Page 44

44

ROMAN

I t’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar.

Dimitry and I picked one far away from the beach bars and tourist haunts, the international hotels and the trendy nightclubs. This is a backstreet taverna, where old men eat peanuts and throw the discarded shells on the floor in the bar while their wives gossip in the dining room, juggling babies and small children. Music blares from a television in one corner while a bullfight shows on the other. In the dining room, some game show plays on a third. The various televisions compete with the raucous conversations. Amid it all, the barman serves endless drinks while his wife serves up superb plates of tapas to accompany them. Dimitry and I lean against the bar with our beers, though he doesn’t quite match my intake.

“I thought we were getting drunk,” I say when I down my fifth, along with a vodka shot, and he’s still on his first.

“Abby’s out tonight.” He turns his bottle on the bar. “I just want to make sure I’m sober in case I get a late-night pick-me-up call.”

I give him a sideways look. “That’s all getting a bit serious, isn’t it?”

Dimitry shrugs. “Maybe.”

I don’t ask any more questions. Frankly, I’ve had more than enough emotional discussion for one day. I focus on the drinks and the bullfight. It’s been outlawed in the north of Spain, and plenty of people protest it wildly. But in Andalucia, bullfighting is a religion. And unpopular as my opinion might be in some circles, I fucking love it. Nobody who hasn’t sat in that sawdust-filled arena and watched the terrifying dance between bull and toreador can ever really understand the drama and passion. But in this traditional southern bar, every man, woman, and child gasps and shrieks at each pass, applauding both man and beast with equal fervor.

“ Khuy .” Dimitry frowns at his phone.

“Pick-me-up time?” I ask sarcastically, trying to suppress a faint twinge of something horribly like jealousy.

Why the fuck am I jealous?

It isn’t like I want Lucia— fucking Darya— texting me late at night. I just shut her down this afternoon, for Chrissakes.

So why does it piss me off so much that it doesn’t seem to bother her at all?

Apart from necessary communication relating to the children, Lucia hasn’t crossed the line with me at all. No sudden lingerie-clad appearances in my elevator. No demands as to why I haven’t been calling her to my apartment. Nothing at all, in fact, other than some concerned sideways looks, but even those she’s kept largely to herself, no doubt to save worrying the kids.

Which only makes it fucking worse.

And I’m sick and tired of trying to work out what to call her in my head. Darya, Lucia—I don’t actually care what her name is, but I really fucking hate that when I was deep inside her I was calling her by a name that she knew wasn’t truly hers. It’s as if I was sleeping with a lie this whole time. Making love to a body, but not a soul.

And the fact that you’re referring to it as making love should be enough to make you end this thing right now.

Not to mention souls. It’s fucking Dimitry’s fault, talking about all that bullshit before we came out.

“Hey.” He shoots me an uncomfortable look. “I’ve got somewhere I’ve got to be.”

“Well, I’m not hanging around to drink on my own. You can drop me off on the way.”

“Actually, I’m going in the opposite direction. I’ve got to, errr... drop something off at Abby’s place.”

“You’re doing her shopping now?” He’s pissed me off enough tonight that I’m taking a rather evil satisfaction in making him squirm.

“She has a girlfriend around, and they’ve run out of booze.” Dimitry meets my eyes rather challengingly. “With everything that’s happening with that journalist, et cetera, I told her I didn’t want her heading out at night on her own, so she called me to ask if I’d mind coming over with a couple of bottles.”

I’d give him shit about it, except that it’s exactly what I’d do in his shoes, and he knows it. “Yeah,” I mutter, spinning the glass in annoyance. “Fair enough.” I glance at him. “You stopping there?”

“No. They’re still drinking, apparently. Want to come?” Dimitry finishes his beer and pulls out his keys. “We’ll drop the car off afterward, keep going.”

“Sure.” I down the last of the bottle. The drinks have barely taken the edge off. “Why not.”

Anything but the inside of that goddamn penthouse, with Lucia sleeping one floor beneath me.

“ I ’ll just be a minute.” Dimitry pulls up beside a crumbling apartment block in a run-down part of town and grabs the bottles he just picked up at a corner store. Crossing the road, he presses a buzzer, and a few moments later, Abby opens the door. The way she wraps herself around Dimitry annoys the hell out of me.

I’m just contemplating leaning on the car horn to make my point when a movement in a lit window above the doorway catches my attention.

Behind a flimsy curtain, a woman is dancing. Her arms are raised, every sensual curve silhouetted perfectly by the light behind her.

And I know exactly who it is, since those exact curves have been torturing my every dream for the past fucking two weeks.

What the fuck is she doing in this part of town, dancing like that where anyone could see her?

I’m out of the car and across the road before I’ve even thought it through.

“What the fuck,” I bark at Abby. “What is Lucia doing here?”

“Hey.” Dimitry glares at me. “You don’t talk to her like that.”

For the second time that night, I’m tempted to take a swing at him. But by the rather dangerous gleam in his eye, I’m guessing that would cause the kind of scene none of us need. “Then move,” I say curtly, glaring at Abby. “I need to talk to Lucia.”

She folds her arms and glares right back at me. “Not a chance.”

I almost laugh. Even Dimitry looks uncomfortable. “Abby,” he begins.

“Uh-uh.” She shakes her head, still staring me down. “It’s taken two bottles of wine and some solid hours of crappy Spanish rock to make that girl stop crying. There’s no way I’m letting you undo all my good work.”

That pulls me up short. “What do you mean, stop crying?” I frown at Abby. “What’s she crying about?”

She looks at me like I’m a particularly imbecilic toddler. “What the fuck do you think she’s been crying about, you idiot?”

Dimitry shoots me a worried look. “Hey, Abs—”

“No.” She holds up a hand to stop him. “Don’t get in my way, Dimitry. This idiot needs to realize what he’s done.” Her death stare could almost rival my own. “I’ve known Lucia for more than two years,” she says fiercely. “In that time I’ve seen her frustrated, annoyed, exhausted, and occasionally angry. But even at her most desperate, do you know what I’ve never seen? I’ve never seen her cry. Not until tonight.”

She prods me in the chest with an accusing finger. “Not until you made her feel scared. I told her to trust you, did you know that? I thought you could be trusted. But now she’s in there with red eyes and a broken fucking heart, terrified she’s going to have to run again. All because you got what you wanted and then kicked her to the curb. And let me tell you, Mr. CEO Man.” She hiccups. “If I lose my best friend because you’re a selfish prick, I’m going to come for you. I don’t care how— hic —scary you are.”

I’m stunned into temporary silence.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dimitry says, slipping his arms around an unsteady Abby. “I think maybe you’ve had enough to drink.” The worry has gone out of his face, though. The motherfucker is actually struggling not to laugh.

“He’s not— hic —going upstairs,” Abby says belligerently, staring at me.

“Yes, he fucking is,” I mutter, casting Dimitry a look. “Please remove her.”

“I know that look.” He grins as he lifts Abby and places her carefully below the steps. “He’s going in, Abs, even if it means going through you. Sorry.”

I wait until she’s out of the way and leave her arguing with Dimitry as I climb the stairs. I take them slowly, trying to make sense of what the fuck Abby just said to me.

Lucia—scared?

Crying?

Planning to fucking run?

Because I broke her fucking heart?

Does she honestly believe that I “got what I wanted, then kicked her to the curb”?

Or is this just another game?

Only an uncomfortable feeling in my chest says that it isn’t.

I pause outside the half-open door.

“Abs,” Lucia says uncertainly from inside the room, “is that you?” The faint tremor in her voice breaks the last piece of my self-control.

She’s scared. She’s scared because of me.

“No, it isn’t Abby.” I push the door open. Lucia is backed up against the tiny kitchen sink, her eyes wide with fear. When she sees me, the kitchen knife in her hand clatters to the floor.

“Roman,” she whispers, slumping against the counter. “I thought—I was scared that you were someone else.”

“Well, I’m not.” I eye her across the room, anger and tension making my voice hard. “But I could have been. What the hell were you thinking, coming to this part of town? There isn’t even a decent security system on the door, for Chrissakes. I could have been anyone.”

“I didn’t think you’d...” She swallows, breaking off. Abby wasn’t wrong about the tears, I realize. Her eyes are puffy and swollen. And why haven’t I noticed how tired she looks? There are dark shadows under her eyes. She swipes impatiently at them, but not before I see the twin tracks leaking slowly down her face. She goes to move toward me, but she’s clearly drunk her own weight in wine, because she stumbles.

“You’ve drunk too much.” I grab her before she falls, steering her to one of the wooden kitchen seats. “I’m going to take you home. You need to sleep it off. We can talk in the morning.”

“No... point.” She shakes her head wearily, not bothering to brush the fresh tears from her face. “This was a mistake.”

An odd fear seizes my chest, overriding the anger. “It’s always a mistake to drink that much wine,” I say curtly. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

“No.” Her shoulders shake. “It’s not my home, Roman,” she whispers, looking at the floor. “And I don’t want the children to see me like this. They’re already scared.” She gulps, then takes a deep breath and meets my eyes. The shattered expression in hers breaks something deep inside me. “You’ve been very generous,” she says hoarsely. “But you don’t need me anymore. The kids trust you. And I know you’ll look after them. I think it’s better if you just... let me go.”

All the things I want to say, all the questions that have been racing around my brain, clash in my throat. I stare around at the tiny apartment, Lucia’s small cloth backpack in the corner. Somehow I know there’s money in there, a change of clothes. Maybe even another fake passport.

Lucia is getting ready to run. Because of me.

I pick her up in one movement, ignoring her gasp of protest. “I’m taking you home,” I say roughly. “We can talk there.”