by Tobi Doyle
“I see,” he teased. “You know, when I was in Special Forces I managed to take over an entire village with that glare.”
“It’s okay.” I leaned over and patted his thigh, as if to placate him. “I’m sure the other fifty guys with assault rifles didn’t have anything to do with it.”
He laughed, his thigh clenching under my hand.
I pushed my lingering insecurities and inadequacies aside and picked up my fork. The pasta dish was a shell with a creamy pink sauce and pieces of savory sausage. I took a small bite of the pasta, careful to not drip. “This is delicious.”
“Hmm.” He sipped his wine. “Where is your father?”
I pursed my lips and hoped he read my I-don’t-like-talking-about-this face. “He died a while ago. My mother died last year.” The information, delivered with a tone of finality sat in the air.
He pointed his fork at me. “You are an orphan.”
“I guess technically speaking, but I’m, you know, twenty-four, so it’s not quite the same.”
He frowned, as if judging the meaning of the word. “No?”
“No.”
“How did they die?”
“Okay, maybe there’s a weird cultural thing going on because if this is a date, this is easily the worst first date conversation.”
“It’s a date. I want to know you.”
“You know, maybe you should tell me the favor first.”
He sipped from his wine glass, and shook his head. “I think if you choose not to help me, this is still a date, and therefore we talk.”
“Gah.” It wasn’t a pithy reply. I didn’t want to answer him. Except he looked so sincere, and patient. Dammit. I sucked down a gulp of the wine and studied the glass and answered.
“My father beat my mother so badly she ended up in the hospital. He was arrested, put in jail, attacked and died.” I smiled, really more of a smirk, my disgust and relief intertwined into an emotion I refused to examine. “Mom wasn’t healing and when they did tests they found the cancer. She lived for another nine months.” My voice lost all emotion. Flat and unaffected, like I could paint over the past.
I looked up at him and his stony glare pressed against me, squeezing the air from my lungs. His eyes looked pissed, scary. This glare could take over a village.
I pushed my chair back. “Yeah, so I should go.”
“Sit.” He commanded.
My body obeyed.
“Did he hurt you?” he asked.
The air hissed out of my lungs. I sat deflated, smaller. My joints ached, remembering the past. The conversation cinched in my throat. I needed to leave, but my body locked, stilled in that possum posture I’d learned as a child, when Elena and I discovered Dad liked to hit things that moved.
Alyosha growled. “He hurt you.” Fisted hands pushed away from the table. He stood and paced the room. “You fought.” He continued on, his voice getting angrier and words in Russian, sounding like curses, streamed from him. He stopped and sat down next to me, covering my hands with his. “You will never have to fight again.”
Relief that he didn’t find me disgusting loosened my joints. Words stuck to the roof of my mouth tumbled free. “It’s over. I’m fine. But thank you.”
“Why do you stay in the house with those memories?” He scooted his chair closer to mine and handed me my wine.
I took a sip and answered. “I screwed up. I should have hired a lawyer to handle Dad’s probate, but then Mom was diagnosed with cancer and I focused on her. Mom’s medical bills were bad. The thing is she couldn’t get on Medicaid because she owned the house and it was in probate, and the market sucked so I took out a second mortgage. I should have talked to a lawyer. I should have never listened to the guy at the bank. I should have sold it. Now I’m stuck with a house and I owe more than it’s worth. I can’t sell it until Mom’s probate is finished, and if I let the bank repossess it, my credit tanks.”
He grunted, and turned back to his food.
I wished I could translate his grunts.
He nudged his fork, spearing a pasta shell, then popped it in his mouth. He savored it and pointed at me with his fork. “This is why you work so late, to pay the mortgage.”
I shrugged. “And why I can’t afford a mechanic.”
“What about your sister? Can she help?”
“She does. She’s in college and has a scholarship. She works and helps pay the bills, but I want her to finish school.”
“Would you be interested in a job that included transportation, housing, and benefits?”
I blew the air out between my teeth. “Well, who wouldn’t?”
“Eat.” He stood, walked to the kitchen, and brought the bottle of wine back and refilled my glass. “I think it is… fortuitous we have met. We can help each other.” He sat down again and pointed to my plate. “Eat. Don’t you like it?”
“I do, Mr. Bossy-pants. Talk, eat, sit, sheesh.” I sipped my wine and pushed the food around my plate. I nibbled on a little, needing food to counteract the wine. I was a lightweight, half a glass of wine and I was telling my life story. “It’s delicious.”
“It is my mother’s pelmeni recipe, like many of the dishes at Konstantin’s. This one is my favorite, like comfort food. She gave me all her recipes before she died, but I could never persuade her to visit.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure she was proud of you.”
“Of course.” He blinked like my statement was so obvious.
Did he understand how rare unconditional love was?
“The favor I ask is complicated. I am Russian, here as a legal immigrant with a permanent citizenship because I have invested in business. If the business were to fail, I would have to reinvest or move home.”
The wine soured in my gut. This was not a date. This favor was not going to be a horizontal back scratch. “I see. But your restaurant is doing well.” I set my fork down.
“It is, and hopefully it will remain so for the next four years. I also learned more about your legal system today…”
I played along. “Like what?”
“Something called spousal privilege, where communication is considered privileged and spouses do not have to testify against each other.”
The words buzzed in my head.
Herndon wasn’t missing.
He was dead.
A curious sensation twisted around my gut, anxiety Alyosha would get caught, and relief Herndon was gone. Probably.
“Do you want to know what the favor is?” he asked.
Intensity radiated from him, pressed against my chest, tightened my throat. I should have shook my head no, got up from the table and left. Hailed a cab. Continued working at my crappy job.
But then my future flashed like a ruthless and sad commercial. Get a part time job to make things easier. See Elena graduate. Never move from the house I hated. Turn my parents’ bedroom into the largest cat condo in the world, and get featured in Guinness Book of World’s Records as the saddest middle-aged woman with the most cats.
Fuck it.
“Yeah.”
Chapter Eleven
Yeah.
Adrianna’s one word had weight, slid over my skin, swooped into my chest, and sang through my veins. But her body language faltered and contradicted the word, and doubt cut into my gut.
Something shifted. Her eyes hardened, and the tension around her mouth concerned me. I motioned to her wineglass, encouraging her to take another sip. I wanted her relaxed and open to my logic.
She wrapped her hand around the stem, lifted if from the dining table and sipped. And waited.
“There’s more. You, as my wife, could sponsor my brother, or Misha could purchase Konstantin’s and get his EB-5 VISA.”
She blinked; sipped her wine, placed the glass back on the table. The kitchen refrigerator hummed and broke the silence in my apartment. “How would that work?” she asked like I’d offered a business proposal.
Impressed she hadn’t thrown the contents of her wineglass at me,
I nudged my chair closer to hers. “I would set you up with your own salon. That is your dream, yes? No more working for someone else, your own salon, your own rules. And, I would pay for a lawyer to handle your probate issues. I’d pay your mortgage until the house is sold, get you a car, you would live here, and you’d have a bank account for our household expenses.”
“I see.” She sipped more wine; nibbled on a bite of pasta. “For how long?”
“Three years.”
“Three years?” Her voice cracked her polite mask and revealed an appealing but anxious woman.
“Immigration laws are changing constantly and it’s more difficult to become a naturalized citizen.” I spoke calmly, ignoring the familiar buzz of excitement humming through my veins like when I planned a rescue, or took over a business. “If we married, it would take three years.”
“And if it takes longer?”
“It won’t.”
“I’d be twenty-seven.” Her voice softened and I sensed her hesitation.
I tempered my excitement and encouraged her. “You would have your own salon. This is a problem, why?”
“I don’t know.” She looked at me, her eyes framed by long lashes. She licked her bottom lip. “I figured when I got married I’d have kids and be settled by thirty. Now… that’s a hell of a favor, Alyosha.” She leaned back in her chair and finger-combed through her artfully styled hair, twisting and turning it until it sat awkwardly in a knot, off-center, on top of her head.
But her honesty pleased me. Her consideration for future family rather than money charmed me. I raised my glass to toast her. Still, I wanted this. I wanted to protect her. I wanted her in my bed.
“Yes,” I said. “Three years of your life in exchange for your own salon, your parents’ probate handled, helping me, and helping my brother. And I would be helping you. I can’t emphasize enough that your safety worries me. I could not bear if you were harmed.” Dima’s words haunted me.
Her fingers played with the stem of her wineglass. Her eyes downcast.
A chill settled in my gut. Had I misread her? “Do you find me repulsive?”
She snorted. “No.”
Her reply loosened the tightness in my chest. The expression on her face confirmed her interest. Thank fucking god. I switched to my business self, ready to sell her on the idea. “Most importantly, as my wife, regardless of what the police discover, you would not need to testify about my presence in the alley.” I stared, hoping she read my message. She was in danger. With or without me, she was in danger.
“How would this work? I mean, what about dating?” She would not meet my eyes, and instead rearranged her fork on her plate.
A sharp slice of jealousy slid through my brain and scrambled it. I would not share her. I controlled my urge to grab her. “You would be my wife, kotyonok. We would be exclusive; do you understand? No. Other. Men.” The image of her in my bed, her hair blanketed on my pillow, the softness of her body cradled against mine warmed my skin.
“No other women for you?” She squinted, weighing my reaction, like the wrong answer would end everything.
“Correct.”
“What if, we, you know, aren’t compatible?” She rushed her words, her cheeks turned pink.
I laughed. “Kotyonok, if you are concerned about that, I can alleviate your worries right now.” Please, be concerned. I relished the idea of spreading her out on my dinner table until she screamed my name.
She pushed her plate away, and leaned back in the chair. “Here’s the thing, I understand the whole immigration issue for you and your brother. I admit I’m attracted to you, but do you realize you asked me to live with you for three years after spending half an evening together?”
“You aren’t saying no and we’ve known each other for more than a year.”
She huffed, her eyes said, are-you-insane, but she said, “I’m not saying yes.”
“You aren’t saying no,” I repeated. “You’re concerned about the living together, not the sex.”
“Sex is easy. Living together is hard.” She shot me a look part vixen, part life coach.
“That should be a greeting card.” I drawled.
“It’s true. And I don’t even know your full name, how old you are, or your job, other than owning a restaurant.”
She was spectacular, counting off on her fingers reasons why she shouldn’t consider my proposal. The knot of hair slid backward and she shook her head, the long strands unwound, and framed her look of chagrin.
My lips twitched, careful not to laugh at her. I held up my fingers and counted them off. “Alexei Konstantin Bykov, thirty-one years old, in excellent health. I own the restaurant Konstantin, this condo, and have invested wisely in coal and metals in Russia.” I reached forward and tapped her nose. “And, I am easy to live with.”
She laughed, and her eyes lit up, like brilliant topaz. “When was the last time you had a roommate?”
I blew air out between my lips. I’d lived alone since I left the military. “Years.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure if I walked in your bathroom the toilet seat would be up.” She shifted in her chair, her lips red, ripe for kissing, and a sassy smile.
“You would be correct.”
“Living together requires more than…” She shook her head, her lips pressed tight into a thin line. “Gah. Three years? What if we can’t stand each other in a week?”
She was right, but she wasn’t refusing me. “Hands wash each other. We will work together.” I stood and refilled her wineglass. I carried our plates to the kitchen, setting them in the sink. “I have carrot cake for dessert.”
“Seduction by dessert. You have potential.” Her bewitching tone teased me. Her head tilted and I longed to taste her.
“See, this will be easy. We will compromise.” I sliced the cake and brought our dessert to the dining room.
“Will we?”
“I promise.”
She rolled her eyes again.
“Kotyonok, I keep my promises.” And I needed to keep her safe.
“Can you at least tell me why you were watching me from across the street that night?”
“I was watching Herndon.” I put steel into my voice to dissuade further questions.
“Why?”
“You know he’s the District Attorney.” She nodded, so I continued, “He has the ability to file charges or leave them on his desk. I wished to speak to him about a situation for a friend.”
“Did your friend want the charges to be filed or disappear?”
“I can’t answer your question, yet.” A shadow flicked across her face, doubt, perhaps, or concern. “I’m glad I was there to assist you. I think it was kismet.”
“Kismet?” she spat the word out. “What kind of warped destiny brings people together over attempted rape?”
“I didn’t mean that. I hate that you were hurt. But now, we can help each other.”
“I guess I was lucky you picked that night to talk to him.” She sighed and studied my face. Her lips pressed together and I reached over to cover her hand with mine. “Can you at least tell me why… I mean… What if the police come back? What if someone saw us?”
I laced my fingers through hers. “I’m concerned about that, too. If you married me, the police couldn’t ask you anymore questions. And you could ask me anything.” I reached up and cupped her face. “I promise you what I have done was for honorable reasons. Do you believe me?”
She nodded but I needed to hear the words.
“Do you trust me, Adrianna?”
“I do.”
Those two words wedged in my chest, fracturing my cold heart further. I leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Good. We try this for a week, yes?”
“Try what?”
“Give me seven days to prove to you that we can live together and compromise.”
She shook her head once. Her jaw tensed and she inched away from me. “I—”
“A month,” I offered again.
She po
pped a morsel of carrot cake in her mouth and shook her head. Was this a test?
“How long do you need?”
“I need to think about it. I can’t give you an answer right now.” She placed her hand over mine. “Okay?”
Dima wouldn’t be happy with a delay, but not negotiating would end this right now. “Fine. I will compromise. We’ll discuss this later. Agreed?”
She held out her hand for me to shake. “I agree.”
Marveling at her delicate bone structure, I shook her hand and pulled it up to my lips, kissing her soft fingers that smelled of lemon and tasted sweet. I kissed her wrist, her pulse trembled under my lips. I slid off the chair and knelt between her thighs, hating that she had so many damn clothes on. I longed to feel her skin. Instead, I skimmed my hands over her thin cardigan.
Her lips parted, willing me forward.
She tasted like the wine. Her hands slid up my back, urging me closer, I pushed against her, and our bodies molded together. My lips never left hers. Small kisses, long languid kisses, kisses that learned her mouth, her responses. I craved more.
But she hesitated. Tension slid up her spine.
“Kotyonok, you taste amazing.” I leaned my forehead against hers, giving my body a chance to cool, my head room to think. “You make me hunger for more than kisses but it is not right. Too fast for us, I think.”
Confusion crossed her face.
I raised an eyebrow, unsure of her reaction.
She cupped my cheek. “You’re an unusual man. I like knowing you won’t push for more.”
“I will never push you. You will always be safe with me.”
She kissed me, cradling my face with her hands, and I realized the truth of my words. Fate introduced us, she was my responsibility, and I would keep her safe.
Chapter Twelve
His kisses made me a puddle of lust.
I’d wished for a man like Aloysha—a protector, passionate, and principled. My practical side reminded me he had a role in the disappearance of Herndon. But I didn’t fear him. If he executed that monster, I wouldn’t grieve. The dark part of me wished I’d done it myself.