Three under the Mistletoe: A Christmas Menage Romance (Christmas Billionaire Menage Series Book 1)

by Tia Siren

  Octavia looked at Slava, and he nodded. “Okay, sir. Octavia will come home for a few days, and I'll join her when I can.”

  When the president had gone, Octavia turned to Slava, angry. “What do you mean? I'm not going anywhere without you.”

  “Listen to me. My father will have you killed. I am convinced of it after the visit we had. The last thing he wants is to see is me marry an American. He hates Americans and everything they stand for.”

  “Jesus. Do you really think he'd—” She stopped mid-sentence when he nodded. “And how the hell would he kill me? You heard Dad; he wants to help us with security. Your father would never get near us.”

  “Did you see how they murdered Andrey Yevchenko? They put poison in a cup of tea. Or what about Yuri Davydov? They stuck the poisonous umbrella into his ass when he was walking across London Bridge. There are so many examples where good people have been murdered and nobody noticed the killer.” He looked at her, at distress in her eyes, and decided then and there that he was going resolve the situation. “Listen, I want you to go back to your parents. They are good people; they will let you do as you want once it all has been discussed. I'm going to St. Petersburg.”

  “No. You mustn't. What if I never see you again?” Octavia said, now more worried than ever.

  “I need a few days there. I will have my father returned to Russia in disgrace, and then we will be able to get on with our lives.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  *****

  Slava sat in an office overlooking the River Neva in St. Petersburg and looked at the young man in front of him.

  “Slava, it's so good to see you. We haven't seen each other since graduation day at school. How are you?”

  “Igor, I am very well. There are things happening in my life now that are so fantastic; I can't begin to tell you.”

  “You must. How about dinner this evening?” Igor asked. Igor Krasnoyarsk had been born on the same day in the same year as Slava. They had gone to school together and had been inseparable friends. As often happened, their lives took them separate ways. Igor went to work as a trainee journalist in St. Petersburg, and Slava went to university in Moscow.

  “You know why I'm here, don't you, Igor?” Slava said in a somber tone of voice. Igor was just five feet five, but he was handsome with his dark hair and blue eyes.

  “Yes. It's time, isn't it?”

  Slava nodded. “Yes, it's time. The day has arrived, as I knew it always would. He has to be stopped. My mother is exhausted by his regular beatings, everyone who works for him is afraid of him, and now he has turned on me.”

  “Okay. I understand,” Igor said as he stroked his stubble. “How do you want to proceed?”

  Slava laughed. “You're the investigative journalist. I thought you might tell me. But as you ask, here are the names and addresses of five people who can bear witness against him.”

  “Do you think they would testify against him? Wouldn't they be scared?” Igor asked.

  “They will be scared, but they are old now and have little to lose. I will provide them with all with the necessary security. And besides, the State Security Service won't protect my father once the accusations come out. They'll drop him like a piece of hot coal.”

  “All right. I'll go and interview them all. What about other evidence?”

  “I have a weapon, which the witnesses say was used at the time, and I have a shirt.”

  “A shirt?”

  “Yes. The one worn at the time. It's got blood on it.”

  “Great. How did you come across these articles?”

  “They were sent to me by an old woman named Petrova Abdulova. I also have the letter she wrote at the time.” Slava placed a bag on Igor's desk. “All the things you need are inside the bag. I know you will do me proud, Igor. Thank you for your friendship over the years, and I do hope our paths will cross a bit more often than they have in the last couple of years.”

  “Let's chat about old times this evening. I'll pick you up at your hotel at seven.”

  *****

  “Octavia, oh, Octavia” her mother cried as the bulletproof limousine dropped her outside the White House. “What have you been up to? We were worried sick about you. Promise me never to run away like that again.”

  Octavia didn't say anything. She looked at her mother, the First Lady, a woman of average height and above average looks. A brunette, not a hair out of place. She had married Octavia's father when she was just nineteen. She was more popular than her husband among the public, because she was always on TV to raise funds for children. “Your father has canceled all his appointments this afternoon. We're going to sit down and have a nice chat.”

  Octavia hoped the “nice chat” didn't turn into a monolog lecture. She went up to their apartment and into her room. It was predominately white and full of cuddly toys that well-wishers had sent her at various points during her life. The journey from London had tired her, and she undressed, had a shower, and slipped under the sheets. She woke when her mother called her at around three p.m.

  “Octavia,” her father exclaimed. “It’s so lovely to see you. Come here.” He took his daughter in his arms and hugged her. She was surprised by how warm he was toward her. They were in the sitting room in the Presidential Suit in the White House. It wasn't a large room; it was cozy. There was a large round window in one wall and double doors in another that lead to the rest of the suit. There were two sofas opposite each other and a glass table between them. Octavia's father sat next to her mother with Octavia across from them.

  “Your mother and I are so happy you are having a baby. We're really proud of you, and we want to tell you we will give you all the support you need throughout your pregnancy. If you think Slava will be a good father and you love him, we will support both of you equally.” He looked at his wife, who nodded in agreement. “Where we do have a concern is with you traveling around unprotected.”

  “Mom, Dad,” Octavia began, “I hate Harvard and law. I want to be a writer. I want it so much that I was prepared to run away from you. Slava and I have found a way to make our dreams happen. He wants to sail, and I want to write. That's what we'll do, live on his boat and follow our dreams.”

  “All right, if that's what you want. But what about your baby? He or she will have to go to school one day,” the president said.

  “Of course, and we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now we have our plan, and we're going to follow it.”

  “Okay then. Now that we understand what you want, we can support you. Why didn't you tell us you were so unhappy at Harvard?” her mother asked.

  “Because I was worried about what you would think. I could see the headlines: President's daughter drops out.”

  “Leave the press to me. When I'm finished with them, they won't dare to mention you anymore,” her father said.

  *****

  As he was about to leave for the airport, Slava's phone bleeped. It was an email. He opened it and read:

  Hi Slava,

  Please find attached the first in the series of articles. I hope you like it.

  Igor

  Slava clicked on the attachment and began to read.

  St. Petersburg 2015

  Night of Knives - The First in a Series of Articles About the Unsolved Murder of a Woman.

  She was a woman in her forties. A woman to whom life had not been at all kind. Neighbors remember her as being slight and extremely pretty. What stood out most, though, was her kindness. She was willing to help anybody, and she regularly looked after some of the older women in the street. The street she lived on was just like most of the other residential streets in St. Petersburg: full of apartment buildings and play areas. It was a close-knit neighborhood where people knew each other and took an interest in each other.

  You could be forgiven for thinking that the woman in question worked in a local factory or shop, but you would be wrong. Illona Kuklov was a prostitute. On the night of January 13, 1985, i
t was bitterly cold, and she had just let her last client of the day out of her apartment. Somewhere around ten p.m., there was a scream. It was a scream that makes those I have interviewed about the incident still have sleepless nights.

  When neighbors rushed into her apartment, they found Illona struggling for breath in a pool of her own blood. She had been repeatedly stabbed, and the weapon was still poking from her chest. Illona's murder has remained unsolved, but it shouldn't be. There is more than enough evidence to bring the murderer to trail. Several witnesses, a murder weapon, and a shirt are all pieces of vital evidence that have been ignored by investigators.

  This newspaper has uncovered the truth about this gruesome murder, and we are able to reveal that the chief suspect in the murder is Stanislav Kuklov, Illona's son. He is better known today as the Russian Ambassador to the United States of America.

  Follow each day this week as we exclusively reveal how this man has avoided arrest for so many years and what can now be done to bring him to trial.

  Slava put down his phone and smiled to himself as his plane took off for New York.

  *****

  “But how do I hold her?” Slava said as he looked at the tiny bundle in his arms.

  “Oh, I can see you've got a lot to learn,” Octavia said as she walked up the gangplank on Serene. “Bottle feeding and diaper changes—you can learn the lot.”

  “Octavia, come here please,” he said. As he put his arm around her, he kissed her. “You have made me so a happy, I can't tell you. She is so beautiful. I'm afraid I will never be able to give her away to another man like your father did on our wedding day.”

  “You will if he's as good a man as you,” Octavia said.

  Later that day, Slava received a text message from Igor.

  “Judge says he's an animal. Gave him thirty-five years.”

  *****

  THE END

  BWWM Romance - The Russian’s Love Child: Tyra’s Story

  “It's okay, Tyra. Hold on to me,” Natalie said as Tyra collapsed into her arms.

  Father Smith had told me it would be like this, Tyra thought. But which of the emotions had he meant? The Grief or the guilt? Tyra was experiencing both. Two of the most powerful human emotions were wracking through her at will.

  “Tyra, we're so sorry for your loss.” Tyra lifted her head from Natalie's shoulder. It was Mr. and Mrs. Radley Samuels, Tyra's boss and his wife.

  “Thank you for coming. I really appreciate it.” Tyra hadn’t thought she could speak, but the words came out somehow. Natalie handed her another tissue, and for a moment Tyra could see clearly again. She looked to her left and saw a line of people waiting to express their condolences to her.

  “If only I hadn't been so selfish,” Tyra said to Natalie as they walked up the cemetery path. It had taken an eternity to work through the line of mourners, and Tyra was exhausted. “It was foggy, and I knew Dad didn't want to drive that day. It was me, me moaning that they hadn't been to see me in my new home in the city. Lord knows I think I even suggested they weren't interested in me anymore.” She held on to Natalie again as another insufferable wave of guilt rammed into her. “No, I killed them. Dad would never have taken Mom out in the car on a day like that normally.” Natalie didn't know how to comfort her friend. They were both twenty-three and just beginning to make their way in the world. Losing parents wasn't supposed to happen until later in life.

  *****

  Three weeks after the funeral, Tyra stood outside the jewelry store on West 47th Street and looked at it, really looked at it, for the first time. I've been working here for seven months, and this is the first time I've properly taken the place in, she thought. Grief-stricken and riddled with guilt, she felt her senses had become sharper since the passing of her parents. It was as if someone was making her take notice of the world, making her appreciate what could so easily be torn away in an instant.

  West 47th Street was full of jewelry shops, but none as grand as J.P Samuels. They might as well have called it Jewelers to the Rich and Famous, she thought. For that was what it was: a place where the rich came to gorge on expensive stones. The front of the store was imposing. Between the cleanest store windows in New York, there were columns of polished black granite. The entrance was in the middle of the store, and it too was surrounded by shiny black stone. The door itself was made of bulletproof, reinforced glass. What Tyra liked best about the facade was the sign. It was made of copper and ran the length of the store. The background was dark, and the letters that had been forged onto it were polished and stood out better than any other letters on the street.

  “Welcome back, Tyra. I'm so sorry to hear about your mom and dad,” Leon said.

  “Thanks, Leon. It's very brave of you to say so.” She'd found that most people just turned away from her, not knowing what to say. Not Leon. It was his job to stand inside the door and keep out the undesirables. He was perfectly equipped to do so at six foot seven and two hundred and fifty pounds, but it involved hours of standing in the same place, day after day.

  “Tyra, my girl,” Radley Samuels said. He'd been waiting for her. Normally he didn't stand in the shop.

  He had others to do that for him. His job was managing the business his grandfather had started. “Come with me.”

  Tyra followed him through the store. They walked past glass cabinets filled with beautiful necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings, and watches. At the back of the store, they went through a door and down a corridor. The first door on the right led to a security room. Tyra had never been in the room, but she had seen inside once when the door had been open. It was full of monitors and the latest lockdown systems. It was all high tech, and she didn’t know anything about any of it.

  Radley pushed open the first door on the left and showed her into his office. How can anyone spend hours in an office with no daylight? she wondered. There were pictures of his ancestors on one wall and a giant flora vase in the corner. What she liked most about his office was the carpet. It was deep red with the company crest woven into it.

  “Tyra, please sit down.” He pointed to a button-backed armchair that stood in front of his mahogany desk. “I want you to tell me how you are feeling. You've been through a lot, and I want to make sure you’re feeling up to working again.” I wish I had a daughter like her, he thought. She's so graceful and kind, yet determined and motivated, he thought.

  “Well, honestly speaking, I'm still feeling awful.” You can tell him everything; he cares for you, she told herself as a moment of doubt crept into her mind. “I weep a lot, especially in the evening, and I feel guilty. So guilty.” She noticed how closely he was listening to her. The furrows on his forehead were deep with concern for her, and his eyes were looking directly into hers, seeking any sign that a return to work may be too early.

  “There is nothing I can say to you that will make you feel better. All I can do is tell you what happened to me when my son was killed.”

  Killed? I didn't know he'd had a son, she thought. Knowing that someone close to her had also suffered such a loss and could relate made her feel better.

  “My son was only nineteen. He was studying business at New York University and working here on weekends.” He stopped talking for a moment, produced a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped his forehead. Tyra knew him to be fifty-nine. He was quite tall and very thin. It was as if he was so involved in his business that he forgot to eat.

  He looked at her with a pained expression as he continued. “One morning he left home to go to college, and he never came back again. A man who had been drinking all night decided to get into his car and drive to the apartment of the girlfriend he had left for dead the previous evening. When he fell asleep at the wheel, it was my son he hit.” His voice cracked. “He was just walking down the street, minding his own business.” He took the handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Oh my god. That's awful.” Tyra put her hand to her mouth.

  He nodded. Perhaps I shouldn't have bur
dened her with this, he thought. “At first, everything was a blur. It was only after the funeral had taken place that it really hit me. After the funeral, everyone seems to disappear. All the kind words and supporting arms are no longer there. You are suddenly alone.” He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair and looked at a photo on his desk. Tyra couldn't see who it was of. She assumed his son.

  “The undertaker had warned me about it. A deep hole, he'd called it, and I fell into it.” When he paused, Tyra thought about where she was mentally and recognized what he was describing. “The undertaker also explained that there is something called the cycle of grief. You go through stages of grief, and if you are lucky, eventually you come out the other end. The last stage is called the acceptance stage. You stop all the blaming and come to terms with what's happened. Of course, you're still sad, but it gets easier.”

  “It's very kind of you to tell me this. I had no idea. I was afraid I would have this level of pain for the rest of my life.” Tyra looked at her hands. Her nails used to be so manicured, she thought.

  “When I employed you, Tyra, I saw something in you. You are one of life's good people. I can see you care about people. When you talk to clients, you are patient, and most importantly, you listen to them. Did you know I have no relatives?”

  Tyra shook her head.

  “No.”

  “Well, I don't. Not one, and no friends. There's only my wife and me.” He looked at her and wondered what he was about to say would do to her. “I am going to leave the business to you.” He stared at her, not wanting to miss her reaction.

  “Pardon?' Tyra said. She wasn't really in the mood for jokes.

  “I am going to leave the business to you,” he repeated.

  What the hell is he playing at? She thought. This isn't funny. Doesn't he know I've just buried my parents? She went to stand up, but he put up his hand and stopped her.