Page 7

7

LUCIA

I work through lunch, barely noticing the customers I speak to. Fortunately we’re so busy that beyond Abby’s initial shock, she doesn’t get a chance to question me too closely, although she also doesn’t miss any opportunity to slip in dry comments.

“Au pair,” she mutters sarcastically on her way to the serving hatch to pick up plates toward the end of the lunch hour.

I roll my eyes at her. Abby’s been giving me hell about Roman’s offer all day. I dread to think what she’d be saying if she knew the full nature of his proposal.

A moment later, Roman’s bodyguard walks in, and Abby licks her lips and grins at me. “Speaking of au pairing, you can definitely ohhhhhh-pair me up with that .”

She proceeds to flirt shamelessly with the bodyguard, who, I notice, doesn’t seem to mind at all.

He waits until Abby is distracted, then beckons me over and hands me the fat envelope I saw on Roman’s desk earlier today.

“Mr. Stevanovsky asked me to give you this as an advance on your first paycheck.”

I bite down on a retort about CEO Man having next-level arrogance by assuming I’m going to say yes to his job.

It doesn’t escape me that Roman found a neat solution to his little dilemma of how to diplomatically give me my tip. Making it a pay advance is kind of hard to argue with.

If I take the job, that is.

Which I’m by no means sure I will.

On the other hand, the envelope could not come at a better time. At least I have enough to pay for a week in the motel and look around for a new apartment. A privately let one, of course. It’s pretty hard to get a lease with only our Spanish medical cards as ID. And having no official lease is one less trail for the faceless men to follow.

Fortunately, southern Spain is plenty used to housing illegal immigrants.

“CEO Man is back, at least, along with those juicy Hale tips.” Abby looks extremely pleased with herself. “The bodyguard’s name is Dimitry, by the way.”

I’m not entirely certain if it’s correct to refer to the huge, tattooed Dimitry as Roman’s bodyguard. Going on the silent understanding I’ve observed between the two, I’ve no doubt that in bratva terms, Dimitry is Roman’s closest vor. There’s absolutely no way he’s anything but bratva. He came in wearing a T-shirt one day after a workout that left Abby starry-eyed with lust, and I noticed a tattoo of a rose entwined in barbed wire on his forearm.

Papa has a similar one.

It’s given to Russians who are incarcerated when they are still teenagers, usually in a juvenile facility. Of course, in Papa’s case, it was a Russian gulag, not a juvenile facility.

Because I was expecting to move motels again today, I’ve given away my afternoon shift to a backpacker friend of Abby’s, something I’m very grateful for right now. I need time to think.

Our current motel is only a block from the café. The day nurse has taken Papa out for a walk when I return. I pay for the week in advance, ignoring the manager’s comments about Papa’s wheelchair damaging the walls, and his even more pointed comments that a motel isn’t an aged care facility.

I pull out the contract and study it properly.

Half an hour later I’ve read it through three times, and I still have no idea what to do.

I’m not going to pretend the money isn’t important.

Papa and I have been living on air for too long for me to lie to myself about how desperate our circumstances are. Without some kind of miracle, things are unlikely to get better anytime soon. Seen in that light, Roman’s contract is a gift only a fool would turn down.

A fool with principles.

Desperate circumstances aside, I can’t pretend this contract is anything other than money for sex.

I’d be selling Roman Stevanovsky my body, to use however he wished, whenever it pleased him to do so.

And I wish that idea didn’t turn me on quite so much as it does.

I throw the contract down and stand up, moving restlessly around the room.

What the fuck is wrong with me, that I would even consider such an offer? Let alone find it actually arousing?

My bad-boy hardwired libido is one thing. But selling myself for money is quite another.

And if Papa should find out . . .

I shudder. Old and infirm my father might be, but something tells me that wouldn’t stop him finding a way to put a bullet between Roman Stevanovsky’s eyes.

Roman can never know who Papa is.

Even the thought of a meeting between the two men sends a cold trickle of fear down my spine. They would recognize each other as bratva in an instant. And from there, it would be a very short leap for Roman to discover who Papa and I truly are.

On the other hand, Papa and I are not safe out in the open, staying in motels where we are noticed. Somebody has already stolen our money and passports. Regardless of whether the thief was actually looking for us or just an opportunist, if anyone starts looking into the names on those passports, they’ll get suspicious fast. Our fake identities won’t stand up to any real scrutiny.

What better place to disappear than into Roman’s fortress? With the money he’s offering, I can easily find a discreet apartment and excellent care for Papa.

That contract offers me time—and invisibility.

And God knows we are in desperate need of both.

I stare at the contract again, feeling both the seductive attraction of it and the moral compromise it represents.

Then, with a physical effort, I put it to one side.

No matter what Lucia Lopez has had to do to survive, somewhere within me, I am still Darya Petrovsky. Heiress not just to the legendary contents of the Petrovsky vault, but to my father’s legacy, the life he built from freezing cold poverty with nothing but his bare hands and ruthless determination. I can’t dishonor that legacy now, no matter how dire the situation we face. To do so would be to betray everything he worked for.

I stuff the contract back into the pocket of my work bag, next to the fat envelope with my name on it, trying not to think of the fact that the money inside it is the last I will ever receive from Roman Stevanovsky.

I know that declining his offer means I’ll never see him again. CEO Man isn’t one to waste his time.

I lie down on the sagging bed and turn to the wall, closing my eyes and trying not to think of my aching feet, the men hunting us, or the eight-hour shift still ahead of me.