Fifty-Five

Mikhail

When I return home, Maria lies across the couch on her stomach, reading a book on Matisse. Her bare feet stick up in the air from a ridiculous peacock-green dress.

She doesn't wear dresses like that—dresses that make her look this sexy.

It stops me from demanding to know why she's here, waiting for me again. She glances over at me but says nothing. Her chin is balanced on one hand as she turns another page. I loosen my tie, feeling the heat dissipate from my body. This time I didn't do the dirty work, letting Rurik dole out the lessons in his stoic, efficient style instead.

"What are you doing up?" I toss my tie onto the coffee table.

Maria keeps her eyes on the book. "I lost track of time."

"You should be asleep," I say severely.

She ignores me and flips another page. Her delicate fingers glide over the glossy surface as she takes more interest in the colorful illustration than in me.

I know she's still angry with me, and I'm glad we have nothing to say to one another. I don'