I can’t stay #MFRWhooks

Russian Gold 
(Russian Love Book 2)  
by Holly Bargo 

​Now that she and her best friends are out of danger, Cecily Carrigan is restless. Pyotr’s boss bought a restaurant and installed her as head chef. She lives rent-free with a with a sexy beast of a Russian mobster who treats her like a queen, but hasn’t offered marriage. She detests Cleveland, cold weather, and the Bratva. Conflicted and confused, what's a girl to do when she suffers a crisis of conscience?

She removes herself from temptation and leaves.

Moving to San Antonio where the weather's warm and the restaurant scene fiercely competitive, Cecily works to find herself and rebuild her self-respect... and discovers that she left the secret to happiness behind in the form of a big Russian with a heart of gold.

​Excerpt

“I can’t make it, Charlie. You won’t want me spreading germs all over the food, do you?” 

“No, but—”

“Antoine can substitute for me.”

“All right. Let us know when you’re better.”

“Sure.”

After terminating the call, she left. She drove to the bank and emptied her account, much to the disapproval of the clerk and bank manager who oversaw and witnessed the withdrawal. Next, she drove to a chain restaurant where she could sit in comfortable anonymity and use her tablet to check flight tickets. She looked out the plate glass window and watched the snowflakes fall. Somewhere warm, she thought. Somewhere south...like...San Antonio. The destination ignited a spark of enthusiasm. There were tons of restaurants in San Antonio, the fabulous River Walk where she could walk off all those extra calories she ingested while tasting food, and a climate that didn’t call for parkas in November.

She’d miss her family over Thanksgiving, but maybe moving during the holiday season would work in her favor. Restaurants were bound to be extra busy and need extra cooks.

Cecily knew better than to expect to be hired as head chef or even sous chef, particularly since she could not use The Matrynoshka as a reference. Any inquiry from a prospective employer would get to Maksim who would send Pyotr after her. She did not doubt that Pyotr would find her.

​She searched for the least expensive tickets to San Antonio and cringed. Well, at least she’d only need to purchase one-way tickets, not round-trip, she reasoned. Having at least a destination in mind, she drove back home—no, not home, Pyotr’s house—and called for a taxi to take her to the airport. While waiting, she wrote a quick note and propped it on the kitchen counter next to the dirty dishes leftover from breakfast: 

Dear Pyotr, 

I realize that I can’t stay here any longer as your live-in mistress. I need more than that. Please, do not search for me. Sell my car and jewelry and keep whatever money you get as partial payment for the rent that I owe you. 
​
Sincerely,
Cecily  ​

It wasn’t eloquent or even very sophisticated, she knew. But it would have to do. She set her car and house keys on the note. The taxi pulled up and honked. She grabbed the extended handle of her suitcase and dragged it outside for the cab driver to load into the trunk of the car.

“Where to, lady?”

“The airport.”

“Which airline?”

“Southwest.”

“You realize I got to charge you out-of-city rates since you’re more than ten miles outside the airport?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“You got it, lady.”

The driver wasn’t chatty, which she appreciated. He dropped her off at the correct terminal and unloaded her suitcase. She paid in him cash, including a modest tip. Luckily, the past six months of living rent-free with Pyotr had given her a fat bank balance. She felt guilty about sponging off him, but now she needed that cash to carry her until she could find a job.

Having never flown before, she carefully read all the signs in the airport before proceeding to the ticket counter. She waited in line for what seemed to be an inordinately long time until she could speak to the attendant herself. After showing her identification, confirming that she was checking just one bag, and answering a few other questions, she began to wonder why she hadn’t just driven to Texas. Oh, yeah, it was a long, long drive through areas that saw real winter.

“Your flight’s on a one-hour delay,” the attendant informed her as she handed Cecily her boarding passes. There were no direct flights from Cleveland to San Antonio. “You won’t have to rush through security.”

Cecily thanked her and made her way to the security line where she realized that there was absolutely no rushing through security. Moving with all the speed of a crippled tortoise, the security line finally cleared her. She put her shoes and coat back on and collected her purse. Reading the overhead signs, she proceeded to the gate where she found a seat and waited.

​And waited.

* * *

​Pyotr felt the emptiness of his condominium the second he walked in. It was more than just Cecily’s absence. With his knuckles raw and his hands aching, he prowled the space with wary dread. The breakfast dishes remained on the counter, still dirty. Pulling out his phone, he called the restaurant.

“May I speak to Cecily?”

“She’s not here today.”

“What do you mean?” He walked to the bedroom and stood in the open doorway. His heart thudded a rapid beat inside his chest.

“She called in sick.”

Pyotr saw the iPad he had given her lying on the nightstand. He rushed over to the dresser and yanked drawers open. His keen eye for detail immediately noticed clothes missing. He jerked the closet door open. More missing clothes.

“Nyet!” he shouted. “O, Cecily, gde ty?”

Emotion demanded that he drop to his knees and weep. Training ordered him to think, damn it, think. On stiff legs, he walked back to the kitchen, figuring that he might as well do something productive—like wash the dishes—while he thought. When he reached the sink, he noticed the note lying flat on the counter beneath two sets of keys. Before reading the note, he realized that Cecily had not been forcibly abducted; she’d left of her accord.

He read the note. Tears brimmed, blurring his vision. Pyotr leaned against the counter.

“Zachem?” he asked as his heart shattered into tiny pieces of pain. Why?

He picked up the keys and dumped them into his pocket. They hit bottom with a clunk that reminded him of the small box he’d carried with him all day, the box that he never got around to giving to Cecily that morning before his clumsy tongue had driven her away and Maksim’s call had pulled him away.

Like an automaton with stiff, jerky movements, Pyotr washed the dishes and wiped down the countertops. Then he sagged and staggered to a chair. Again he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.

“Vitaly, she left me.”

“What?”

​“Cecily. She left me.”