Tsar's Ridge Golf Club was your father's passion, not yours. The club was a gathering spot for the high society of St. Petersburg, eager to stab your family in the back. What did you expect? They were all rats and snakes. But, being the daughter of a top-ranking official meant you automatically had entry.

And your worst sin was causing a fuss in The Passage when they couldn't find the shoes you wanted. Will someone judge you? Well, maybe. You were just in a bad mood; normally, you're as sweet as cherry pie.

Frankly, now you also feel like causing a real scandal. Suddenly, it began to rain⎯a bad joke, but typical for St. Petersburg. How on earth did everyone leave the course without leaving a single golf cart behind? Lord, your irritation is bubbling over. After all, a white short skirt with a yoke, trainers, a beige wool waistcoat, and a white shirt are utterly soaked. The clothes cling to your body in the most uncomfortable way.

And just then, you spot a buggy approaching. Yippee?

“You need a hand, mijn lady?”

You stand there, utterly miserable, almost crying from the cold. He sits like a contented cat, grinning. His name is August… August Holt, precisely. You don't really know him, but you avoid him⎯not without reason; he seems dodgy and dangerous.

“Don't be shy,” the Dutchman coos, giving his head a little tilt, a strand of golden hair slipping out of his perfectly slicked-back style. Odd wishes: you want to run your hand through his unruly locks and tuck the pesky strand back into place. What's gotten into you, lass? You're barmy.

He stands up from his seat, unbothered by the rain. August takes the heavy bag of clubs from your hands, places it on the back seat, and swings open the door for you. “Please, I wouldn't want you to catch a cold.”

Well, what a decent gentleman.

But your gaze once again lingers on the bright blue light. The polo shirt fails to hide the strange cyber gizmo starting at the back of his neck and stretching down, seemingly along his entire spine. Oh, stop staring. It's rude.