Page 58

58

LUCIA

“ B ut then you must know Irina Ketzinyovna!” One of the matrons pinches my cheek affectionately.

“I do have that honor.” I smile at her. “Her granddaughter takes Russian classes with Ofelia.”

“Then it is settled.” Katerina beams around at the table. “You will come to tea with us next week, Lucia.”

I laugh and agree, falling into a discussion with one of the women about what books the girls will be studying in Russian class next term. This entire night has been like walking on a knife edge, with a precipice drop at either side.

Deflect questions about my past.

Evade, rather than lie.

Drop enough hints to reassure the women that I am from their world, but for complicated reasons, can’t speak of my own origins.

We’re all Russian. Hidden tragedy and family secrets are our lifeblood. To be an enigma, particularly a tragic one, is an intrinsically Russian archetype. Add my entrance on Roman’s arm, and I’ve easily become the most fascinating project the matrons will have for some time.

Or I could be, if I was staying.

That thought sends a prickle of awareness down my spine, the uncanny sense I have whenever Roman is watching me. And he has been watching me. Roman’s eyes have followed my every move from the moment he laid eyes on me earlier this evening.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy him watching me.

I forgot how devastating he is in a tuxedo. Everything about him, from his dark, dangerous eyes to the hard muscularity beneath the tailor-made suit, makes every other man in the room seem utterly insignificant. They all jostle to shake his hand. Their wives watch him with openly covetous eyes. Even the stately matrons try to flirt with him, and he, in turn, handles them with a suave charm that melts even the frostiest demeanor.

I want to walk across the room and wrap my arms around his neck. I want him to claim me in front of the room, then take me somewhere quiet and fuck me with my dress around my hips.

I want to be his. And I want to mark him as fucking mine .

There’s something about becoming Darya again that has made me feel like living dangerously. Part of me knows that tonight might be the last time I have this, a taste of the world that was once mine, and which has lately, no matter how briefly, been mine again. From confronting Inger in the limo to embracing my Russian heritage, I’ve felt more empowered tonight than I have in years. Tonight I don’t feel like the beaten, cowed Darya Petrovsky who ran from the Orlovs. Brave as she was, that Darya was also desperate. Even though she’d been raised to the finest of all things, somehow she always shied away from the spotlight, from owning her place and her heritage. By the time the Orlovs beat and scarred me, Darya had almost become resigned to being a victim.

Darya had never been forced to fight for her survival. When the Orlovs came, she had no arsenal with which to fight back.

Darya had been raised to glide elegantly through rooms like this one. But she wasn’t equipped to survive the world beyond them. I’ll never know who Darya might have grown into, had she stayed in her gilt-and-marble palace forever.

Because instead, Darya had to become Lucia Lopez.

A survivor. Sometimes a warrior. Someone who had to stand up for both herself and her father. I didn’t get from Miami to Morocco without learning how to stand my ground under threat or take what I need, instead of waiting patiently for someone to offer it.

But tonight, I feel like something not entirely Darya or Lucia.

Darya knows these rooms, these people. She understands the rules and precisely how to behave.

But Darya would also have quietly absorbed Inger’s taunts with a pained smile and diplomatic silence.

Lucia, on the other hand, knows how it feels to be the waitress standing behind the counter, struggling for a share of the tips and the next shift. Lucia knows how to confront a threat from those who would take what is hers. She understands that, sometimes, pretty manners and diplomatic silence aren’t enough.

Darya knows how to run.

But Lucia knows how to stand and fight.

Ever since I slipped the mulberry silk dress on tonight, I’ve felt as if my two personalities have merged. The past few months with Roman have forged me into something new again. A woman who knows her own worth and who isn’t afraid to fight for it.

My hand slips to my belly. Who isn’t afraid of anything, if it means taking care of the life inside me.

“Miss Lopez.” A handsome face swims into focus before me. It’s the son of one of the women at the table, a slender, well-dressed man in his midthirties. “Can I tempt you to dance?”

“Oh, yes, rypka , you must!” Katerina pushes me toward the man, giving me the standard Russian grandmother sales pitch in my ear as she does. Her hissed fact sheet tells me that the man in question is a highly eligible bachelor, has a more than adequate income, and very respectable bedroom skills.

Russian women are nothing if not thorough when it comes to their research.

“So, Lucia.” He waltzes me skillfully into the center of the dance floor. “You’ve created quite the sensation this evening. There’s nothing the dvoryanstvo like better than seeing old Russia triumph over the new. You’re quite the modern Russian fairy tale, Miss Lopez.”

“I do my best,” I say, laughing as he expertly turns me beneath his arm. “And I imagine that dancing with the fairy tale will do wonders for your standing with the old dragons watching us?”

“You really do know the game.” He chuckles.

“Oh, I grew up playing it, believe me.” Oddly enough, there’s a definite pleasure to be found in exercising those old skills. It’s like a professional baseball player going back to slum it in the minors. I have nothing to lose in this room, and thus, ironically, I’m the most celebrated thing in it.

Isn’t that always the way?

“Excuse me.” Roman’s low growl sends a shiver through me. “I’m reclaiming my date.”

My dance partner’s face falls into respectful lines, and he drops me like I’m a hot coal, taking a wary step backward. “Of course, Mr. Stevanovsky.” He nods courteously in my direction. “Miss Lopez.”

“Good lord,” I say lightly as Roman’s arms close around me and I feel the familiar, delicious thrill race through my veins. “You didn’t have to terrify him.”

Roman’s mouth curls, sending a bolt of lust straight between my thighs. “And you didn’t have to seduce him.” He puts his mouth close to my ear. “But we both enjoy the game, don’t we, Darya?”

I shiver, pressing myself closer to him. His arms tighten about me, his thigh slipping between mine as he guides me across the floor. He moves my body like he owns it, like we’re one being. I know that this will be the dance the principessas bawdily speculate on during tea tomorrow morning.

“They’re watching us,” I murmur, feeling him hard against me.

“Let them watch.” Roman spins me out and pulls me back in, his hand roaming to the base of my spine. “In fact, let’s give them something to really feast on.” He dips me low over his arm, running his hand down my throat, between my breasts, and down my abdomen as he pulls me slowly back up. As my head comes up, his lips claim mine, briefly, but enough to let everyone in the room know to whom I belong. My arms slip around his neck, and he pulls my hips into his. “Now,” he murmurs, “they’re really watching.”

He’s right. And I don’t particularly care.

My lips touch Roman’s ear. “I’m sorry for what I said to Inger in the car.”

He spins me out and brings me back, grinning darkly. “No, you’re not.”

“No.” I laugh as he half dips me again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

“She had it coming.”

“I wish the kids hadn’t seen it.”

“They needed to.” His smile fades. “She’s terrorized them for years. And I’ve let it happen for too long. She needs to know she can’t treat the kids like accessories, and they need to know I’ve got their back.”

I’ve got their back , I note sadly. Not we.

I wrap my arms about his neck and bury my head in his shoulder, savoring the feel of his bulk against me, the muscular heat of him through my thin silk dress. Over his shoulder I can see Ofelia blushing and smiling as a very proud-looking Matvei guides her across the dance floor. Mickey is in a corner by the bar, deep in animated conversation with a business acquaintance of Roman’s who builds some kind of computer stuff. Masha is sprawled across Katerina’s lap, beaming as the doting group of matrons alternately pinch her cheek and feed her treats, paying her exorbitant compliments in Russian. Seeing me watching her, she gives me a crumb-smeared grin and waves energetically. I wave back, blowing her a kiss over Roman’s shoulder, and the matrons all sigh and clap their hands appreciatively.

I catch a glimpse of Inger across the room, staring balefully at us, Nikolai obediently holding her glass as well as his own. She’s beckoning to Ofelia, who is pointedly ignoring her, and frowning at Masha, who seems oblivious. Mickey is too absorbed by his conversation to notice her.

I should feel guilty, but I don’t. I really don’t. I’ve seen the damage Inger has inflicted on her children. I hope that whatever comes, Roman continues to care for them as he has until now.

“The kids need you,” I whisper against his ear. “They love you, Roman. Don’t forget that.”

“What about you?” He pulls back and stares at me, something dark and fierce in his eyes. “No,” he says roughly when I don’t immediately answer. “Don’t answer that. Come with me for a moment.” He leads me off the dance floor without waiting for me to answer, taking me through one of the exits and into a private office that is dark. The door shuts behind us with an audible click, and he turns the lock. Neon light streams through the slatted blinds over the window, falling across a wide leather desk.

“What—”

But Roman’s mouth stops my question. He takes my clutch out of my hands, then slips his hands under my ass and me onto the desk, pulling my dress up as he does. His mouth is hard and hungry, and after the long days of separation, his touch fires me like a lit match to a pile of fuel.

He slips fingers between my legs before I have time to object, manipulating me with such mastery I’m whimpering in seconds.

“You’re the most beautiful goddamn woman in that room,” he growls, his lips and fingers driving me so fast toward orgasm I can barely catch my breath. “And I have to fuck you.”

He doesn’t need to ask if I’m ready. And I have not even the remotest thought of refusing. When his cock leaps free, I’m already gasping with need.

He fucks me hard and deep, my legs wrapped around his back, his arms holding me from falling back on the desk. In the shifting neon lights his face is dark and set, his eyes boring into mine as he thrusts into me, hitting every place he needs to drive me into insanity.

Part of me wants to make him slow down, to savor this, to try to talk.

Another part of me just wants to take what he is offering. To lose myself in the bliss that binds us when we do this, the place where our bodies meet and there is no need for words or anything else.

He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t try to tease me. He drives me straight to the orgasm I need, pushing me ruthlessly over the edge, and for once, he doesn’t put his hand over my mouth when I scream. He explodes as my first spasm hits, pumping into me with a hot urgency utterly unlike his customary control.

For a long moment we stay there, his arms wrapped around me, my legs holding him inside me. Then gradually he withdraws, handing me the tissue box on the side of the desk, turning away as I clean myself.

His eyes no longer meet mine, and I feel cold unease stealing through me again.

I can’t help but feel this was a goodbye fuck.

When I turn around to face him, he tugs my dress down and smooths it with a half smile that I seize like a starving man would food. I twine my fingers with his. “The matrons in there will certainly be talking when they see us walk back in there together, looking like this.”

“Every one of them knows you belong to me. Now every man does, too.” There’s a certain savagery in his voice, an unsmiling menace, that sends another surge of unease through me. He withdraws his hand from mine.

“Roman.” I put my hand on his face, trying to make him look at me. “Tonight, after the ball—can we talk?”

His eyes meet mine properly, and for a moment the pain in them takes my breath away. I’m about to ask what’s wrong, but a knock at the door interrupts us.

“Lucia!” Ofelia’s voice is muffled. “Are you in there? I need you.”

Roman hands me my clutch and nods at the door. “Duty calls, Miss Lopez.” His sardonic drawl is back, eyes the same glittering mask he’s worn all night.

I walk ahead of him to the door, horribly aware that he didn’t agree to talking with me after the ball.

“ M atvei’s so nice!” Ofelia’s eyes shine as she leans over the powder room sink, reapplying her lip gloss. “I’ve never really talked to him that much, you know? But he picks his sister up from the same Russian class I go to, and guess what? He said he’s been watching me for ages! He even hangs around sometimes to listen to me practice piano afterward. He said he wanted to ask me out after the Holy Week parade, but he was too nervous. Can you believe that? He was too nervous to ask me out!”

She shakes her head, beaming, as she washes her hands. There are several private powder rooms adjacent to the restrooms, each fully stocked with all manner of cosmetics. We’re taking a breather in this one, which, given my little encounter with Roman, is a welcome chance to fix my makeup and gather myself.

“Of course he was nervous.” I tilt her chin up and rest my own on her shoulder, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I very much doubt he’s ever met anyone so elegant, intelligent, and beautiful in his life. Not to mention kind, talented, and caring.”

“Oh, Luce.” She leans her head against mine. “Not really, but thank you for saying that. You always see the best in me.”

“That’s because it’s all true.” I kiss her on the cheek and tuck a stray bit of hair into her coiffure, then fix my own.

I wonder if Ofelia has any idea how stunning she really is. Somehow I suspect that a lifetime of Inger’s harsh criticisms have left her with a very skewed perception of her own beauty and gifts. And privately, I imagine that Matvei’s reluctance to ask her out has a lot more to do with his fear of Roman than of Ofelia rejecting him.

I make a note to remind Roman to go softly on the boy when he comes asking, then feel a painful clench of my heart when I realize it’s unlikely I’ll be around long enough to have that conversation.

“Are you okay, Luce?” Ofelia frowns concernedly at me in the mirror. “Is it Inger? Is that why you disappeared with Roman? Did she say something else awful to you?”

“No, no, darling.” I hasten to reassure her, trying not to blush. “And I’m sorry about what I said in the limo. I shouldn’t have said those things to your mother at all, especially not while you were in the car with us. It was poor behavior on my part.”

“No.” Her face clouds over. She lowers her head, shaking it slowly. “She deserved it. Inger always does that. Always says horrible things, to me or Mickey. And Nikolai...” She looks away, biting her lip.

It’s my turn to frown. The children’s antipathy toward their uncle hasn’t escaped me, particularly tonight, when not one of them so much as kissed him hello. “What is it about Nikolai?” I ask, smoothing her hair back. “Did he do something to you, Ofelia?”

“No. Not to me.” She shakes her head again. “I mean, he doesn’t like me much, but I don’t really care about that. The only person he cares about is Inger. But last summer, when we were on the yacht, he was really weird with Masha. Like, at first, it was kind of sweet—he’d jump in the pool when she had her floaties on and help her swim, or put her on his shoulders when we were onshore in town. But he always had his phone out when she was around. Like, always . It was weird. Mickey and I were pretty sure he was trying to film Masha, or take pictures of her. In the end, Mickey confronted him about it.” She winces. “It didn’t go well. Nikolai completely lost it, and Inger totally blew her top at us both, like how dare we imply such horrible things, blah blah. In the end we came home early.”

“Wait.” I try not to let my fury and disgust show. “Do you mean what I think you mean, Ofelia? Because if so, that’s a very serious allegation—and one Roman should know about.”

“Well, that’s the thing. Mickey and I were going to tell him. But before we did, Mickey hacked Nikolai’s phone to see if we were right. There were photos and videos of Masha on there, but honestly, there was nothing off about them. She was always clothed. Most of the shots were just of her face. And he wasn’t sharing them to anyone. We stayed glued to Masha’s side for the rest of the holiday, but we never caught him trying to do anything. And Masha didn’t seem at all worried about him. She doesn’t like him, just like we don’t, but that’s mainly because he’s all over Inger like, all the time.” She makes a face. “It’s gross. He’s gross.” She shoots me a sideways glance. “And did you know they were basically together all summer? It was all over the tabloids.”

I hoped she might not have seen those reports.

“You should probably talk to your mother about her private life, not me. But I do think you should tell Roman about Masha.” I don’t like anything she’s just said about that. At all. “He needs to know. Promise me you’ll talk to him about it?”

Ofelia pulls a face in the mirror. “Can’t you talk to him? He always listens to you.” She gives me a rather sly smile. “Especially when you look like you do tonight. He can’t take his eyes off you, which is probably why he pulled you into that office.”

It’s my turn to pull a face. “Ew. Gross.”

“No.” She gives me a small smile. “Actually, it isn’t. Not with you guys.” She dries her hands. “Hey. Did you know there’s, like, an actual towel guy outside the powder room? Like, he hands you a hot towel from a tray before you go back out to the floor.”

“Fancy.” I wink at her.

“Soooo fancy.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m going back to Matvei. Have fun!” She gives me a little wave. The door closes behind her, leaving me in the powder room, staring at the mirror, my heart thudding.

What the hell is Nikolai playing at? I don’t care whether the photographs are innocent or not. There’s absolutely no reason for him to be taking pictures of Masha, to be filming her. Something is off. And damn right I’ll be talking to Roman about it. Whatever else I’m planning to do, I need to make sure he knows about this first.

I open the door onto the wide, carpeted corridor, and the white-gloved doorman proffers his tray, lifting the silver lid. I’m about to decline when I see the writing on the card sitting on the towels.

Take one. Pretend to wipe your hands.

I look up and then, seeing the eye patch, hastily drop my eyes. Hands shaking, I take one of the towels.

“Alexei?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“You have to run. Right now.”

I’m shaking so badly I drop the towel on the floor. I bend down to pick it up, using the moment to try to collect myself. “Is it really you?” I whisper as he bends down beside me, taking the towel from my hands.

“Yes. Stand up, take another towel.”

I slowly do as he asks.

“Listen.” My brother’s voice is low, tense, and full of urgency. “Roman’s real name is Roman Borovsky. He’s the son of Aleksander Borovsky, and he holds the missing key to the vault.”

“ What? ” I barely manage to get the word out. “No—”

“I don’t have time to explain. The Orlovs know who he is. They know about his fingerprints being the third set on the lock, and they suspect he has the missing key. And now they have all of you in one place. They’re coming for you all. Here, Darya. Tonight.”

“Roman won’t let them—”

“All it takes is one of the children. Do you understand? The Orlovs will take the children. How long do you think Roman will hold out when they start carving up those kids? How long will you ? You know what they do to little girls.” He grips my hand. “If you’re not here, they’ve got nothing, just like before. You must go now , Darya. And forget about taking Papa. They’re watching him.” He takes an envelope out of his pocket. “I’ve explained it all in here. There’s a ticket inside. Can you get your passport?”

I nod weakly.

“Follow the instructions in the envelope. I’ll find you. Trust me, Darya.”

Two of Roman’s security men begin to approach us. They’re staring at Alexei’s bent head, frowning as they speak into their earpieces, making a beeline for us. “Go,” I whisper to him, slipping the envelope into my clutch. “I’ll handle them.”

“Promise me,” he mutters. For a moment his lone eye meets mine. It’s dark, and so full of shadows it makes me want to cry. Worse, his face is lined in white scars, the remnants of torture I can imagine all too well.

But Alexei is still in there. He’s still my brother.

And I believe him.

I promise , I mouth silently.

Aloud, I say, “Yes, I know who you mean. She’s in the room at the end, just down there.” I force myself to smile and laugh. “No, she won’t think you’re forward. Go on, ask her out.” I turn toward the guards, still smiling, as Alexei moves off down the corridor. “So cute. He really likes one of the cocktail waitresses, but he was too scared to ask her out.” I let my brow crease in concern. “Is everything okay? You guys look worried.”

“Sure, everything’s fine.” One of the guys gives me a hard look. He nods at the other one, who moves down the corridor after Alexei.

I’m pretty sure he’ll be too late. The powder room at the end has an exit onto the fire escape.

I walk back to the ballroom, so unbalanced I feel like I might bounce off the walls on either side.