Page 38

38

LUCIA

“ C atch, Lucia!”

I hit the blow-up ball flying toward my face, laughing as I duck beneath the pool surface.

The water is balmy, April sun beaming down from a cloudless, deep blue sky. The infinity pool is perched on the edge of a rocky cliff, the distant Mediterranean Sea glittering far below. Mountains rise behind the white walls of the renovated farmhouse, rippling into the distance on either side of the estate. It’s called Finca de Carrascas, named after the holm oak forest that surrounds it. Bright pink bougainvillea crawls along the walls, and the air is redolent with the scent of the clematis, jasmine, and citrus plants on the patio behind us.

“Hey, Masha!” Mickey calls. His sister turns around just as he runs and hurls himself into the pool, sending water cascading over Masha and Ofelia, who squeal in delight.

“Deda!” cries Masha. “Watch me!”

Papa smiles from his dry seat on the patio, applauding as Masha pulls herself up on the side of the pool, then jumps back into Ofelia’s waiting arms.

I lie on my back in the deep end of the pool, gazing up at the sky, peace stealing through my body.

“Hey.” A shadow crosses me, and I turn my head to find Roman grinning down at me. His hair is slicked back, water running in rivulets down the rippled, tan breadth of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but dark red swimming shorts that sit just under the V of his navel. Every scarred, tattooed inch of him is rigid muscle.

A bolt of pure, unadulterated lust rips through me.

Christ.

I roll over, ducking my burning face under the water.

I’m used to wanting Roman. Accustomed to the sudden, vicious rushes of lust that take me by surprise. But Roman in a suit and tie is one thing. An almost familiar temptation by now.

Roman wearing nothing but swim trunks and a shit-eating grin, water running down his gleaming body, is a whole other world of lust altogether.

I emerge to find him with an even wider smile and an evil gleam in his eyes. “Water nice, Miss Lopez?”

Two can play at that game.

I swim over to the steps and walk out, adjusting my white bikini. I stretch languorously as I reach for my towel, enjoying his sudden intake of breath and the way his eyes darken.

It’s only been a few days since the parade, our hurried packing, and the late-night drive up to the villa, but it already feels as if we’ve been here for months. The privacy, endless days of sunbathing and swimming, and meals taken together as a family on the patio, have only served to increase the intensity of my attraction to Roman.

Particularly since we’ve been steadfastly keeping to our own bedrooms.

Despite Papa being in a separate villa fifty meters from the main farmhouse, the nights here are deathly quiet, and the children’s bedrooms are located just across the courtyard from ours.

Not great for screaming, and Roman and I both know how loud I get.

By the look on his face currently, he’s not enjoying the forced celibacy any more than I am. I’m not going to lie; I get more than a little thrill from that thought.

“So.” A grinning Abby bobs up to the surface at my feet. It was Roman’s idea that she join us. Going by how often she and Dimitry have been sneaking off in the midafternoon, I’m guessing they’ve moved on from whatever was blocking their relationship before.

“Dimitry and I are going to child sit tonight,” she says. “You and Roman are going out. No arguments.” She heads off my protests at the pass. “We offered, and Roman agreed.”

I glance at Roman, coloring. Close as our domestic arrangement is, I’ve always been firmly in the au pair role around the children and Papa. Roman and I spending time alone sends a pretty clear message that there’s more to the situation than what we’ve presented.

“You need a break,” Roman says, his eyes dark and caressing on my skin in a way that makes my breath catch. “We both do.”

“A break.” Dimitry breaks the surface, grinning. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Roman opens his mouth in what I’m quite sure was about to be an obscene rebuke. He catches himself at the last minute.

“Dinner,” he says, in as dignified a tone as he can in the face of Abby and Dimitry’s visible amusement. “Somewhere nice.”

To my surprise, the kids don’t so much as blink when I mumble that Abby and Dimitry will be watching them that evening. Even Papa just waves me away with a slight smile. I’m rather taken aback that nobody questions why I might be spending a social evening out with my boss.

I take my time dressing. Finally, encouraged by Abby, I settle on a full-length midnight-blue dress in velvet silk with a soft cowl. It exposes most of my back and a great deal of cleavage.

“Are you sure this is okay for dinner in a mountain village?” I turn doubtfully in front of the mirror. “I feel a bit overdressed, particularly with high heels.”

“Nope.” Abby grins. “Trust me, this is perfect.”

“Hang on.” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“I know nothing.” She holds her hands up with a wide-eyed, innocent look that does nothing to reassure me. When I eventually emerge into the living room, the kids are draped over the furniture, still wearing their swimsuits, playing some board game with Dimitry and Papa that seems to involve a lot of shrieking and accusations of cheating. They all stop when I walk in.

“You look gorgeous,” says Ofelia, in somewhat unflattering amazement.

“Pretty!” Masha claps her hands together, bouncing up and down in excitement.

“Wow,” says Mickey shyly.

“Yes, well, better get a good look at her now.” Roman appears in the doorway.

I suck in my breath.

If I thought him earth-shattering in a suit, his bespoke tux ratchets up the hotness to a whole new level.

“We won’t be home by the time you go to bed, so say goodnight. Don’t crumple her,” he warns them sternly, as the kids converge for hugs. I look over their heads to Papa. The expression on his face almost ruins my makeup. I stop by his chair and kiss his creased cheek. “Goodnight, Papa,” I whisper.

He touches the small, plain studs at my ears. “Your mama—would be—proud,” he whispers, and I know he’s thinking of the Fabergé teardrops I left in my bag. They don’t match this dress. I pull back in time to see him lock eyes with Roman.

“I’ll take care of her,” Roman says courteously in Russian. He puts his hand out.

My father takes it and nods, for all the world as if he were giving permission. I’m grateful to Roman for that, for giving Papa that courtesy.

“You look stunning,” Roman says, smiling at me. “But that dress is missing something.”

“What?” I turn this way and that, wondering if I’ve left the tag on the dress.

“These.” He holds out a velvet-covered box, grinning, and opens it.

I gasp. Inside, nestled on a bed of midnight satin, are a pair of inch-long diamond and sapphire earrings. They match my dress perfectly. I look up to see Abby grinning like a maniac.

“You knew,” I say accusingly. She just shrugs, still grinning. The kids all cluster around, making admiring noises.

I take out my studs, and Roman replaces them with the earrings. His large fingers handle the delicate clasps with surprising sureness. I glance at Papa. He’s watching Roman, a strange expression on his face that I can’t quite read. When he sees my face, he gives me a brief nod, but his smile is slightly fixed. His eyes slide to Roman, then back to me.

I know this isn’t the way he imagined me being taken to dinner by a man. But it’s the life we have, and I hope he can come to peace with it.

Roman gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

D inner is in a restaurant inside a cleverly renovated ancient mountain castle.

“It dates back to the Moorish occupation,” Roman explains as he hands the car keys to a smiling valet. “Although, like most castles in Andalucia, it was Visigothic before that, and probably Roman even before that.” He holds out his arm, and I slip mine through it. “There’s a wonderful flamenco performance during dinner, with local dancers. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Slightly overwhelmed by the entire thing, I allow him to lead me through the stone archway.

The restaurant is in a courtyard surrounded by arched colonnades. A fountain trickles in the center, and flowering plants climb over the stone pillars. A stage is set up at one end with instruments, clearly awaiting performers. Our table is set on a private terrace at the rear of the courtyard, though with a clear view of the stage. The terrace juts out over a dramatic cliff. In the distance the Malaga lights twinkle. I like that they’re far away. The night is still but for a light breeze, and the low lighting allows the stars to gleam down.

“To us,” Roman says, after the champagne has been poured. He holds my eyes as we drink.

“Thank you for the earrings.” I stammer slightly, flushing again. I’m still not sure what to make of the extravagant gift.

“You’re welcome.” His mouth curls in a smile that, for once, is neither sardonic nor slightly cruel. “They suit you.” He gestures around the terrace with his glass. “All of this suits you.”

Not entirely sure how to respond to that, I take another sip of champagne, searching around for something to say. I feel oddly shy, which is incongruous, given how intimate we’ve been with each other. “The kids love it at the finca,” I say finally.

“I don’t want to talk about the children tonight.” He sits back as the waiter brings out a selection of tapas that look divine. “Or about the journalist,” he goes on, “or the Orlovs, or about my work. Tonight, I just want to enjoy being here, with you.”

He traces my hand with one long finger, and I shiver. His voice is low, his eyes intense, and I want to tear his clothes off.

“I think,” he says, “that it’s about time we got to know one another a little better.”

I tense, and he continues stroking my hand, not taking his eyes from my face.

“I don’t mean to frighten you. Or ask you anything you don’t want to tell me. I just want to learn a little more about you, Miss Lopez.” He grins, and I start to feel more relaxed. “Like for example, how did you learn to make such good coffee?”

I laugh. I can’t help it.

“Well,” I say, looking at him shyly, “it was actually my mother who taught me. She was Colombian. She insisted on having a professional standard machine in our kitchen at home. Then, later, Papa and I were living in Argentina for a while. I needed work by then, so I found a job in a coffee shop. I was so bad at it,” I admit, and he laughs softly. “No, really. I was. The first day I broke three glasses. I thought I’d be fired, but luckily they kept me on. I didn’t know the first thing about how to operate a cash register, or carry three plates, or anything, for that matter. It was a steep learning curve.”

I find myself telling him about those early days, when Papa and I were still living in a tiny apartment in a rundown part of Buenos Aires. “I had three jobs,” I say. “I was cleaning, as well as working in a bar and at the coffee shop. We were trying to save money; I didn’t have a lot of choice. But I kind of liked it,” I say when his smile fades. “I’d always envied kids who had paper rounds, you know? Or a part-time job. They seemed so... free, compared to us.” I halt, aware that I’ve probably said too much. To my relief, however, Roman doesn’t push me for an explanation.

“I was the opposite.” He gives me a wry smile. “My father had me working for him from as early as I can remember.”

“Really?” I try not to push him too hard, but I’m fascinated. “What kind of work were you doing?”

“He had a shop. He... mended things, and made others. He made jewelry, too.” He nods at my earrings. “In fact, he made those.”

“These?” I’m so taken aback that I can only stare at him. I touch the sapphires tentatively.

“Yes.” Roman lifts a piece of tapas to my mouth and watches as I eat it. “I used to sit in the back of his workshop and fetch his tools. He would make me watch what he was doing, then imitate it. My father always said that the only way to learn was to teach the hands first, and the mind would follow. Sometimes he got me to work blindfolded.”

“Wow.” I don’t ask what, exactly, his father was making. It’s the fragile rules of our conversation—to tell each other our stories, without actually divulging anything specific.

“My mother was Colombian, too.” Roman smiles at my surprise. It’s nice to think we have that in common. “She worked as a dressmaker. Her workshop was at the back of my father’s. So a lot of my childhood was spent running around with parcels under my arm, doing deliveries for both of my parents. She was a great cook, too,” he adds. He gives me a small smile. “She used to make alfajores every Friday afternoon, when I came home from school.”

“Oh!” I remember the way he looked the day he came in to find me baking with the children. “So you really did know what I was making that day.”

He grins. “I could smell those cookies all the way up the elevator. You’ll be making them again, trust me.”

“How old were you when—” I stop when I see his face cloud over. “Abby told me you and Dimitry met when you were very young,” I say instead.

“We did.” His smile has faded, but to my relief, he doesn’t shut down completely. He waits until the waiter has served the next course, a delicious array of spiced chicken and pomegranate. “My mother had to... leave, when I was young. A couple of years later, my father was... he died.”

What he doesn’t say could clearly fill an encyclopedia, but I play by the rules and don’t ask.

“After that I was on my own. I met Dimitry a while later, and we kind of stuck together. Then, when I was sixteen, I met Mikhail. His father, Yuri, took a liking to me. When they left the States and came back to Spain, they brought me with them.” He shrugs. “The rest is history, I guess.”

We talk as the various courses come out, not about anything in particular, just getting to know one another in a way we haven’t been able to before. I tell him how much I loved playing piano when I was younger, and about the art that Papa collected, the galleries we used to go to. He tells me that he loves going to auctions, finding little-known treasures others miss. “That’s where I found those earrings,” he says, nodding at them. “My father’s pieces turn up every now and then. Not many people recognize them. Some of them are expensive, others not so much, but to me, they’re all pieces of my past, and incredibly valuable. I buy them anonymously,” he adds, grinning. “I don’t want to push the price up.”

I laugh aloud at that. I realize, to my surprise, that I’m having the nicest night I can remember in a really long time. If ever. This is a side of Roman I’ve never seen before, a glimpse into the man behind the ruthless mask and corporate exterior. I’m not entirely certain why he’s trusting me with this part of himself, but nor do I feel inclined to question it.

After dessert, the lights go down, and the musicians walk onto the stage to a round of applause.

“They sing first,” Roman murmurs to me across the table. “Then the flamenca will come out.”

I’ve seen a lot of flamenco performed since I’ve been in Spain. There are performances at every fiesta and on almost every street corner. But when the male singer cries the first, low strains of his song, chills run down my spine.

“It’s called cante jondo ,” Roman says in my ear. Deep song. He’s moved our chairs to the front of the table, so we’re side by side, and his lips touch my ear as he speaks.

I shiver.

The singer’s words soar into the night like a paean to Spain. He sings of dusty olive orchards, red under the dying sun. Of love lost and found, and generations bound to the earth. His words are both tragic and beautiful, and so clearly a love song to the country around us that they are incredibly moving. By the time the rapid clapping of the other musicians begins, and the steady drumbeat rises, signaling the flamenca’s entrance, I’m utterly spellbound.

Dark eyes lined with kohl, her hair pulled back in a large chignon, the woman begins to dance. She isn’t a young woman, probably somewhere in her forties, and her body is rounded with age. But somehow her years and curves only add more intensity to her dance. Her feet fly in rapid, intricate steps, the metal soles of her shoes rapping out a complex rhythm. Her body ripples in elegant, sensual movements, telling the story that is being sung. More than anything, it’s her face that entrances me. Frowning in concentration, her eyes intense and gleaming with fierce triumph, she whips herself and the audience into a gradual frenzy. By the time her flying feet and the rapid clapping reach their climax, I’m breathless, every nerve in my body alight.

We burst into a sea of applause, and I turn to Roman to find him watching me, his eyes dark with desire. It’s like a spark to the smoldering need inside me.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper.