I am a professional matchmaker. And I absolutely need to find out what kind of women one oligarch likes—in order to find him “the one” as his future bride. So, a meeting is inevitable.
But there’s a catch. He values intelligent women, and that option won’t work for me—because I can’t allow him to start developing feelings for me. And no, the crown on my head isn’t pressing down.
The plan is simple: go to him in the taiga, intentionally “kill” the car to spend three days hanging around with him (that should be enough), and play the role of a glamorous majorčka with nothing in her head—just an empty draft.
And at first, everything goes according to plan. Almost.
Because it seems like I’m… starting to fall in love with my own client—the man who looks at me strangely and scorchingly.
****
- What do you mean, “loo”? I need a ladies’ room! Or is this some kind of… I don’t know, an ancient dialect in your place?
- “Ancient,” he mutters under his breath. “Listen, miracle of miracles, wonder of wonders, young one—” he smirks. “Go ahead and run to the loo, that is, to the ladies’ room, and then you’ll go on to faraway lands. Agreed?”