you don’t want champagne, I can bring you something else?” he suggests. “Handmade truffles, perhaps?”

“You have handmade truffles in a clothing store?” I ask incredulously.

“Well, no, but there’s an artisanal chocolatier just down the street. I can whip down there and bring you a box.”

I shudder. Jesus. “That’s kind of you. But no thanks, I’m fine.”

He steps back and looks at his manager helplessly.

Lachlan steps forward. He’s my own personal jailer, masquerading as a bodyguard. He certainly looks the part. He cuts an impressive figure in his black suit and wired earpiece. A “don’t fuck with me” type straight out of Central Casting.

The wrap-around sunglasses are maybe an unnecessary addition considering we’re indoors. But I can’t deny that it completes the look.

“Thank you all for your help,” he says in his strong Scottish accent. “I think Miss Camila is just feeling a little overwhelmed. Perhaps you could give her a little time to make some choices.”

“Of course,” the manager says with a low bow. “We’ll give you some space.”

The sales team backs out of the carpeted, circular room we’re sitting in. Edith and Lachlan are the only two that remain. But I know there are two more men standing right outside this room. Not to mention two armored cars parked right outside this building.

The looks I received when we descended on this luxury couture boutique almost made me laugh. They gawked like I was some sort of foreign princess. Curiosity and envy alike.

If only they knew the truth.

“I don’t need space,” I tell the bright-eyed Scot. “I just want to go back home.”

“If you’d rather head back to the manor—”

“The manor is not my home,” I snap immediately.

Lachlan raises his eyebrows. I notice Edith and he exchange a glance.

“Edith,” he says, “maybe you should pick out some more things for Ms. Camila? You know her sizes.”

Edith looks more than happy to scurry out of the room, passing the multiple racks of clothing I’ve already declined.

Lachlan walks over and stands in front of me. I try not to fidget. I don’t want him to see that he makes me nervous.

It helps that he keeps a respectful distance. I assume he’s trying not to be intimidating. It’s not really working, though. Kinda hard not to be intimidating when you’re a literal Scottish giant.

But then he removes his sunglasses. His eyes are a soft, warm brown that matches his hair. Without the shades, he looks almost boyish. Damn near friendly, to be honest.

He gives me an easy smile. “I know you’re trying to make a point,” he says. “But honestly, you’re making their jobs a lot harder than they need to be.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Am I really being lectured by my jailer?”

“I’m your bodyguard.”

“That is the politically correct term,” I retort. “But I don’t think it’s accurate.”

He smiles again, unbothered by my feistiness. “I get it. You don’t want to be here.”

“I don’t.”

“But you are here. So why not make the most of it?”

“Out of principle.”

He shakes his head and chuckles. “I’ve never understood principled people,” he says. “They’re so busy trying to make their points that they forget to enjoy their lives.”

“Spoken like a true hedonist. Or someone who works for one, at least.”