Page 17

17

LUCIA

T he children’s flight is late. Luis takes the sedan to the underground parking garage, and I go upstairs into the lounge and order a coffee. I’m grateful for a moment to myself. Luis is less conspicuous than Dimitry, lean and wiry with a ready smile and easy manner that I imagine makes him the perfect driver for the kids. He is watchful, nonetheless, and this morning I don’t feel like being scrutinized.

I barely slept after being unceremoniously thrown out of Roman’s bed. Partly because I was, and still am, attempting to process the utterly mind-blowing sex we had. Partly because I’m worried that it wasn’t quite so mind-blowing for Roman, given how abruptly he kicked me out. And finally, which possibly should be the top reason, because I’m concerned about the security breach he mentioned.

I’ve been trying to tell myself it can’t possibly have anything to do with me. But I can’t know that, any more than I can ask Roman directly, without giving myself away more than I already have. And now I’m about to pick up his godchildren, and there’s a possibility that I’m putting them at risk just by being close to them.

I try to suppress the sick feeling that gives me. It isn’t like I haven’t considered the risks already, from the day that Roman offered me the job. I’ve countered my fears about the children with the argument that even if the Orlovs somehow manage to track me down, there’s no advantage at all to them in harming Roman’s family. They want Papa and me. If they found us, they’d simply take us. There’s no reason for them to start a war with another clan, particularly one as powerful as Roman’s clearly is. I wouldn’t have taken the job if I genuinely thought my presence in Roman’s household would pose a risk.

But my internal argument doesn’t make me feel any better about what is, essentially, deception. Nor does it lessen my worry that I’m putting Roman, and his godchildren, in danger.

And those are just the first of my worries today.

“Miss Lopez.” I look up, startled, to find Dimitry’s rugged bulk looming over the table. He pulls out a seat, which looks comically small when he settles into it. “Roman wanted me to join you this morning, make sure everything goes smoothly.”

That means the security breach is a real thing. Or does it mean he just doesn’t trust me?

I can hardly ask him either of those questions.

“Is everything okay?” I ask cautiously.

“Sure.” But he doesn’t quite meet my eye, and there’s a certain grim set to his mouth that makes me deeply uneasy. Dimitry, I sense, doesn’t entirely trust me. And even though I shouldn’t care less for the opinion of Roman’s second in charge, I don’t like the idea of anyone close to Roman thinking ill of me. Especially given how easily he kicked me out of his room last night.

“I warned you there was no emotional entanglement, Lucia.”

“I don’t give out scorecards, Lucia.”

I knew not to expect too much. I just hadn’t expected to feel so much.

I’ve never let myself go in the bedroom like that. I’ve never experienced anything even remotely close to how it felt to have Roman Stevanovsky inside me, dominating me, controlling my every movement, down to when I actually orgasm.

God, even the memory of it has me biting my lip and rubbing my thighs together.

It clearly didn’t affect him the same way, if he could leave so abruptly.

If it wasn’t for the rules of his damned contract, I’d already be in the elevator, knocking at his door and begging for a second chance to prove to him that I can do more than simply obey orders.

Feeling Dimitry’s eyes on me, I thrust the thoughts from my mind. I can’t afford to think about having sex with Roman when his children are arriving any minute now.

The flight number shows on the arrivals board as having landed. I stand up. “Dimitry. Can I ask you a favor?”

“You can ask.” His eyes continue to scan the room.

Wow. Dimitry is a tough nut to crack.

“I know you have to keep an eye on everything. But I’d like to meet the children the first time without too much... fuss.” I remember all too well what it was like as a child to walk out of customs and into a huddle of security men. No matter how casually they were dressed, how unobtrusive they tried to be, still I felt as if I was walking out with Russian oligarch’s daughter tattooed on my head.

“They don’t know who you are.” Dimitry still hasn’t looked at me.

“Actually, they do.”

That gets his attention.

“I asked Luis to message Ofelia, Mikhail, and their security detail in London to ask if I could contact them directly. I set up a group chat with them and sent a photograph of me wearing these clothes this morning, so they’d know what to look for. Luis verified it with their security team, so everyone is on the same page.”

Dimitry frowns. “Can I see the messages?”

“Sure.” I hand him my phone. The plane is still taxiing down the runway. I watch the screen and Dimitry’s face as he scrolls through the messages, trying and failing to read his reaction.

M ary Poppins: Hey, humans. Figured you’d rather avoid any fuss, so if it’s ok with you, I’ll get Luis to meet us with the car. My name is Lucia by the way. Here’s a pic so you know what I look like. In case you can’t tell, I’m really not good with selfies.

The photo is a full-length one of me in the light pink sundress I’m wearing now, pulling a rather droll face.

Ofelia: K

Mickey: Who’s Mary Poppins

Mary Poppins: Man, I’m clearly old. See link.

The link connects to a YouTube clip from one of the Poppins movies.

Mickey: ??

Ofelia: Lose the umbrella

Mary Poppins: I always do. I lose stuff all the time.

Ofelia: Thought you were supposed to be the responsible adult

Mary Poppins: Been working on that for a while, clearly still a long way to go

Ofelia: If you’re that useless why did Roman hire you

Mary Poppins: I’m an excellent liar.

Ofelia: ??

Mickey: ??

Ofelia: This is us just in case you get lost.

She has attached a photo of the three kids on the plane, all pulling weird faces. Masha has her face screwed up and her tongue poking out.

Mary Poppins: ?? Now I’m scared.

I’ve attached a photo of me, wide-eyed and clutching my face.

Hey it’s definitely today you turn up, right?

Ofelia: OMG you need adult supervision

Mary Poppins: Obviously (said in a Snape voice). See you soon.

Mickey: GIF of Severus Snape from Harry Potter saying “Obviously”

Mary Poppins: ?????

Ofelia: ??

D imitry hands the phone back with raised eyebrows. “You don’t exactly sound like the voice of authority.”

I shrug. “I doubt they need any more voices of authority in their lives.”

He gives a rather surprised laugh. “True enough. Well, I can respect that. I’ll stay out of the way.” He almost grins. “Unless you’re going to get lost between here and the gate?”

I return his smile. “I’ll do my best.” I start to walk away, then halt and turn to him. “But you’ll still be watching?”

He nods, but this time there’s nothing curt about it. “Of course. I’ll stay close.”

I walk over to stand at the very end of the banner railings, a few steps behind the first line of waiting people.

The kids are among the first to emerge, which makes sense, given that they’ve traveled first-class. They come out of the doors, trailed at a discreet distance by their security detail, holding hands in the same formation as their photos: Ofelia and Mickey walking on either side of Masha, her little hands clutching theirs for dear life. A sparkly pink wand dangles between the fingers holding Ofelia’s.

Mickey, his hair almost covering the top of his glasses, is taller than I expected. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that reads Try turning it on and off again . Both are too big for his thin frame. He walks with his head down, carrying both his own day pack and a pink rainbow one I assume belongs to Masha.

Ofelia has designer sunglasses perched atop her white-blonde ponytail and a Prada backpack slung over one shoulder. She stares straight ahead, icily ignoring the interested glances of every man in the airport. Even in studiedly casual crushed linen trousers, low mules, and a tight-fitting spaghetti-strap top, she’s difficult to look away from. Standing nearly as tall as my own five feet ten inches, slender, and with endlessly long legs, she appears much older than her fifteen years.

Masha’s wearing pink leggings and a unicorn T-shirt that has clearly had something spilled on it. Her little face lights up under the mop of dark curls, and she points her wand at me. Poppins , she mouths with a gap-toothed smile.

Ofelia turns her arctic gaze my way, raking me up and down as she approaches with a critical eye so like Roman’s it’s slightly unnerving. Clearly she’s picked up some habits from her godfather. Mikhail glances at me, then quickly back down again, stuffing his spare hand into his jeans pocket.

“Umbrella?” Masha says hopefully as they reach me.

I make a face. “I lost it.”

“She made us download the movie before we got on the flight,” Ofelia says in a bored voice. “She thinks you can fly now.”

“I wish.” I fall into step with them so they don’t have to pause amid the crowd, and nod toward the door. “Luis is going to meet us outside with the car.”

“Sure that’s the right exit?” Mickey shoots me a shy glance from under his floppy fringe.

“Nope.” I smile back at him. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

“Oh my God.” Ofelia rolls her eyes theatrically. “You really are shit at directions.” The other two kids immediately look sharply at me, clearly waiting to see what my response will be to her language choice.

“Well, you’re the frequent fliers.” I shrug. “I figured I was in safe hands.”

Ofelia shakes her head. “Yes, it’s the right exit. See if you can manage not to get lost between here and the car.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Masha drops her wand on the ground and stops to pick it up. “Hurry up , Masha,” says Ofelia impatiently, looking around with a wariness that makes my heart catch. I bend down and pick the wand up, meeting Masha’s eyes. She pulls back, eyeing me carefully. I wave the wand in the air. “Open,” I say, just as Ofelia reaches the doors. They slide open and Masha’s eyes widen. I lean in. “Want to fly, sweetheart?” I whisper. She nods, her eyes widening even further. I pick her up, hand her the wand, and face her little body toward the doors. “What’s the magic word?”

“Super-cala-frocious,” she says, and I swoop her through the exit. She giggles, waving her wand in the air and trying to say the word.

“I told you, it’s supercalifragilisticexpialidocious ,” says Mickey, shaking his head with the weary air of someone who has clearly spent a lot of the flight explaining this particular point.

“Stop being so embarrassing,” hisses Ofelia. She points to the sedan. “There’s Luis.” Her eyes narrow. “Why’s Dimitry here, too?”

“Because he’s a sucker for punishment,” Dimitry answers cheerfully, taking Mickey’s bags as we approach the car. “And because Mary Poppins here is a serious flight risk.” He gives me the ghost of a wink.

“I tol’ you she can fly,” Masha says triumphantly to Mickey.

“Well, I hope she can cook.” Ofelia gives me a rather challenging look as she climbs into the front passenger seat. “I’m starving.”

“Sit wiv me and Mickey.” Masha tugs me into the back, where I settle in between the two of them. A grinning Dimitry shuts the door and gets into the car behind us. The security guys are in the one in front.

“At least he didn’t send the limo,” mutters Ofelia. “It’s so embarrassing getting picked up in that thing.”

“Lucia said the same thing,” says Luis as he pulls out into the traffic.

Ofelia twists around in the seat and pins me with another x-ray stare. “You argued with Roman?”

“Not argue , exactly.” I pull a slight face. “Maybe just... didn’t ask?”

“Woah.” Mickey speaks up for the first time, exchanging a glance with Ofelia. “Dude, you’re crazy.”

I lift a shoulder. “That has been said before, yes.”

“What are we supposed to call you?” Ofelia is still staring at me narrowly. “Poppins? Miss Poppins? Mary?”

“Poppins,” says Masha happily. “Poppins, Poppins, Poppins.”

“Up to you, really.” I cast my eyes up and to the side as if I’m considering it. “Although it’s probably safer for us all if you keep any obscene versions to yourself. It could get a bit awkward if we’re in your principal’s office and you’re calling me shitface swizzle sticks .”

Luis snorts, and Mickey gives a rather shocked laugh that he quickly muffles with his own hand. Ofelia stares at me for a long moment, then tilts her head. “Lucia, then.”

The small matter of my name out of the way, I give Luis directions to take us to the supermarket. “There’s almost nothing in the fridge,” I explain. “And I’ve no idea what you like eating. Probably easier if we do a shop together, if that’s okay?”

Mikhail exchanges another curious glance with his sister. “You want us to come food shopping?”

“Only if you want to. Otherwise you can just eat whatever Chef has made for—”

“No” comes an immediate chorus of certainty.

“Definitely shopping,” says Ofelia, sounding slightly less icy. “There’s never any decent stuff to juice with. I’m doing a juice cleanse,” she says loftily. “It’s good for my skin.” She gives me a rather disdainful look. “You should try it.”

“Oh, I’m more of a baking is therapy kind of girl, to be honest,” I say cheerfully. “Then again, that’s possibly why you can wear spaghetti-strap tops and I need a loose dress.”

Ofelia gives me a considering look in the mirror. “It’s not a bad dress,” she says quietly.

“So. Stuff for juicing.” I turn to Mickey. “What culinary delights do you require, Mickey?”

“ Culinary delights .” Ofelia snorts. “You talk so weird.”

Luis is openly laughing in the driver’s seat.

“I believe we have already firmly established that I’m weird. Mickey?”

He pushes his hair aside and actually meets my eyes. “Snacks for when I’m gaming. There are never any snacks in that house.”

“Snacks. Got it. I may need specifics on your preferred options.” I look at Ofelia and Mickey over Masha’s head. “Do I ask?” I mouth silently.

Ofelia shakes her head violently, her eyes widening, shooting a warning look at Mickey, who turns hastily back to the window so Masha doesn’t see him trying not to laugh.

“Masha loves cut-up fruit,” Ofelia says loudly. “Don’t you, Masha?”

Masha frowns, as if this is news to her, and Mickey jumps in. “Yes, you do, Mash. You like watermelon cut into star shapes, remember?”

“Water stars.” Masha’s face lights up.

“Ah.” I nod sagely. “Then water stars it is.” We drive down the highway, the kids bickering amongst themselves about what they do, and don’t, consider vital staples for the kitchen cupboard.

Catching my eye in the mirror, Luis gives me a conspiratorial grin.

W ith Masha perched inside the shopping cart, and Mickey and Ofelia arguing loudly over what to buy, we descend on the supermarket, the grinning security guys unobtrusively behind us.

“We have a crisis,” I say sotto voce to Mickey and Ofelia as we near the end of the fruit section. I nod at the confectionary aisle then at the back of Masha’s head. “Something tells me that’s the danger zone.”

They nod vigorously. “She’s terrible ,” Ofelia whispers back. “If you let her loose in there it will be tears for sure.”

“What do you guys suggest, then?”

Ofelia and Mickey exchange a look. “Maybe we decide on, like, one thing we all like? And get Bryce to get it for us?” Ofelia indicates one of the security guys.

“Smart.” I nod. “So what’s it going to be?” After a brief, hushed conference, the two decide on a particular type of chocolate, and Bryce is sent off to procure it. We make our way down the aisles, Mickey whizzing Masha in circles that make her giggle and the other shoppers smile indulgently.

I put vegetable chips into the cart. “These are my snacks, by the way,” I say warningly. “Keep your grubby hands off them.”

Mickey grabs a packet and throws them on top of mine. “What if I do this?”

I grab another packet, then dried fruit and mixed nuts. “I’m going to label them.”

Mickey gets the same things, his grin getting cheekier. “Good luck with that.”

I put some flour, condensed milk, butter, and sugar in the cart, and Ofelia eyes them disdainfully. “That stuff is so fattening.”

“But it makes amazing alfajores ,” I counter. Ofelia raises her eyebrows questioningly. “Argentinian cookies,” I explain. “They’re lush .”

She shakes her head. “I’m going to have my work cut out getting you into a smaller dress size.” She glances sideways at me. “Argentinian, huh? Entonces, ?hablas espanol correctamente ?” So, you speak Spanish properly, then?

“ Por supuesto .” Of course.

“ Je parle francais aussi ,” she says challengingly.

I grin. “ Peut-être, mais ton accent est horrible .”

“Miss Harrison said my accent was perfect!” She gives me an indignant look.

Mickey snorts. “Miss Harrison was a total kiss-ass.”

“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear that,” I say primly.

Mickey grins. “Because you’re so worried about language, Miss Shitface Swizzle Sticks .” All three kids giggle like they’ve said something incredibly naughty.

I cast my eyes skyward. “I should have known that one would come back to bite me on my... ear.” That makes them laugh even harder.

“Anyway,” Ofelia whispers in Russian to Mickey, “they never know when we’re swearing about them in Russian.”

I halt the shopping cart. “ Pover’te, ya znayu Russkiye maternyye slova gorazdo khuzhe, chem vy .” Believe me, I know far worse Russian swear words than you.

Mickey gapes at me, turning slowly red. Ofelia is staring at me like I’ve just stepped off a spaceship. “You speak Russian ?”

“Yup.” I grin at her. “As well as German, Swiss, and a bit of Arabic.” I wink at them. “So good luck with that .”

“Even Roman doesn’t speak that many languages.” Ofelia looks at me consideringly. And then, suddenly, like the sun coming out from behind winter clouds, she smiles. “Can you teach me to swear in Arabic?”

“Oh, Lord.” I sigh dramatically and they all giggle. “Somehow I don’t think your godfather would approve of that.”

Mickey snorts. “Since when does he approve of anything we do,” he mutters. Ofelia and he exchange knowing glances.

I pretend I didn’t hear.

It’s patently obvious that Roman is even more remote from the children’s day-to-day lives than I previously suspected. It’s equally obvious that their security detail are immensely protective of them, beyond simply a professional capacity. Dimitry, in particular, seems to have an easy familiarity with them that I wouldn’t have predicted. It’s somewhat incongruous to watch his tattooed bulk piggybacking little Masha to the car, the careful courtesy he shows Ofelia, or the gruff humor he shares with Mickey. All of the security men are polite and young enough to be reasonably inconspicuous, although, just as I did when I was younger, the children treat them with a wary tolerance. I used to hate being followed everywhere I went by Papa’s henchmen, even if I understood why it was necessary.

By the time we’re home, the shops are shutting for siesta, and the kids are hungry enough to have no objections when we sit down to a traditional three-course Spanish lunch prepared by Chef. There’s still no sign of Roman.

The kids are yawning by the time they’ve finished lunch, and all head off happily to have a siesta which, Ofelia loftily informs me, “English people just don’t understand.”

“I’ll be across the corridor,” I say. “But you can message me if you wake up before I do.”

“Will you wait till I wake up to make the cookies?” Masha says sleepily as I tuck her in.

“Sure I will.” I close her door and find Ofelia and Mikhail already crashed out, clearly exhausted from their early start.

Luis stretches out on the sofa, yawning. “Go.” He waves me away. “I’ve got this.” I’m glad to see the security detail outside the apartment are alert and clearly still on English time.

I message one of Papa’s nurses. He answers with a photograph of Papa and him playing chess on the terrace, a wry-smile emoji, and the message: he’s beating me.

Content that all the humans in my world are, for now, either occupied or at peace, I open my own door.

In my apartment I strip off and stand under the shower. It might be only early spring, but the Malaga air already feels like soup by midday. And I need to clear my head. It’s the first time since reaching the airport that I’ve had time to really think through what happened last night.

I haven’t heard a word from Roman, though I suppose his security team alerted him that the airport pickup went off without any difficulty, so there’s no real need for him to call. And it isn’t like he hasn’t made it abundantly clear that this isn’t a romantic situation.

I almost snort with laughter at that. Given how fast he got rid of me, romantic is the last word I’d use.

But still.

My body doesn’t seem to notice the difference. Or care that it’s being exchanged for money. I showered this morning, of course, but the faintest trace of his scent has still clung to my skin until now. I wash slowly, my hands traveling the same places his did hours earlier, catching the occasional smoky hint of his aftershave as I scrub every inch of myself. I called it hellfire the first time I was in his penthouse. But if hell is a place for sinners, then it’s me who’s most definitely there now. As my own vanilla-and-coconut body wash gradually replaces the dusky notes of his scent, I find myself wanting to cling to it, to hold it to my skin like a secret. Without his actual presence, last night feels almost like I imagined it. If it wasn’t for the faint soreness between my legs and the strange sensation of loose-limbed satiation throughout my body, I’d seriously wonder if fantasy had overtaken reality in my mind.

Was it really me who lay bare in front of Roman last night, touching myself while begging him to take me?

I shiver as the needles of water hit my bare skin, awakening my body to the state of semiarousal that seems a permanent affliction these days. I find myself wondering when he will text me. If he will text me.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. He’s not your boyfriend, Darya Petrovsky. I use my own name to jolt me out of my dangerous state of limerence. It’s a business deal. He’s your employer. And of course he’ll booty-call you—he’s already paid for your ass, girl.

That should make me feel ashamed, or at the very least, extremely aware of my place.

Only it doesn’t.

I dry myself slowly with the plush, thick towel and take my time rubbing moisturizer into my skin. After all, if I’m being paid to be his beck-and-call sex slave, then I have standards to keep up.

I just wish I wasn’t watching my phone with a pulse throbbing between my legs, half hoping he’ll slip home during siesta.

I have to wrap my head around my new role. Stop looking for reassurance. Do my job and lower my expectations.

I slip in between the crisp sheets and sigh with pleasure at the bliss of sleeping on a cloudy mattress. My enjoyment of it is made even better knowing that Papa is safe and that I’m not facing the prospect of a backbreaking eight-hour shift and Pete’s roving hands. Instead I’m looking forward to an evening of banter and baking with the kids, followed, if I’m lucky, by round two in Roman Stevanovsky’s apartment.

Don’t get invested. He might not even bother.

After all, the contract only states that I have to be available in case he wants me. Nowhere does it say he will want me, or specify how often.

I set an alarm and pummel the pillow, trying to ignore the dull pulse between my legs. I need to get my head in the game, and the rules of it very straight.

I’m Roman Stevanovsky’s fuck toy, nothing more. And if I hope to stay sane for the duration of this insane contract, I need to remember that.