Page 47

47

LUCIA

“ A nd you and Masha will be here?” Ofelia chews her lip nervously.

“We’re not going anywhere, darling.” I indicate the enormous pile of churros on the plate in front of us and the pot of chocolate that is currently decorating Masha’s dress. “We’ll be watching you from here. And Dimitry’s got security under control. Don’t worry,” I say in a lower voice. “They’ll stay out of sight. Your friends will hardly know they’re there.”

“Yeah, right,” Ofelia mutters. “Like they’re ever more than five meters away. It’s okay,” she adds, seeing my face. “I know the security guys are necessary. I just hate that they’re always around.”

“I know.” I squeeze her hand. I do know. I also wouldn’t even consider being in this plaza if it weren’t for Dimitry and his men.

It’s the annual festival celebrating the pilgrimage to El Rocío. All of Andalucia takes part. Those making the pilgrimage parade through the streets in a flamboyant display of flamenco dresses, oxen-drawn wagons, and proud Spanish caballeros on prancing horses. Many of the women in their dresses are perched up behind the men on horseback. The wagons wind through the streets accompanied by flamenco music and the rapid, rhythmic clapping that propels it. The pilgrimage can take several weeks, depending on where the pilgrims begin from, and the starting day is always a huge fiesta. We’re sitting in the plaza from which this particular procession will begin, and it’s already a riot of color. Normally Roman would be hovering anxiously at anything like this. But it’s been two months since there’s been any sight of Lance Ryder, or the slightest indication that the Orlovs have any idea that we’re here. Security is still tight, but lately, I’ve begun to relax slightly.

Maybe the information Papa got was wrong. It’s even possible that we’ve managed to either throw the Orlovs off the scent or that they’re simply not game to take Roman on. If I had to lay money on it, I’d guess the second one. Either way, I’ve breathed a lot easier since Roman found out who I really am. And I’ve been so damned happy lately that part of me simply doesn’t want to think about what could go wrong.

“Hey, Luce.” It’s a small gaggle of girls who have, to my vast relief, recently become Ofelia’s friends. They’re sweet girls she met at the Russian Cultural Center when Masha and Mickey were rehearsing for the Easter parade. Their Russian heritage eases many of the issues that divide Ofelia’s life from that of normal Spanish kids, including the ever-present security detail. Despite the fact that many of them come from significant wealth, they’re all very much normal teenagers. It’s been a relief to see Ofelia drop her previously sophisticated dress, which made her look far older than her years, for simple outfits like the halter top and shorts she’s wearing today. Nothing can disguise the tanned length of her legs or extraordinarily beautiful face, but at least with her hair tied up in a simple ponytail and no makeup, she looks like a beautiful young girl instead of a runway model. She’s just turned sixteen. I don’t even want to think about how stunning she’s going to be in another couple of years.

“Hi, girls.” I give them a little wave. I’ve gotten to know most of their mothers or, in most cases, their nannies or security details. I recently hosted nearly all of them for Ofelia’s sixteenth birthday sleepover, a Vampire Diaries marathon that kept them squealing and crying into the small hours. It was also Ofelia’s first sleepover.

Mine too, for that matter.

A sixteenth might normally be a grander occasion, but Ofelia didn’t want it to be. I think she was more excited about having an actual sleepover than a grand affair in a ballroom. Like most of her friends, she’s lived a very sheltered life, one that hasn’t often involved outsiders.

The apartment has become more of a welcoming space to visitors, but Roman’s penthouse remains strictly off-limits to anyone but family.

Family.

That’s how it’s begun to feel lately. And I love it, but it terrifies me, too.

“Wow.” A couple of girls spot Dimitry walking toward us and giggle nervously. “He’s so hot.”

“Hands off, girls,” says Abby cheerfully, pushing through the crowd and kissing my cheek. “He’s mine.”

“Come on.” Ofelia tugs her friends’ hands. “Dimitry’s boring. Let’s go.”

“Did you hear that, darling? You’re boring.” Abby pulls a face at Dimitry, but he doesn’t smile. He is in work mode, his eyes roaming the plaza nonstop.

“I’ve got five guys around you,” he says to me. “I’ll stay on Ofelia and her friends with my guys.”

“Okay.” I shoot him a smile. “Thank you.”

“Churros,” says Masha, around a mouthful of batter and chocolate. She holds out a sticky fist to Dimitry, who laughs. “Not now, sweetheart. But thank you.” He nods at me and moves off into the crowd.

“You two look cozy.” I give Abby the ghost of a wink.

“So far, so good.” She helps herself to churros. “At least now that I’m working full-time at Pillars, I’m out of that horrible café.”

“I still can’t believe Dimitry agreed to you working there.”

“I think he figured it was the lesser of two evils. After he saw Revolting Pete grope me, he was ready to agree to anything. And Gregor’s a good boss. He pays well, and none of his men grope the staff.”

“Gregor?” I frown. “I thought Nikolai ran Pillars.”

“He’s away. Gregor’s in charge, and he’s a decent bloke. I think that’s why Dimitry got me the job.”

“I’d give anything to have been there when Dimitry knocked Pete out,” I say longingly. “You still haven’t told me exactly what happened.”

“It was magical.” Abby sighs blissfully. “Dimitry came to pick me up. Normally he comes in and waits by the bar for me to finish, but he got a phone call before he left the car. I was cleaning the bar down, and Pete came in to hand out the tips. You know how he does.”

“Oh, I do.” It used to be our daily nightmare.

“So I’m leaning over, picking the bottles up off the shelf—I might have been giving Dimitry a bit of a show,” she adds mischievously, “since I knew he was outside, probably watching me through the window. Pete, however, didn’t get that particular memo. So he pulled his usual trick of pressing right up against me, pretending to reach for a bottle. Gave my ass a good grope while he was at it.”

“Gross.” I shiver. That particular detail is an all-too-familiar experience.

“So the next minute, Dimitry’s literally thrown Pete over the counter, and he’s hit the floor. Right before Dimitry’s fist hit his face. Multiple times. Ah.” She sighs. “It was a beautiful thing, Luce. Wish you’d been there.”

“Me, too.” I savor the image for a moment, moving the chocolate pot away from its precarious perch on the edge of the table. “That’s your last one,” I tell Masha sternly. “Leave some for Abby and me.”

“Full anyhow,” Masha says, giving me a chocolate-smeared grin. “Can we go see los caballos ?” She’s fluent in Spanglish. Sometimes Russian slips in there, which Ofelia likes to call Spanrush.

“We can see the horses in a bit. We’re going to wait for Ofelia to come back. I brought your coloring book.” I clean her up, get some crayons, and leave her to it. Masha will happily color all day.

“So how is it at Pillars?” I ask Abby curiously. “Don’t you see Miguel all the time?”

“No. He’s over in the States with Nikolai. Cádiz is doing some showcase matches in Florida for advertising dollars during the offseason. Which, from what Gregor says, means plenty of yacht parties with models and paparazzi. Good riddance,” she says darkly. “To both of them. I don’t think Gregor likes Nikolai too much.”

“Uncle Nicky,” says Masha, not looking up from her coloring book.

“Yes, darling.” I stroke the hair back from her face. “Nikolai is your Uncle Nicky.”

“Uncle Nicky an’ Inger on a boat,” she says.

My hand pauses. Masha never refers to her mother as Mama, no matter how often her siblings correct her. “That’s right,” I say, stroking her hair back. “You were on a boat with them last summer.”

“No.” She’s still coloring. “Las’ night, when ’Felia FaceTimed. They on Deda Yuri’s boat.”

“Oh,” I say, frowning. Masha doesn’t offer any more information, and I don’t push her. Abby looks at me curiously, but I shake my head and put a finger to my lips. The noise in the plaza ratchets up a level as the flamenco dancers start up right in front of us, precluding any further conversation.

I don’t interfere with the kids’ FaceTime sessions with Inger. For starters, they’re rare enough to seriously piss me off. From my observations, the kids are fortunate if they get more than a brief call every couple of weeks, usually when Inger is out with friends and wants to show off her “darling children.” I’ve also noticed that the kids never mention me by name when they’re talking to her. I take it from their reticence that bringing anybody to Inger’s notice might not be the wisest idea, so I keep my distance.

That said, the fact that Inger’s hanging out with Nikolai strikes me as a little odd. And I thought Roman said that the yacht had been sold.

None of your business, Lucia.

Lately, I’ve stopped calling myself Darya, even privately. Somehow, I’ve become much more Lucia than I ever was Darya. I don’t miss being Darya. I don’t miss the cheap rooms and choking fear, the ever-present packed bag and never-ending struggle for survival.

Lucia gets to bake, as often as I could wish for. She spends every night being taken apart in ever more fascinating ways by a man she loves more than I ever knew it was possible to love someone. She gets smeary good night kisses and shy smiles from three beautiful children whom she falls more in love with every day. And most of all, Lucia gets to watch her father slowly coming back to life. Even if he does incessantly ask where Roman is, which is a bit awkward.

If it wasn’t for the fact that my brother is still in the hands of the Orlovs, life would be perfect.

Well, that, and Roman’s sudden and rather strange aversion to spending time with my father. Which is beginning to really bother me.

I haven’t forgotten that Roman comes from Miami, or that his mother was Colombian. In the years before Vilnus’s coup, my father was at war with some Colombians. He never talked about work, and I only know that much from snippets I overheard from my security detail, which was increased during those years. I’m not naive about my father’s reputation back then. His world was just as violent and bloody as Roman’s. More, maybe. There’s more than a slight chance that Roman’s family suffered at my father’s hands, even indirectly. But I wouldn’t know, because for all that my past is now in the open, Roman has remained as closed about his as ever. I can’t blame him. From the scars he bears, it clearly wasn’t an easy time.

“Have you made that doctor’s appointment yet?” Abby says in an undertone, casting me a sly glance. Her question jolts me out of my ever-present confusion over why it is that Roman seems to have developed an active dislike for my father and throws me straight into the other problem I’ve been doing my best not to think about at all.

“I never should have told you about that,” I mutter, feeling the color start rising up my chest. “I’m a few days late, Abs. That’s it.”

“And you’ve been shagging CEO Man nonstop for months. Do the math, Luce.”

“I’m not going to start panicking just yet. And don’t you dare say a word to Dimitry.”

“My lips are sealed.” Abby mimics zipping them. “But I don’t know why you’re worried. CEO Man is head over heels for you, anyone can see that.” My blush turns into a full-blown red canvas.

“We’ll see.” I’m not remotely certain that Roman’s current obsession with my body will extend to caring for another life growing inside it. Besides, I’ve never been regular.

And you also haven’t exactly been religious about taking the pill lately , my mind reminds me. It isn’t intentional. It’s just that between juggling three kids and being up all night with Roman, my routine has gotten a little out of whack. Even so, I need to get a test.

Whenever I get a chance to be alone for a minute, which is just about never these days.

Thankfully, Ofelia chooses that moment to return, and we settle in to watch the parade.

“ M ickey and I are going to be late getting home.” Roman’s tone is businesslike. He’s clearly busy.

“It’s all good. The girls are both exhausted anyway, so we might just have an early bite and I’ll get them to bed.”

His voice lowers. “That sounds like the best plan I’ve heard all day. I’ll message when I’m on the way and drop Mickey off in the apartment.” He hangs up before I can say anything, not that there’s any need to. I’m already planning what to wear. I’ve begun to seriously appreciate the shopping expedition I went on right at the beginning of our “arrangement.” The extensive lingerie selection has definitely come in handy.

I wait until Ofelia and Masha are down, then choose a scarlet combination with boyshort panties and a push-up corset. I throw a slip dress over it for the sake of the security guys in the corridor and head for the elevator.

In the penthouse, I head into the kitchen and make a small platter of tapas, ready for when Roman gets home. He likes telling me about what Mickey’s been up to, and increasingly, where his own projects are at. He doesn’t go into detail, but I know he’s got a big launch coming up that’s been taking up a lot of time.

I carry the platter out and put it on the bar, then go to the bedroom to swap my dress for my robe. The cleaners must have moved it. Lately there’s been such a mess of clothes in the penthouse that they sometimes get my stuff mixed up with the kids’.

I walk down the corridor, checking each room, but I can’t find it. I try the handle on one door, but it’s locked. I frown, trying it again.

That’s weird. Oddly enough, now that I think of it, I’ve never seen that door open. It must be some kind of storage thing.

Eventually I find my robe under the bed, crumpled up from the last time Roman tore it off. Oh well. I smile to myself. There goes that idea.

My phone buzzes. Five minutes away.

I grab one of Roman’s shirts from the closet and throw it over my lingerie, undoing most of the buttons. I finish the look off with a scarlet tie, then prop myself on one of the dining chairs, put my stilettoed heels up on the marble table, and wait.

The elevator dings a moment later. Roman strides into the dining room, then comes to an abrupt halt when he sees me. A dark smile replaces his rather grim expression.

“Nice tie.”

“Thanks. The man who chose it has really good taste.” I hold up the Scotch bottle. “Drink?”

“Hmm.” He looks me up and down. “I’m not sure what I need more right now, Scotch or you.”

I swing my feet off the table and walk slowly toward him, dangling the bottle between my fingers. “You could always have both at the same time.”

“Tempting.” His arms whip out and pull me against him. He’s already hard. He kisses me so thoroughly that I almost drop the bottle, and when his hand roams beneath my ass, I feel the first moisture slick my thighs. “But,” he says, pulling back and giving me a wicked grin that says he knows exactly how wet I am right now, “I’d rather savor both, I think. Make me a drink while I shower?” Slapping me lightly on the ass, he saunters down the corridor, throwing pieces of clothing to the floor as he goes, throwing a sly glance over his shoulder.

Bastard.

I pour him a Scotch and figure two can play at that game. By the time he comes out, I’ve lost the shirt and tie and am seated on one of the barstools, legs crossed demurely.

“Mean.” He takes the Scotch, eyeing me slowly up and down. My breath catches. I love this, the game before we begin. Every day it’s different. Every day it blows my fucking mind.

He’s wearing nothing but a towel, and I can already see the rigid outline of his shaft pushing against it.

“I made tapas.” I indicate the plate on the bar.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

I giggle. He’s staring at my breasts, pushed indecently high by the corset. Tossing off his Scotch, he moves toward me and tugs the scarlet ribbon holding the corset together, sucking in his breath as it falls away. “I’d far rather eat you.”

I moan as he lowers his head to them, pushing my thighs apart with his hands so he can stand between them. He holds me steady on the stool, which is good, since the moment his mouth hits my nipples I’m in serious danger of falling off. “Mmm,” he mutters around first one, then the other. “You taste delicious.” He pushes my breasts together, his tongue roaming across them, driving me mad. “I swear these get better every time I touch them.”

I reach for his towel, and he steps just out of reach. “Not yet.”

He lifts me up onto the bar in a swift movement and spreads my legs wide, placing his thumbs just beside the lacy edge of my underwear. I push my mound toward him, aching for his thumbs to move closer. “Always so impatient,” he says, shaking his head, but the dark fire in his eyes betrays that his own control is starting to crack.

I love this too. Love watching him begin to lose it. But he’s proven, over and over, that he can hold on way past when I lose it. And I’ve paid for trying to best him by spending hours being held on the brink of orgasm. I’m in no mood for that tonight.

“I’ve been thinking about fucking you all day,” I murmur in his ear. I feel his muscles go taut against me and smile to myself. “I’ve been thinking about your cock—”

He covers my mouth with one hand. With the other, he pulls my underwear off. “No more talking,” he warns me in a low voice. “That’s cheating.”

So much for my careful lingerie planning.

I give a burble of laughter behind his hand, which turns into a moan as his mouth hits my wet, aching center. My legs go over his shoulders and my head goes back, his fingers dipping into my mouth as he licks me slowly, with the devastating precision that always completely undoes me. His tongue skirts the swelling button at my center, lathing each side but never giving me exactly what I want, until I’m squirming and moaning under his attack. My hands are in his hair, urging him closer, but the corded muscles in his neck says he won’t be pushed anywhere he doesn’t choose to go. I’m already so close to orgasm it will only take a swipe of his tongue to get me there.

“Mmm.” He pulls back just as I’m about to tip over the edge. The towel is bulging to breaking point. I reach for it eagerly, but Roman steps out of the way. He pours himself another Scotch and takes a mouthful, staring at me spread across his bar. I swell under his eyes, my whole body aching for him.

“Bedroom,” he orders.

I slide down the bar and head down the corridor, still wearing my heels. I cast him a backward look, just to pay him back for the one he gave me when he headed for the shower. He follows me down the corridor, eyes dark and intent on my ass, Scotch still in his hand.

I turn when I enter the bedroom, reaching again for the towel. He lets me grab it this time, and I tear it away, moaning as his cock surges up to his abdomen. I take it in my hand, slowly pumping him, so swollen between my legs that it’s almost impossible to move without groaning.

He slips his fingers beneath me, swearing softly as he feels me open for him. Lifting an ice cube out of the glass, he runs it down my throat, then over my nipples, lingering on each one. The Scotch and ice sting my flesh, making me gasp. He licks the moisture off, slowly. My hand movements are becoming more erratic. He pushes my hand away and picks me up, carrying me high over his head to the bed then lowering himself down, still holding me above him like he’s a weight lifter, slowly bringing me down until he’s lying on his back with my legs planted either side of his face; then he gets to work with his mouth again.

I grab the back of the headboard, writhing on his face and the hands cupping my ass, crying out as he teases me. Still he won’t touch the core of me with his tongue, teasing every part of me with strong, sure strokes, but holding back from right where I need it. His fingers slip inside me, delicately opening me for his tongue, but they’re not enough. His hands lock me in place, not letting me near what I really want, holding me just far enough off his tongue that I can’t grind down on him like I need to.

“ Ohhh... ” The buildup is starting again. I’m squirming, my body spinning out of control. “I don’t want to come like this,” I gasp, rocking my hips back and forth over his tongue.

“No.” He lifts me up, pushing me off his face. “You want to come like this. ” He slams me down onto his cock, and I scream as it fills me. “That’s it, milaia ,” he murmurs, letting me rock out of control on him. “Scream for me.” He pushes upward and I shriek again, pushing myself hard on him so my swollen clit rubs against his pubic bone. “Fuck, you look beautiful like that,” he growls, surging up into me. I move, faster and faster, and he lets me ride him, murmuring to me as it starts to hit.

Just as the spasms seize he rears up, wrapping his arms around me as his cock pumps deep inside, my breasts crushed to his chest. His mouth takes the next scream from mine, and as my body shakes, his cock pulses his release.

“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair. “Fuck, I love you, Lucia.”