Kostya Read online

  KOSTYA

  (Her Russian Protector #7)

  Roxie Rivera

  Night Works Books

  College Station, Texas

  Copyright © 2019 Roxie Rivera

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Night Works Books

  3515-B Longmire Drive #103

  College Station, Texas 77845

  www.roxierivera.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Kostya/Roxie Rivera—1st ed.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Also by Roxie Rivera

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  NOTHING BROUGHT A smile to my face faster than the soft chatter of happy clients and cheerful stylists. As I swirled a brush through the demi-permanent formula I had just blended together, I glanced away from my guest seated at the color bar and leaned to the left to get a better view of the cutting floor. Four clients sat in chairs, smiling and talking as their stylists snipped and combed.

  “So, you want to start the arch of your eyebrow right about here,” Savannah explained, holding a spoolie brush at an angle against a woman’s face. “I like to follow the natural shape of the brow and pluck as little as possible after trimming.”

  “Can I get you another a drink?” Billie, our guest relations manager, glided from station to station, checking in on clients and offering refreshments. She gathered up the occasional damp towel or empty water bottle as she made her round of the stations. The fishtail braid cascading down her back looked fantastic and had been incredibly popular on our salon’s Instagram account today.

  Pleased by the smiles and gossipy chit-chat, I returned my attention to the carefully mixed chemicals I had prepared for another stylist to apply. Nisha, the most popular stylist in our salon, was finishing up a haircut so I had pitched in to keep her on track with her appointments. Even though I had mixed color multiple times a day, I always checked and rechecked my formulas before painting even one strand of hair on a patron’s head.

  A bad bathroom dye job during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school had taught me that painful and embarrassing lesson. Sometimes I couldn’t quite believe the girl who had turned her hair violet and then a sickly shade of green before running to a salon with her tail tucked between her legs was now the most successful color specialist in the city.

  I placed the small bowl of product on the rolling cart with the other supplies and pushed it toward Nisha’s waiting client. Hannah was close to my mother’s age, but the years hadn’t been very kind to her. Stress had eaten away at her self-confidence and left behind the tell-tale signs around the corners of her mouth and eyes. She smiled timidly at me, almost as if she feared doing or saying the wrong thing, and I ached for her.

  Like all the women in our salon this Sunday afternoon, Hannah had come here as part of an outreach program we offered through a handful of domestic violence and homeless shelters. Bianca Bradshaw and her mother hosted a gently-used clothing boutique at their church’s fellowship hall that provided these women with basic pieces for starting over as well as work attire. We provided hair coloring, cuts, styling and basic spa services like eyebrow shaping for women who needed a little confidence boosting pick-me-up or a fresh look to get them ready for job hunting and the new lives they were trying to build. They left with a gift bag of supplies and vouchers for two years of free services.

  A day of beauty wasn’t going to solve their problems or heal the wounds violence and homelessness had inflicted, but I liked to think the short escape we provided offered a brief reprieve and a little happiness. For the women who were searching for employment after years of being homeless or under the thumbs of controlling spouses, I hoped it gave them newfound self-assurance. I wanted these women to know they were beautiful and worthy and had every right to go after the futures they deserved.

  “Would you like another cup of tea before I start on your color?”

  Hannah tugged at the neckline of her cape and shook her head. “I’m fine.”

  “Is this too tight?” I touched the cape. “I can adjust it.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Her hands immediately dropped to her lap.

  “Let’s take a peek, just in case.” I could tell the cape was bothering her, but she wasn’t about to tell me that she was uncomfortable. I didn’t even want to imagine what hell she had endured that left her feeling as if she shouldn’t even voice something as simple as her discomfort. “Sometimes these capes get a little frayed on the edges and scratch the skin.”

  When I unclipped the cape, I spotted a gnarly, thick scar running along her neck, just above the collar of her T-shirt. It was an old wound that hadn’t healed well and looked angry and red. I had a terrible feeling she had doctored the injury herself, probably to keep the abuse she had suffered a secret. Not wanting to draw attention to something that had obviously made her uncomfortable, I lied. “Yep! It’s a frayed cape. Let me get you a different one, okay?”

  I swept away the cape she was wearing and switched it out for a different one from the drawer at the color bar. I grabbed a small towel too and tucked it along the cape’s neckline as a liner. “How’s that?”

  “Much better.” She managed another smile. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” With her comfort assured, I slipped on a pair of black disposable gloves, grabbed a comb and began to section off her hair for color application. Not wanting her to feel pressured to speak, I filled the time by talking about my mother’s recent adventures with decorating the townhouse she had recently purchased. “We’re going to take a little trip down to Round Top for the antique festival next month. Mom’s on the hunt for a hutch and credenza and some light fixtures.”

  “What does your daddy think of all that renovating and antique buying?” Hannah seemed genuinely curious and maybe even a little worried. “It sounds awfully expensive.”

  “I don’t have a daddy.” It was an adm
ission I found easy to make now, but there had been a time when I had burned with shame and embarrassment at having no father to give me a name or claim me as his own.

  Hannah glanced back at me and frowned. “Everyone has a father.”

  “I mean, sure, technically, I have a father out there somewhere, but I don’t know him, and I doubt he knows me.”

  “That must have been hard for your mother.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but she found a way to balance her career and being a mom. She always put me first though, even if it meant she had to go in late at night after I was in bed to get caught up on work.”

  “She sounds tenacious.”

  I laughed as I considered my spitfire mother. “That’s Mom all right.”

  “It’s good that you had a role model like that,” Hannah quietly remarked. “My daughters…”

  When her voice trailed off, I didn’t know whether I should ask about them or let it go. Thankfully, Nisha saved me from having to make that decision by appearing at the color station we were using and bumping me with her hip. Tall and curvy, Nisha displayed her killer fashion sense with a knockout black dress paired with a silver belt and lots of big, chunky turquoise jewelry.

  I so envied her luscious dark curls and her fuller figure. Nisha made looking that damn sexy so effortless. Our clients loved her, and her book was six weeks deep with appointments. Without Nisha, Savannah and I never would have been able to make Allure what it was today. I couldn’t wait to see Nisha’s face on Christmas morning when we surprised her with a piece of the salon as our third partner. She had more than earned it.

  “Thanks for pitching in to help me stay on schedule,” Nisha said while pulling on a pair of gloves. “I can take it from here so you can help our last client.”

  I carefully handed her the brush I had been using and peeled off my gloves. I made sure to let her know when I had started the application of color before breaking away from the color bar to the waiting area where our final appointment of the day waited.

  A young woman sat in the lobby with her hands clamped between her knees. She wore an ill-fitting ikat print dress with a too-big navy cardigan that looked as if it had been dug out of a donations box. It didn’t escape my notice that she had chosen a seat that gave her a clear view of the front door and let her keep a wall against her back. She seemed nervous and afraid so I decided to move slowly and give her some space.

  “Hello.” I shifted aside a few magazines and sat down on the round white leather ottoman in front of her. “I’m Holly Phillips, and I’m going to be your stylist today.”

  She lifted her gaze from the hands clamped between her knees—and I was taken aback. We looked so similar! Same eyes, similar noses and mouths. Her hair was longer than mine and showed the tell-tale signs of a botched home bleaching attempt. We would definitely have to correct that during our appointment.

  As if seeing the uncanny resemblance between us, she grinned. When she spoke, the words were foreign to me. Russian, I realized. It was a language I was hearing more and more around the salon. Our client base had shifted a bit after Erin Markovic introduced Vivian Kalasnikov to our services. Everyone in their husbands’ social circles wanted an appointment here now.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t speak Russian,” I apologized. “Our massage therapist who does isn’t here today either.” Realizing she probably didn’t understand a word I was saying, I stopped talking. How the heck was I supposed to style her hair if we couldn’t communicate?

  “My name…,” she said haltingly and with emphasis on each word, as if she were trying them out for the first time, “is Lana.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Lana.” I shook her hand and got a glimpse of her manicure. It was clean and neat and the soft coral shade looked fun and fresh. Someone had painted an intricate design in the palest shell pink on them. “Your nails look fantastic!”

  She understood that, it seemed, and perked up a bit. ‘Thank you. I do it with…um…” She seemed to be searching for the right word. “Toothpick!”

  “Really?” I examined them more closely and fell in love with the lace-like design she had created. “Look, um, can you just sit tight for a second? I need to make a quick phone call.” I gestured for her to stay seated and crossed the waiting area to the reception desk. “Hey, Billie, will you keep an eye on my client for a second? I need to pop into my office.”

  Billie nodded. “Sure.”

  Glancing over the styling products she had pulled from the retail shelves, I asked, “Is this the last of the clearance?”

  “It is.” She picked up two bottles of a discontinued lotion fragrance from our spa’s preferred line and quickly applied bright red clearance labels. “If you want me to stay late, I can tackle the new shampoo and conditioner display tonight.”

  “You can take care of it in the morning. You didn’t take a single day off this week, Billie. When we’re done tonight, head home and enjoy your night off.”

  She quirked a smile. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  I left the reception desk, glided along the perimeter of the salon to the employee door and ducked into my office. We had a zero-tolerance policy for cell phones on the salon floor. I hated to break a rule, even on a day when the salon was technically closed to the public, but I didn’t know what else to do.

  I didn’t have to roll very far through my mental Rolodex of contacts to come up with some names that might be able to help. Vivian was my first thought. She was a faithful client of the salon and someone I had come to consider a good friend. As the wife of one of Houston’s richest Russian émigrés, she seemed to be one of the leading ladies of the city’s small but very tight-knit Russian community.

  But I hesitated to call her on a Sunday—especially this Sunday. Last night, most of the people in our overlapping social circles had been at the wedding of Bianca Bradshaw and Sergei Sakharov. Vivian had been the maid of honor, and I could only imagine how tired she was today, especially since she was pregnant. The last thing she needed was me bothering her when she was probably resting.

  Kostya.

  The moment the name of my mercurial and mysterious Russian neighbor registered in my mind, I felt instantly calmed. Was he in Houston this week? He worked in the private security field and traveled quite a bit, almost as much as my mother. I hadn’t seen him at the wedding yesterday, but it was worth a try.

  I quickly swiped the screen of my iPhone with my thumb, punched in my passcode and tapped in the number of the only man I trusted to come running if I asked for help.

  Sometimes he came running even before I asked for help…

  As I waited for Kostya to answer, I toyed with the delicate gold and jade bracelet he had given me for Christmas. The memory of that night still made my heart race. After fighting off the worst blind date of my life, I had been shoved out of a car onto my front lawn and hit with my own clutch. It had been humiliating and terrifying—until Kostya had emerged from the shadows like some kind of dark knight. He had defended and protected me from that jerk before tending my injuries with such tenderness.

  “Holly?” The rasp of his deep voice sent a shiver of pure delight right down to the feminine core of me.

  “Hey, Kostya.” I drummed my fingertips on my desk. “Um…are you busy?”

  “You know that I’m never too busy for you.” His answer left me grinning like a fool. “Is everything all right?” He went straight into alpha over-protective mode, just as he did every time I called. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but thank you for asking. Actually, I sort of need a favor.”

  “Of course. You know that you can ask me for anything.”

  When he said anything, I got the feeling that he meant just that. I wasn’t sure if I should find that flattering or terrifying. “You know how we offer special services for the women’s shelter on the first Sunday of the month?”

  “Da.”

  I slowly made my way out of my office. “So, there’s a young woman here who doesn’t
speak much English—”

  “She speaks Russian?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want me to help translate?”

  I stopped on the edge of the cutting floor and bit my lower lip. “Would you mind?”

  “Not at all,” he assured me.

  “Thank you so much.” I walked to the waiting area of the salon and sat down on the ottoman again. Lana now had a bottle of water in one hand and flipped the pages of a magazine opened across her lap. The cuffs of the too-large cardigan she wore had ridden up a little and revealed nasty bruises on her wrists. I could see the imprints of fingertips and long, thin lines that might have come from cords or ties.

  Sweet Jesus! What had this poor girl survived?

  She must have felt my stare because she self-consciously tugged down the sleeves of her cardigan and swallowed nervously.

  I caught her eye and smiled, hoping to set her at ease. Tapping my phone screen, I activated the speaker and held it between us. “Can you hear us, Kostya? I have you on speaker.”

  “Yes.” Kostya introduced himself to Lana who perked right up when she heard someone speaking her language. I noticed the way she relaxed right before my eyes and actually smiled when answering Kostya’s questions. She touched the ends of her hair while she talked as if describing a shorter cut.

  “Holly?” Kostya addressed me. “Are you there?”

  “Yep. Right here.” I leaned toward the phone, just in case the background noise of blow dryers and music was too loud.

  “Lana says that she likes your hair color and the style of your haircut. She would like to do that if you think it will work.”

  “I think they’ll look great on her, but can you ask her what products she’s used on her hair? It looks as if she tried to do a home bleaching kit and then changed her mind and put ash blonde over it. I just want to make sure I know what’s on her hair before I start her color session.”

  Kostya chatted with Lana for a few moments and then gave me a quick rundown of the products she had put in her hair over the last few weeks. “She says that she understands English very well. If you stick to yes or no questions, you’ll be fine. If you need my help, call or text me. I’ll be around all evening.”