He lingered in the water for far too long, contemplating the ceiling, feeling his new reality shift around him. His life was changing more quickly than even he could keep up with.

Christ, he was in a shitload of trouble if jacking off to the thought of Grace was much more exciting than any of the sex he’d recently had. He was so used to having his life tightly under his control, master of his surroundings and himself. This scared him a little. There was no place in his head for these new sensations, for the feel of another life joining his. Grace was now in his life, not by choice but by violence, thrust there by circumstances beyond his control and hers. He could deal with the responsibility—he bore the responsibility of a goddamned empire on his shoulders. What he couldn’t deal with were the emotions attached to her. Brand-new emotions. Uncontrollable ones. Not much frightened him, but this did.

He sat in the tub while the water cooled and his cock relaxed to a semi-erect state, contemplating the massive changes in his life.

Finally, he shook himself back into action, standing up in the tub, letting the silvery water wash off him. His life was now not completely his own, he thought as he toweled himself dry. There were steps to be taken, and step number one was to take care of Grace.

He’d brought in clean clothes, a sweater and jeans, and dressed. Back in the bedroom, he pressed a button on a small console.

“Sir?” a disembodied voice answered immediately.

Drake smiled. He’d found Shota on the streets of Tbilisi, an underage conscript who’d been wounded and abandoned by his teammates. He’d taken Shota back to his hotel, patched him up, and when he would have sent him on his way, discovered that Shota didn’t want to leave. Shota was hopeless as a soldier, but he turned out to be a superb butler.

Drake had had households in Odessa; in Ostende, Belgium; in Johannesberg and now in Manhattan, and Shota made sure everything ran smoothly. He had six maids, four chefs and an underbutler working for him, making sure that Drake lived in clean and comfortable circumstances and that his needs were met instantly.

For an instant, Drake ran through his mind the possibility that Shota had betrayed him. He let the idea lie there, turning it over gently, looking at it from all angles, then dismissed it. Not only was Shota fanatically loyal, he wasn’t greedy at all. Shota lived in the building, two stories down, like all his employees. He paid no rent, no utilities, ate on the premises and seemed very content. Drake had had to force him to accept a raise last time.

Drake knew that he treated Shota well and he felt that Shota’s loyalty was real.

Humans are capable of many things—no one knew that better than Drake—but by the same token, they were always true to themselves. Shota was loyal to the bone. So he wasn’t the one.

Drake was going to go over every single employee he had. Only someone working here could possibly know his movements. All in all, Drake had a permanent staff of forty-five men and six women, amongst them a traitor. He had finely tuned instincts and he kept his surveillance camera recordings forever, so if necessary, he could go over every single employee’s movements over the past year.

He’d find the man and make him sorry, but right now there were other, more important, things to see to.

“Sir?” Shota’s voice held some puzzlement. “Did you need something?”

Christ. He was so wiped out by the orgasm he’d forgotten he’d buzzed downstairs.

“Yes, Shota. I’d like dinner brought up to the dining room, set on the table in front of the fire. Something warm and nutritious, with a sweet dessert”—Grace was going to need warmth and sugar to overcome her shock—“and a good bottle of red. One of those Argentinian merlots you bought would be nice.”

“Yessir,” Shota’s voice came back. Drake could imagine him already bustling about, beginning the preparations.

“For two,” Drake said, a slight smile lifting one side of his mouth.

“Sir?” Shota sounded shocked and well he should be. He’d been with Drake for years and Drake had never, ever had anyone over for a meal. Any meals with women were consumed in private clubs with adequate security measures or catered in his flat on Fifth. He never ate over business deals, one of his many hard and fast rules. Food and alcohol were distractions he couldn’t afford during negotiations, and the possibility of poisoning always had to be factored in.

“Dinner for two, Shota. And tomorrow morning I need for you to go to…” Drake tried to think of the clothes he’d seen Grace in. She had classic tastes, nothing overly trendy, and she liked clean, bright colors. “Valentino,” he decided. “And Ralph Lauren.”

How much of what? Well, it was going to take at least a week to do what he had to do, not to mention seducing her into what had to be done. “Five sweaters in blues and greens and reds, cashmere, five pairs of pants, cashmere and wool, five simple wool dresses, cashmere, ten silk shirts. Colors for a woman with auburn hair and blue-green eyes. Then go to La Perla and buy underwear. Silk, of course. No thongs.” Some instinct told him she wouldn’t wear thongs. She didn’t dress to seduce.

“But—but…” Shota sputtered.

“I don’t know what size, but specify it’s for a woman who is five five and weighs one hundred twenty pounds. Oh, and shoes. Fur-lined boots, flat-heeled shoes. Lots of them. Try Ferragamo. Size seven.” Drake was entirely used to sizing up competitors. He’d be surprised if he were one inch or five pounds off the mark.

God, what else would a woman need?

“Go to somewhere like Bergdorf or Saks and buy creams.”

“Creams, sir?” Shota sounded resigned.

“Yes.” What kinds of creams? Fuck if he knew. “Day creams, night creams, body creams…” And shit, didn’t that create images in his head? “And, and intimate products.”

Shota coughed. Drake smiled. “You know—things women need at times.”

A choked sound came over the intercom.

Drake suspected Shota was gay. Personally, he didn’t give a shit about anyone’s sexual orientation. Whatever Shota’s was, he kept his private life discreet. But Drake knew he’d have an excellent eye for the clothes and underwear, which is why he’d chosen him. Female hygiene products might stretch his expertise some, but he’d manage. Shota prided himself on providing excellent service to him.

“And Shota?”

“Yessir.”

“I want dinner in fifteen minutes.” Of the four chefs, two were always on duty. His men often ate on the premises. There would be excellent food ready at all hours.

“Absolutely, sir.” Shota sounded relieved at being on familiar terrain. The cooks could provide a superb meal for fifty at the drop of a hat.

“Good man,” Drake said. “And one more thing.”

“Sir.”

“From now on, until I order otherwise, you are the only person who enters my personal quarters unless I invite them up. You bring in the food and the other things I asked for, personally. Have someone help you get it to the door but you are the only one to cross that threshold, is that clear?”

He knew Shota would read it as testimony of Drake’s faith in him, and it was.

“Perfectly clear, sir. And…” Drake could almost imagine Shota blushing. “Thank you, sir.”

Drake switched the intercom off. He got up and went to a sideboard holding liqueurs and cigars in a humidor. The cigars were a monthly courtesy from Fidel and he idly wondered what would happen when Fidel went. No doubt the shipments would stop. Times changed. They were changing right now.

He poured himself a stiff glass of Courvoisier XO and sat down on the couch with a sigh and took a long slug.

What excellent medicine alcohol was. Unless you were a slave to it, as most of the Russians he knew were, it was one of life’s great pleasures.

He sipped, enjoying everything about the moment. Extreme danger did that—heightened his senses, made him aware of the fullness of life.