Free Bluebeard by Selena Kitt Page B

told herself when she agreed to fly from Minsk to Los Angeles—a mail-order bride to the lead singer of Bluebeard, one of the most popular American rock bands of the twentieth century.
     
    The question really was—why would a rock star want to marry her?
     
    She asked herself that question a hundred times a day as she wandered around his big house—their house, he insisted whenever she slipped and said it aloud—touching the framed platinum albums on the walls, the priceless artwork, the expensive upholstery on chair frames made some time during the Renaissance.
     
    For a heavy-metal goth-rocker, her husband, Blue, had exquisite taste.
     
    The house was a stunning, ostentatious symbol of Blue’s wealth. He had promised her the world, and he had given it to her. She wanted for nothing. There was no material thing he couldn’t or wouldn’t provide for his new bride. She only had to barely mention some whim or fancy and it was presented as a gift. Her little Pug dog, Milyi, had been placed at the foot of her bed in a white satin box tied with a thick, red velvet ribbon when she had wistfully talked about the dog she’d left behind.
     
    Milyi followed her through the maze of hallways, already far better acclimated to the twists and turns than she was. But both dog and mistress knew their way to the kitchen, where Petra was headed in her white silk nightdress, too hungry to get dressed before breakfast. Besides, she liked getting there before Mrs. Ribya, the cook. She preferred making her own meal to being waited on, even if Blue chastised her for it.
     
    “Яйца, Milyi?” she asked the little Pug, pulling a carton of eggs out of the double-wide refrigerator. She still spoke Russian when no one else was around, mostly because she still thought in Russian and the words she spoke out loud to herself were just her thoughts anyway.
     
    She had eggs in the pan and bacon on to fry and was just pouring herself coffee, chattering to her dog in Russian, teasing him about the pink bow the groomer had tied on his collar, when Blue came into the kitchen, startling them both. The Pug ran for cover under the leather bar stools along the counter. He was afraid of Blue. Everyone was.
     
    The man was formidable—six-foot-three and built like a tank, the broad expanse of his shoulders impressive even when he was wearing a suit and tie, like he was today. His dark eyes missed nothing as he glanced at a trembling Milyi huddled under the barstool, to Petra, standing just as knock-kneed at the stove, spatula in hand, her mouth suddenly gone dry.
     
    Blue frowned at them both. “Good morning, Pet.”
     
    “Morning,” Petra managed as he strode toward her, bending to give her a brief, chaste kiss on the cheek. He had never shaved off his signature beard, although he kept it trimmed close these days and had long since stopped dying it bright blue. It tickled. “Breakfast for you?”
     
    “Can’t,” he apologized, opening the fridge and taking out a quart of orange juice. “Have to catch my flight.”
     
    She’d forgotten. Or maybe she’d just pushed it out of her mind. Even if they often spent their days alone, Blue in his study or up in his music room, Petra wandering the house and grounds, investing a great deal of time in the indoor pool, she’d grown used to his presence. They always came together to meet for dinner, taking up just one end of the expansive, formal dining table, even if their nights were separated by a long, cold hallway.
     
    “Besides, you shouldn’t be cooking.” Blue frowned again as he tried a friendly overture toward the dog hiding under the stool. It growled and cringed backward. Blue took a long swig of orange juice.
     
    “I am liking feeling…” Petra searched for the English word, turning back to the stove, flipping her eggs over easy. “I am liking feeling useful.”
     
    “You are useful.” He put the juice on the counter, coming up behind her, sweeping her long hair aside so he