Page 57

57

ROMAN

G od, she’s beautiful.

Lucia is wearing the mulberry silk slip dress I bought for her yesterday. It clings to every curve, the luscious breasts I’ve loved a thousand times swelling temptingly over the lace neckline, the line of her legs elegant above the strappy stilettos. The lush fall of her hair is swept into a complex chignon behind her head. Her eyes are smoky caverns, lips glistening deep plum. A set of diamond-and-pearl earrings made by my father’s hands drip down her neck. I included them in the bag I left on the counter earlier, before my conversation with Sergei.

She’s never looked so desirable—or so dangerous.

There’s a strange gleam in her eyes, a hard, brilliant edge that seems to absorb the light and throw it back into the apartment. The almond-shaped eyes that have always seemed liquid soft are changed, turned inward, become a mirror for the room instead of a pool in which I can lose myself.

I can’t look at her.

“Ofelia, you’re stunning.” I turn my smile to a safer target. “That dress is perfect.”

She returns my smile shyly. “Do you really like it? Luce chose it.” She touches her earrings. “These are hers.” It takes me a moment to remember where I’ve seen the earrings before: the first night I took Lucia out to dinner.

The night she signed the contract.

I look at them more closely and choke back a laugh. That night, I dismissed them as cheap knockoffs. Now I wonder how I could have been so blind. Me, who was handling House of Fabergé jewelry before I could walk.

We see what we want to see.

It’s one of the first rules of hiding in plain sight; I know that better than anyone. It never occurred to me, back then, that a poverty-stricken waitress would be wearing priceless antiques in her ears.

“They’re lovely, umnyashka .” And they’ll make every damned Russian snob in the room sit up and take notice. I couldn’t have chosen better myself.

“Mama bought me a different dress.” Ofelia gives me a worried look. “She won’t be happy I’m not wearing it.”

“It’s too late for her to make you change.”

Which Lucia knows damn well.

I almost grin. “I’ll manage Inger, don’t worry.”

“What ’bout me?” Masha, looking distinctly unimpressed, does an unsteady turn in front me.

“Well, myshka , you look beautiful too.” Except I hate everything about seeing Masha in a prim, tight-fitting dress, with a rigid sash around her waist and patent leather shoes. I prefer her tearing around in leggings and a T-shirt, covered in dirt.

“Dwess hurt.” She scowls. “Luce fix-ed it.”

“I’m glad.” I bend down and smile at her. “You won’t have to wear it for long, sweetheart, I promise.”

“We should go.” An unsmiling Mickey, looking a decade older than his years in his tux, stalks to the door without looking at me. “Didn’t you say Nikolai is already waiting for us in the limo?”

Khuy.

He’s not going to make this easy for me.

“Sure.” I smile around at the room, my eyes skimming past Lucia’s face. “Let’s go.”

“ O felia!” Inger settles herself in the limo next to Nikolai and glares at her daughter. “What are you wearing? I thought I told you—” She turns to Lucia, but whatever temper storm she was about to unleash dies in her throat. Her mouth forms a perfect O of shock.

“Well. You certainly pulled out all the stops.” Inger gives Lucia a look with enough daggers to kill ten men.

The sheer satisfaction I feel at her blatant dismay almost makes up for everything else that is currently going to shit in my world.

Almost.

“It’s a pity we couldn’t shop together.” Lucia smiles coldly. “My dressmaker would have made you something that fit properly.”

I bite my lips together to hide my grin. Mickey hastily turns his bark of surprised laughter into a cough. Ofelia is looking at Lucia with something like awe.

Only Nikolai, pressed into the corner opposite mine, doesn’t seem amused. “You look stunning, Inger.” He scowls around her at Lucia, who simply arches her eyebrows and stares right back at him.

Holy fuck.

I wasn’t wrong about her being different tonight. I’ve never seen Lucia do anything but seek the peace. Tonight is like watching another person. Someone born to this life, who knows exactly how to occupy her place in it.

Because she was born to it , I realize with a discomforting jolt. And the place she grew up occupying is one Inger can only dream about.

It’s not Lucia Lopez, waitress and au pair, who got into this limo tonight.

It’s Darya fucking Petrovsky.

And I’ve never wanted her more.

Inger, not in the least mollified by Nikolai’s compliment, picks an imaginary piece of fluff from her skintight, sequined sheath, which shows far too much of her ample chest. “This is a custom-made Versace.”

Darya stares out of the window with supreme disinterest. “Is it.”

“Romie.” Inger reverts to the petulant whine that sets my teeth on edge. “When we arrive, you and I need to go ahead with the children. Nikolai and Lucia will follow us.”

“Leave the arrangements to me, Inger.” I give her a look hard enough to make her clamp her lips together sullenly.

We fall into an uncomfortable silence. I try not to look at Darya as the limo speeds through the darkness. She’s sitting diagonally opposite me, curled into the door. Masha, next to her, is sitting bolt upright and gripping her hand tightly, sitting as far away from Inger as possible.

Mickey, opposite Darya, is watching her warily, but she avoids his eyes, just as she does mine.

She’s staring out of the window as if she’s already gone.

I have an almost compulsive urge to lean over and grasp her arm, force her to look at me. I can’t shake the strange feeling that the speeding limo is catapulting us all toward some dangerous future, a place I’m not ready to meet yet.

The kids, clearly sensing the tension, sit ramrod straight, all looking anywhere but at their mother. Inger’s expression is growing darker by the second.

“Ofelia.” Her sharp tone makes me grind my teeth. “You could at least have worn the Gucci earrings I bought for you, instead of those department store knockoffs.”

“Those earrings are original pieces from the House of Fabergé, Inger, and they’re over a century old.” Her confused expression triggers an oddly reckless desire I haven’t felt in a long time. “They once belonged to Czar Nicholas’s daughter. And they aren’t just expensive—they’re fucking priceless.”

Ofelia gives a horrified little gasp. Darya stiffens but doesn’t move, still staring out of the window.

“But you said—” Ofelia begins, frowning at Darya.

“Roman gave them to her.” Mickey interrupts his sister before she can complete her sentence, glaring at me. “For your sixteenth birthday, Ofelia, didn’t he?”

“Oh.” Looking utterly bewildered, Ofelia nods hesitantly. “Yes, he did.”

Inger looks between us all, her eyes narrowing spitefully. But all she says is, “Please don’t swear around my children, Roman.”

My lips curl. I reach for the Scotch bottle and pour myself a glass, then one for Nikolai. “Take this,” I growl at him. “You’re going to need it.”

The limo speeds on into the night.

L uis opens the door and stands aside. I step out and extend my hand to Ofelia, drawing her out with me.

The paparazzi go predictably nuts, bulbs flashing from every direction.

“Roman! Who’s your date?”

“She’s not my date.” I give them the Hale Property CEO fucking smile. “This is my daughter, Ofelia Stevanovsky.” Ofelia smiles at me nervously and presses close to my side. I’m aware of Nikolai helping a glowering Inger out just behind me, but I blatantly ignore them both. A moment later, Mickey comes to stand nearby, Darya’s arm tucked through his own, Masha still clinging to her hand. The clicking intensifies.

“My son,” I say, turning to indicate Mickey. “And my youngest, Masha.”

I gently extricate Darya’s arm from Mickey’s and place her on my other arm. Mickey takes Masha and walks around us to stand beside Ofelia, placing himself protectively on the outside of his sisters.

“And this,” I say, drawing Darya forward, “is my date. Miss Lucia Lopez.”

I don’t wait for their questions, and I completely ignore a furious Inger, who is currently standing two paces behind us. Turning my family toward the red-velvet-covered stairs, I walk them slowly up toward the entrance to the ballroom, cameras tracking every step.

“What are you doing,” hisses Darya through gritted teeth. “You promised no paparazzi.”

“I changed my mind.”

“This is insanity,” she mutters.

“Then call me crazy.” I turn my little group at the top of the stairs to face the cameras. I keep my CEO smile firmly in place, and despite her glittering eyes and feverish color, Darya gives poised smiles at exactly the right time.

Inger and Nikolai, mounting the stairs with twin expressions of resentment, are entirely ignored by the snapping paps.

I turn us all back around as they get close and put my lips close to Darya’s ear. “But I don’t think I’m the only one feeling a little reckless tonight, Darya. Am I?”

I hold her eyes just long enough to see the uncertainty creep into hers.

Then we walk through the entrance.

I know what I decided. I know I have to let her run.

But that doesn’t mean I’m fucking happy about it. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to let up, not for one second, until the minute she’s actually gone.

D imitry finds me the minute we’re in the door. “You were right.” His eyes scan the room grimly. “The Guapa is anchored directly offshore, within easy tender distance. Looks like Alexei is planning to make his move.”

“Of course he is.” I’ve hit the weird, calm plateau that always takes over before the storm erupts, the place where time slows down and every sense is heightened. The opulent ballroom glitters like the fake replica of a more elegant time that it is. I nod at the passing faces and return greetings, introducing the children while all the time scanning the marble floor and balcony tiers for the faces that don’t belong.

Searching for one particular face: a man with a missing eye.

Alexei Petrovsky.

The fucker’s here, I’d bet Hale on it.

“Check every damn corner of the place. Including the kitchens.”

Dimitry nods and disappears into the crowd.

“Sure.” I nod permission to a nervous-faced boy who’s just asked Ofelia to dance. I know his grandfather, met the kid more than once at the school events I’ve attended the past few months. Ofelia gives me a grateful smile and takes his hand, moving onto the dance floor.

“I’m going to ask the waiter for a drink for Masha.” Mickey stalks off without waiting for my permission, his sister’s hand in his.

Great. So he’s still not over whatever this is, then.

Mickey’s no sooner gone than Inger’s furious face appears in front of mine.

Awesome.

“What the fuck was that shit you pulled at the entrance, Roman?”

“Keep your voice down, Inger. You don’t want people staring, now do you?” I’m still scanning the room, not looking at either Inger in front of me or Darya beside me. “Nikolai.” I rest my eyes briefly on my pain-in-the-ass adopted brother. “Maybe you should get your date a drink.”

“ You’re supposed to be my date,” says Inger through a clenched-teeth smile. “That was our deal.”

“I told you I’d attend the ball with you, Inger.” I finally meet her eyes, not even attempting to hide my contempt. “Which I have. But since the paparazzi has photographed you and Nikolai falling out of every Z-list bar in Miami for the past two months, not to mention entwined in varying states of nudity on half a dozen hotel balconies, you’ll forgive me for not wanting to play the part of doting family man. Given the very public display you’ve put on, I think you can rest assured that your trad wife image has already been fucked up beyond all recognition. And if you think I’m going to allow the children to suffer the public humiliation of being associated with your indiscretions, you can fucking think again.”

I turn away, leaving Inger mouthing furiously behind me.

Let her be furious.

I’ve got more important concerns tonight.

I greet Boris Obolensky, the grandfather of the boy Ofelia is dancing with and one of the wealthier benefactors of the Russian Cultural Center. He and I’ve done quite a bit of business. He’s in his seventies, and his wife, Katerina, is the daughter of an exiled Russian princess. Their grandchildren were all in the Holy Week parade with the kids.

“Boris.” I shake his hand. “May I present—” I turn to introduce the couple to Darya, but Katerina is already moving toward Inger, wearing a rather pained smile.

“Hello, dear,” she says in heavily accented Spanish, eyeing the sequined Versace with barely disguised distaste. “My daughter tells me you did a wonderful job at the Holy Week parade. The children are very lucky to have a nanny like you.”

I find Inger’s look of abject horror even more satisfying than I did her outrage when she caught sight of Darya in the limo.

Katerina is still standing with her hand out and a rather haughty look of surprise at Inger’s lack of a response when Darya steps between the two.

“Princessa Katerina Petrovna,” she says smoothly in Russian. “I’m Lucia, the children’s au pair.” Katerina’s eyes widen as they run over Darya from head to toe. Her face creases into an approving smile as Darya takes her hand and drops a perfectly subtle curtsy. “Your grandson, Matvei Olyavitch, is dancing with Ofelia,” Darya goes on, smiling. “It’s very sweet of him. She’s been practicing for weeks.”

“Oh!” Katerina’s hand flutters to her mouth. “But you are perfect, rypka! ” she says in Russian, beaming at Darya. “Now I understand why my daughter said you were such a treasure. Roman, where have you been hiding this one?” She taps me playfully on the arm. “Come with me, dear.” She casts Inger a dismissive glance. “Do excuse us, won’t you?”

Tucking Darya’s arm through her own, she steers her toward a group of austere-looking matrons, who are eyeing the milling crowd with extremely critical eyes. I watch long enough to see their faces soften into approving smiles as soon as Darya greets them.

Turning my back firmly on Inger’s outrage and Nikolai’s sullen resentment, I take Boris by the elbow. “Come and meet my son, Mikhail. He’s a bloody genius on computers.”

Hopefully flattery will help whatever is bugging the kid.

“Computers!” Boris chuckles. “I can barely operate my iPhone.”

I roll my eyes. “Tell me about it. Let’s get a Scotch, shall we?”