“No, really, I can pay for my own room.”
Albert was obviously hard of hearing because his stoic expression didn’t falter as he walked down the hotel hall with my bag in his hand. I trailed two steps behind the giant, struggling to keep up with him.
I knew he understood English. On the way over, I touched the window while taking in the sights, and through the rearview mirror, he looked at me like I’d just slapped his favorite grandma and grumbled at me to not smudge the glass. He’d be handsome if he wiped away that scowl and didn’t shave his head like he was just released from prison. Though, with that attitude, I could only assume he was.
After driving me to a swanky hotel, he handed the straight-faced concierge a wad of cash. The older man didn’t ask a single question before sliding a shiny room key into Albert’s hand. It looked like a drug deal. Or a bribe. I couldn’t be privy to Albert’s illegal activities no matter how things were done here.
“Listen, I just want to pay for my room,” I said, slightly out of breath when I finally caught up to him. “I’m sure you have lots of other things to spend your money on. Giant underpants can’t come cheap.”
He almost appeared amused. Or constipated? I couldn’t be sure.
“The boss is paying for it,” he groused.
“The boss” sounded a little too formal and weird. But then I would be the last person to know about an employer’s correct title. The only job I’d ever had was volunteer work.
“You know, you don’t look like an Albert,” I told him.
Not a blink.
“I’m just saying, when someone says ‘Albert,’ expectations are formed. Old men with cheerful personalities, to be exact. You’ve crushed those expectations, Albert.”
He stopped in front of room 203.
“I’d peg you as more of an . . . Igor.”
His lips pulled into the slightest frown as he slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Naturally, I followed him inside.
“It’s okay to show your feelings, Igor. We all have them.”
He dropped my bag near the queen-size bed.
“Not to mention, men who cry? Hot.”
The disgusted look on his face was comical, and I bit my lip to stifle a smile as he passed me on the way to the door.
“Will I see you later?”
He grunted and slammed it shut behind him.
With a sigh, I turned to take in the room. The alarm clock near the bed said it was only nine in the morning. All of a sudden, the jet lag and everything else hit me like a semi-truck. I needed to let Ivan know I was okay—and I kind of missed his voice—but I was too tired to figure out how to dial out on the hotel phone, so it would have to wait.
I took a shower and scrubbed my skin raw. In a towel, I padded back into my room and dug through my bag for some clothes. A muffled commotion on the street drew my attention to the window. Outside, a bicyclist argued with a disgruntled taxi driver, who threw his hands in the air when the teenage delivery boy hurled a newspaper at his car. I started to turn away, but something else caught my eye.
A black car sat parked on the side of the street. Tattooed fingers hung out of the window ashing a cigarette before the unfamiliar man brought it back to his mouth. I’d never met a man with inked hands before coming here.
Must be a Russian thing.
Lethargy pulled on my limbs, so I fell into bed without a stitch of clothing on and was dead to the world for a solid three hours. When I awoke, it was with a groan and a piece of still-damp hair in my mouth.
Removing the tags from a new pair of bell-bottom jeans and a vintage T-shirt, I smiled as I slipped them on. They fit me well, caressing my body with a cotton form of freedom. Next, I dried and straightened my hair, applied some strawberry lip gloss, and donned the heavy cardigan I wore in place of a coat on the way here.
The cold sucked the air from my lungs as I headed across the street to the nearest convenience store to buy a disposable phone. Maybe it was the lack of winter apparel, but I stuck out like a sore thumb. Eyes followed my movements, and I got cat-called twice. Not an odd thing growing up in Miami, but I thought someone even took my picture.
The attention made me wonder about my mother—if she really was so famous here, and why my papa hid it from me. He didn’t like to talk about her. I assumed it hurt too much, so I never had the heart to press the matter. But one would think he could share something with me. The fact she was a well-known opera singer maybe . . .
With a new phone in hand, I dialed Ivan’s number.
He answered immediately, his voice cautious. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ivan. It’s me.”
“Mila,” he breathed. “Gde ty, chert voz’mi?” Where the hell are you?
I had an apology on my tongue, but the fact the relief in his voice was so palpable like he had no faith in me at all—even though he was annoyingly accurate in this case—stopped it from escaping.
“Relax.” I shivered and tightened my cardigan around me. “I’m fine.”
“I have been worried sick about you,” he snapped.
“I don’t know why. Obviously, I’ve been doing just fine.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Where are you staying?”
A clothing store’s window display drew me in. A bell dinged as I stepped inside, and I sighed in relief at the warmth.
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I can’t read Russian, Ivan.” I headed to a clothing rack to peruse the dresses. I didn’t know if there was a performance at the opera house tonight, but I figured I should dress for one. Better to be overdressed than under in my learned opinion. “Besides, I stayed at a restaurant last night. I didn’t catch the name.”
Slowly, he asked, “Why did you stay at a restaurant, Mila?”
Well, crap.
“I wasn’t going to tell you that,” I said, and then before I could stop myself, I grumbled, “Must be the concussion.”
“The what?”
I was really digging myself into a hole here.
I bit my lip. “I’ll admit, yesterday wasn’t the most ideal situation, but it has nothing to do with my ability to take care of myself.”
“What are you talking about?”
I sighed, realizing I would have to tell him the truth because I’d never been a good liar, and there wasn’t a chance he’d buy the elaborate tale my brain was thinking up right now. It involved a bus and a kitten and a heroic sense of self.
“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell my papa. I don’t want to worry him.”
“I promise,” he grated.
“Well, if you want me to put it frankly . . . I was sort of attacked, and maybe almost murdered.”
Silence.
“But don’t worry. Apparently, the man had a phobia of star necklaces, and I got away.” I pushed a dress on the rack aside.
A colorful Russian curse. “Where are you?”
“I’m shopping.”
I wasn’t going to tell him about my plans tonight. I knew how well it would be received—at least by my papa once Ivan snitched on me. Ivan never cared about who I went out with. His indifference stomped on my first crush and fantasy—created by Ms. Marta’s dirty books I snuck away with when she wasn’t looking—of a white knight on a steed who’d behead other men just for looking at me. Though, in that fantasyland, blood didn’t squirt in the air like a fountain because blood simply didn’t exist.
My expectations were unrealistic, a little gruesome, and a lot illegal. But a girl could dream.
“Shopping?” He sounded confused.
“Yes?”
“You were attacked, and then you got up and went shopping.”
“What would you like me to do? Cry myself to sleep?”
Maybe I should be traumatized, but somehow, I still only felt irritated at the situation. I hoped Scarface was having a shitty day.
“Mila . . . I want you to lo
ok around.” A foreboding edge crept into his voice. “Is anyone watching you?”
I froze, the hair on the back of my neck rising. “What? Why would someone be watching me?”
“Just do it. And do not make it obvious.”
A chill crawling up my spine, I discreetly glanced around the store, from a couple of women talking at the front counter, to a few others trying on accessories and perusing clothing racks. They were looking at me here and there, though only like I was a tourist who didn’t blend in. I stared out the front window but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.
“Did you know my mother was famous here?” I asked. Maybe she had a Charles Manson-like group of fans?
He sighed.
“You did, didn’t you?” I accused. “Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”
“Because you would have gone digging where you do not belong.”
“Don’t belong? She was my mother!”
“Why don’t you say it a little louder, so the whole city can hear you?” he chided.
“Who cares if they do?”
“I want you to stay somewhere public until I come get you.”
The tone of his voice made my throat feel thick. “Ivan, you’re scaring me.”
“Good. Now, go hand one of the saleswomen your phone so I can find out where you are.”
I took a step in the front counter’s direction, but something stopped me. “I’m not ready to go home.”
“This is not about what you wan—”
“No, it never is, is it?” My voice rose. “I know about my papa’s other family. You don’t have to scare me into coming home to keep the secret anymore. For once, I’m thinking about myself.”
Silence.
“Mila—”
“Goodbye, Ivan.”
“Mila—”
I ended the call.
With a huff, I pushed a hanger on the rack aside. Receiving another call from him, I turned the phone off and dropped it into my pocket, but his ominous words still played on a reel in the back of my mind.
la vie en rose
(n.) life through rose-colored glasses
My dress was yellow and flowy with an umber crocheted bodice. It was modest except for the inch it showed of my midsection and the slit up the thigh. The heels I wore were clear and sparkly, lacing halfway up my calves to show off my best feature. I was the queen of ponytails, but I chose to leave the straightened locks down, and as usual, I applied a light amount of makeup.
I was ready an hour early and spent the rest of the time chewing my glossed lip and pacing back and forth. Nerves swam in my stomach, making me lightheaded. I should have eaten something earlier, but I had an unhealthy habit of forgetting until food was placed in front of me.
I didn’t believe Ronan thought of this as a date, but I couldn’t stop the whisper of anticipation that tightened my lungs. A very stupid, romantic part of me had hearts in her eyes. Never mind the fact I was soon to accept an archaic proposal from a man who was probably screwing some Texan oil heiress right now.
Ronan knocked on the door at eight on the dot.
He consumed the entire doorway. Dark eyes, broad shoulders, and smooth black lines. He filled out a suit better than any man I ever saw, though his presence seemed to overwhelm the seams as if they could barely contain him.
We only stared at each other for a second longer than comfortable, and when my breath began to slow beneath his penetrating silence, I forced a word past my lips.
“Privet.” Hello.
He raised a brow. “So you do know some Russian?”
A flush crept up my neck. “A little.”
I stepped out, closing the door behind me. He didn’t move back like I expected him to, and it left only a couple of inches between us. We were so close I couldn’t breathe. So close, yellow and black almost touched. So close, I could kiss him with a small rise to my toes. In four-inch heels, I stood eye level with his mouth, which put him at a solid six foot five.
“You’re kind of tall for a girl,” he mused, looking down on me.
I released a shallow breath. “Thanks.”
When he laughed softly, I sighed in my mind. My crush couldn’t be any clearer if I waved an “I LOVE YOU!” sign like a fangirl at a boy band concert.
As we walked down the hall, I told him, “You didn’t have to pay for my room.”
“I wanted to.” He said it as if when he wanted to do something, he did it, and I shouldn’t even be questioning him. It was a little intimidating, so I didn’t press the matter further.
“Well, thank you . . . for everything.”
He turned his head toward me, and the look in his eyes was thoughtful but also tinged with something so profound my heartbeat tripped over itself. He didn’t say anything until we stepped outside and I shivered as the cold rushed through my sheer cardigan.
“Where is your coat?”
I should have bought one while I was out today, but Ivan’s phone call and the impending maybe-date had pushed the need to the back of my mind.
“I lost it . . . last night.”
His eyes flickered with recollection and then darkness. He slipped off his wool suit jacket and put it on my shoulders. It was heavy, and it smelled so good my blood warmed, descending to a spot between my legs. He wore a dress shirt and vest underneath it, but still, it was a bitter cold that singed my lungs with each breath.
“What about you?” I asked.
A hint of amusement touched his voice. “As you said, kotyonok, I am very Russian.”
How silly of me to think this man could ever get cold. He was a dark force of nature, heated by testosterone and muscle. He was probably hot all the time.
Albert leaned against a car at the curb smoking a cigarette. Ronan opened the back door and held out his hand to me while saying something in Russian, his attention on Albert. When I only stared at the hand he offered, his gaze came my way. My shallow breath misted in front of my face as I slid my hand into his. Ivory and tan skin. French-tipped nails and tattoos. Soft and rough. The difference flared in slow motion. Dark eyes, slightly narrowed, dropped to our hands before he helped me to step off the curb and into the car.
Silence and his presence crowded the back seat. Ronan’s arm brushed mine, the small contact taking hold of my entire body. An electric current fizzed like that green can of soda in the space between us.
He kept his gaze out the window, but I couldn’t stop drinking him in. How his shirt and vest fit his body like a second skin. The way the black fabric molded his thick arms and chest. Every inch of him seemed hard and formidable. A curious heat inside of me craved to run my hand down this stranger’s stomach and find out if it was as tight as it looked. I’d never felt an attraction like this, and my inexperience threatened to bubble over like a pot of boiling water.
During the ride, he never looked my way once. I wondered if he felt anything I did, or if he only saw me as a nineteen-year-old responsibility.
We pulled up to the curb of a quiet building with gold doors and dim lighting. It didn’t look like our destination, but I held in my questions while Ronan opened the door for me. It was a department store, with marble floors and a sparkly chandelier, and it sat empty except for one wide-eyed saleswoman who stood behind a glass counter.
“I think they’re closed,” I said quietly.
A corner of his lips tipped up. “Pick out a coat, kotyonok.”
I stared at him for a moment, my breath slowing in surprise. Get this fangirl some markers.
Heels clicking on the marble, I walked toward a clothing rack and ran my hand down a mink coat so soft it challenged my principles. Anything here would cost an absolute fortune. I wouldn’t be surprised to find three zeroes on the price tag.
With my back to him, I said, “I hope attacked tourists don’t end up at your door often, because this is turning into a very expensive venture.”
His only response was a smile I felt on my spine.
I turned to tell him
I couldn’t accept this, but when my gaze met his, my breath twisted in a knot, the space between my heartbeats zapping like a hot wire. Ronan’s hands rested in his pockets, his watch glinting in the low light. His eyes burned deep, dark, intimidating, but I knew up close, they were an entrancing blue.
I swallowed. “I can’t let you buy me a coat. It’s too much.”
His gaze flickered with displeasure. “Nobody tells me what I can or cannot do.”
I believed him with every cell in me.
What did he do, exactly?
I bit my lip and admitted, “I don’t do fur.”
He raised a brow and drawled, “Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian too.”
“Ah . . .” I gave him an apologetic smile. “Vegan.”
He regarded me heavily, as if I was an odd breed of woman. His gaze set me on edge, so I distracted myself by perusing the clothing racks. Nothing had a price tag, to my dismay. Or relief.
I ran my hand down a white faux fur coat that had to be the cheapest of the lot and said, “This one.”
His eyes narrowed—apparently, he was on to me—but he didn’t voice his disapproval.
On the way back to the car, a flurry landed on my lashes. I stopped on the sidewalk and lifted my eyes to the sky to watch snow fall for the first time. It was like someone above had torn their wedding dress apart and let the pieces of tulle float to the pavement. I caught a flake in my palm, studying how it melted on my skin within seconds.
Looking up, I noticed Ronan watching me, and warmth rushed to my cheeks at his heavy attention. Quelling the unladylike impulse to catch a snowflake on my tongue, I continued walking to the car.
We arrived at the Moskovskiy ten minutes later. Elegantly dressed couples milled in through the front doors, hand in hand. My palms and neck itched when some slowed to look at us, the eyes on my skin bringing Ivan’s earlier warning back. Goose bumps ran down my arms beneath my thick coat. Ronan didn’t even put his jacket back on.
His Russian blood, I supposed.
We stepped inside, and I took in the high painted ceiling and gold crown molding. It was beautiful, and I wondered if my mother stood in this exact spot.
The Darkest Temptation Page 5