Chapter 1

Nick was kicking back in his office with his shoes off, his feet crossed on the desk and the thick report nestled comfortably in his lap. He left the door open and told Valerie, his secretary, that he was busy and to keep the nonsense away. This little warren of offices on the 16th floor was a testament to their up-and-coming consulting firm that he and his two classmates had founded six years ago. They were young, eager, apparently ruthless, and good. They had kept the peace amongst themselves with a brilliant stroke of opening up the corner office to their passel of research assistants while the three partners took private offices away from the noise of business. Nick's office was in the furthest corner because he appreciated the silence most.

Chad, or Chadwick Humboldt III as the man's father liked to remind everyone, gave a quick knock on the open door and stuck his head in and asked, "Have you got a minute?"

Nick made a grand gesture of tossing the report back on the desk and swinging his legs off of the desk with the grace of a practiced office monkey.

Rubbing his palms nervously, Chad began to pace the office like a caged animal, which made Nick smile at the appropriateness of the image. Chad was the first of the three to be caught; that is to say, he was getting married this weekend. He was sweating under his mat of straight brown hair, which was well coifed with mousse.

Nick thought Chad looked like a well groomed show dog, but he had learned to keep his opinions to himself since Pricilla Huntingdon had become a serious part of Chad's life. Among the three, Chad, Nick and Ajay, Chad had been the fuck-meister but now Chad was marrying into high society. Their lives were changing rapidly.

"My parents are driving me crazy," Chad opined for the third time in as many days. "They are going to embarrass the hell out of me at my own wedding."

Nick had heard it all before; they were a bunch of guys from the suburbs of New Jersey whose parents had lousy middle class lives: Nick's father was a plumber, complete with butt crack; Chad's father was an accountant/bookkeeper; Ajay's father owned a Subway restaurant. When the boys tried to explain what they did for a living in high finance, their parents collectively shook their heads with incomprehension.

Nick had devised the plan for Chad to avoid most of the embarrassment for the wedding. Chad put as many of his relatives in the wedding as possible, which forced them to wear the dresses and tuxes that his bride chose. This was high society: who cared if there were fifteen bridesmaids and groomsmen. The more ostentatious the better, Nick had argued. That stroke took away the most of the fear of Chad's family showing up in fuzzy pink dresses and orange ties on a white suit; hey, it's Jersey. As a bonus, there was no room for Nick in the wedding party and he got out of wearing the powder grey tux with the striped, poofy short tie that was the wedding style for the season. He consoled Chad with some juicy platitudes and got him the hell out of his office. He listened to Valerie wish the male sacrifice 'good luck'.

Nick showed up to the wedding solo. The last woman he had been dating was pleasant enough, even with her big nose and even bigger plans for Nicholas Korman. Not only was her schnozz a distraction, but he didn't want her to have any sort of encouragement that they could possibly be heading down the same matrimonial path. He sat comfortably on the groom's side passing the time with Chad's friends, Ajay, and of course, the near and dear clients. With a wedding for five hundred of the couple's nearest family and friends, Nick felt comfortably but anonymously ensconced in the middle of the party.

The bride wore a designer gown that was sleeveless, backless and sheer from the bodice down to the waist and then layered with rolls of taffeta from the waist down to the floor. Nick thought it looked clownish but it was the Vera Wang wedding dress of the season, and all of the bride's friends thought is was "simply gorgeous."

He couldn't escape Chad's mom who was dressed in a hideous purple dress that billowed in every direction with fake purple jewels glued all over it. He was sure that it had cost a fortune, "but it was the best that K-Mart had to offer," he snarked with Ajay and Ajay's date as they shared a chilled top shelf vodka after the main course was cleared. Ajay's family was from India and although Ajay spoke without an accent, his young date did. They all laughed easily though, which piqued Nick's envy just a touch.

The band picked up the beat and Ajay took his date out onto the floor leaving Nick alone for a moment. He pitched the rest of the vodka down the back of his throat and when he put the glass down, he realized that there was an old lady who had taken a seat next to him.

"Nikolai," she began in a creaky voice, "I'm delighted that we finally get to meet; Chad and Pricilla have had so much to say about you. I'm Mrs. Yagablovsky, and I'm from the bride's side, of course."

"Hello, Mrs. Yagablovsky," Nick offered with a sincere smile of confusion. He couldn't figure out how Huntingdon Anglo-Saxon connected with Russian Yagablovsky, "It's a pleasure to meet you but my name is Nicolas, not Nikolai."

"Nonsense," the old lady retorted with a pat of her hand on his wrist, "you are Nikolai Koshchey and I don't care what your father says. He may be a good plumber, but he is a lousy liar, and a fool to be ashamed of his Russian heritage."

She fixed an eye on him that left him distinctly uncomfortable, "You are Nikolai and the name Koshchey is known throughout all the Russian lands. Ask your father."

"Ah, yes, I will," Nick Korman fumbled.

"This is a lovely wedding," she changed the subject, "why didn't you bring a date?"

"I'm not used to discussing my love life with strangers," Nick started to explain until he caught sight of her eye boring into him, "but there is no one of interest to me at the moment."

He swallowed and wished desperately for another shot of vodka. He felt the old lady appraising him up and down; he squirmed in his seat.

She sucked in her wrinkled cheeks, "What's the matter? Doesn't all of your equipment work?"

Nick blushed. "I think I need another drink," Nick blurted out but before he could rise she clamped one of her claws on his wrist.

"Is that your problem? You drink too much and you can't get your winkie up?" she charged.

"My 'winkie' works just fine, thank you. Now if you don't mind, I really want another shot of vodka." Nick felt desperate.

"There are no bonus points for not using your winkie. You may get another shot only if you bring me back one, as well," Mrs. Yagablovsky responded, "and don't bring me any of that French shit; I want the real Russian vodka."

Nick had no intention of returning to the table but he found himself seated again next to Mrs. Yagablovsky who had been joined by a beautiful woman on her right.

"Za Molodykh!" the old crone toasted.

"To the bride!" Nick translated and both of them downed their shot with a single swallow. Nick hoped the smooth burn down the back of his throat would restore his balance. They both slammed their glasses down with a solid 'thunk' that shook the rest of the table.

"This," Mrs. Yagablovsky patted the young woman's hand, "is my granddaughter, Elena, and she has also come to the wedding without a date. She is being a dear escorting her old grandmother tonight, but she needs to get out and live a little. Don't you agree, Nikolai?"

Nick nodded in agreement suddenly unable to keep his eyes off of the Nordic beauty with her thick blonde hair that fell down her back and her large blue eyes framing a long nose. She burned his eyes even more than the vodka did.

He felt a tapping on his wrist. "Why don't the two of you get up and dance," Mrs. Yagablovsky commanded more than suggested.

The music was slow and Nick wrapped Elena loosely in his arms that he might stare into her face as they twirled around the floor. She was tall, nearly as tall as Nick and somewhere in the back of his brain, the word "statuesque" leapt forward. They made the small talk that new acquaintances always do.

As they moved into a second song, Nick turned the subject to the little they had in common, "Tell me about your grandmother?"

"She is my babushka," Elena shrugged, "but we call her 'Baba', which means 'old lady' because when I was young, that was all I could pronounce according to my parents. 'Baba' seems to fit her, don't you think?"

"She has a surprising strong grip for an old lady and she can certainly hold her liquor," Nick observed.

Elena nestled closer to him and pressed her body into his. Nick could feel her breasts press into his chest and her breath feather his neck as she nuzzled close. He released a sigh of contentment and let the magic in his pants harden and press back against her gown. When the music ended, he brushed her cheek with his and left her with a lingering kiss on the same cheek. With his hand on the small of her back, he escorted her back to the table and Baba Yagablovsky.