Page 89 of Lethal Torture

The line rings in long continental beeps. Finally a cautious female voice answers. “Hola?”

“Darya.” I see my own face in the window and realize how tense I look.Female friendships really aren’t my fucking thing.“It’s Zinaida Melikov. I have business in Madrid next week. I was wondering if you might be free for lunch?”

There’s a long silence, during which I hear the muffled sound of a conversation in the background and seriously question what the fuck I’m doing. Calling Roman Borovsky’s wife on the basis of a few casual meetings?

Idiot, Zin.

Roman might be a friend, as far as our world goes, but beyond a few visits to my club and the odd lunch, Darya has no reason to see me as anything other than her husband’s associate.

Then the receiver is uncovered, and Darya speaks again. “I can’t manage Madrid,” she says, “not with the babies.”

I open my mouth to make a hasty withdrawal.

“But if you’re flexible,” she goes on tentatively, “I could arrange a child-free afternoon so we could have lunch here? I’d love to host you. If I’m honest,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “with three children under three, I’d be grateful for the distraction.”

I hear Roman in the background, making some kind of comment about distractions that is clearly highly suggestive, going by Darya’s gurgle of laughter and her playful aside that his comment “isn’twhat I meant, Roman.”

I find myself smiling into the phone. There’s something almost unbearably sweet about imagining Roman Borovsky—hard, ruthless, and brutal—exchanging banter with his wife.

We make arrangements to meet in two days’ time.

“Why don’t you stay the night?” Darya says before we hang up. “Oh—and Roman says to bring Luke with you. Apparently he has plans for him, which, if I know my husband at all, probably involve machines with very fast engines and roads I don’t want to think about.”

I suddenly have an extremely clear vision of sitting behind Luke, my body pressed against his, during the long ride down to London on his Ducati.

“Somehow, I think Luke will enjoy that.” I don’t miss the slight huskiness to my voice.

Darya laughs. “What is it with men and fast machines? I look forward to seeing you, Zin.”

When I end the call, I find myself looking forward to lunch with Darya more than I’ve looked forward to anything for a very long time.

21

ZINAIDA

I’m notsure what to expect between Luke and me during the two-and-a-half-hour plane ride to Madrid, but silence at separate ends of the plane definitely isn’t it.

On one hand I’m grateful for his professionalism. He’s attentive, every aspect of security covered, as usual. We go through customs with a minimum of fuss and are in the air bang on time. He sends me an email with the details of how we will work on the ground and politely invites me to make any suggestions I might have.

Then as we board, he takes a seat up front with the security detail and leaves me to have the central area to myself.

I don’t dare so much as glance at the closed door of the bedroom at the rear of the plane.

I open my laptop as if I’m going to work, but the truth is all I can think of is his solid bulk a few tantalizing meters away. His back is to me, the breadth of his shoulders rising above the seatand his smiling face showing in profile as he turns and laughs at something one of the other guys says.

Our initial missed communication has turned into weird kind of standoff that I don’t know how to breach.

I get through my meetings in Madrid, and then we fly south, arriving in Malaga just after one p.m. Luke sees me to the car and has a quick word with the driver, a tough-looking man named Bryce, then leans over my open door. “I’ll see you here tomorrow.” He gives me a brief, professional smile, then closes the door and bangs the roof.

I sit back in the leather seat and watch him stride across the tarmac, already pulling off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. I’m hit by a savage bolt of longing. I don’t know anything about Luke and Roman’s plans except for Darya’s comment about fast machines and that they’re apparently spending the night at Mak’s beach house down in Tarifa. Roman might have given up his bachelor lifestyle since marriage, but that doesn’t mean he’s averse to having a good time. And Mak is the king of debauchery. For all I know, there’s a bevy of women and decadence planned for Luke on arrival.

And why not?

I twist uncomfortably in my seat.

A contract is a responsibility, not a relationship.

A relationship? What the actual fuck, Zin?