“You’ve never been to the opera?” Ronan asked.
I shook my head. “Never.”
Eyes on the glittering chandelier, I followed him through the theater, up marble steps, and down a corridor, where a red-vested attendant silently opened the door to a private box giving a perfect view of the stage. Doors simply glided open for this man, while other guests seemed to require the use of their own commoner hands for access within.
“Are you a politician?” My curiosity slipped free as I stepped into the warm box, but on second thought, I wasn’t sure what kind of politician hung out in a dingy restaurant on the wrong side of town while wearing an Audemars Piguet on his wrist.
He smiled. “No.”
It was the only answer I got before we took our seats and watched people file in and take theirs below. In the comfortable yet electric silence, my attention caught on his fingers tapping the armrest, the black raven so close to my own unblemished hand. I had a feeling he understood what I said to him last night, and it was only confirmed when he spoke a single word now.
“Nevermore.”
Ronan pulled his gaze to me and winked.
He had tattoos on his fingers and he just quoted a famous poet. It made me feel ridiculously hot all over. So hot I pulled the blanket of hair off the back of my neck, but the flush only spread further when his stare lit a line of fire down the exposed skin, sliding over my collarbone to settle on the star pendant between my breasts.
A theater attendant stepped into the box, diffusing the thick tension in the air like smoke. He asked for our drinks order, which seemed to be a service only we were experiencing.
“Kors. Chilled,” Ronan replied for both of us.
“I’ll just have water, please,” I countered.
The attendant didn’t pause as he rushed off to do Ronan’s bidding. Alone again, Ronan cast me a dry look.
“You are in Russia, kotyonok.”
And that was the end of that.
I accepted a tumbler of clear liquid knowing it wasn’t water. At home, I only drank the occasional glass of champagne besides a single drunken incident with a bottle of UV Blue and 7UP.
It took one night on a yacht that bobbed in the water and a smug dare to know alcohol and Mila Mikhailova didn’t mix. I’d stripped out of the modest swimsuit Papa had approved of before the party and then dove off the bow of the boat into open water, masculine cheers swallowed by the waves of the Atlantic. Ivan ended up carrying me home, grumbling about how heavy I was the whole way, and once there, the severe, quiet reprimand I received from my papa killed my buzz on impact.
I swirled the liquid with a frown, my father’s rebuke somehow still haunting me, even though, in his eyes, hopping on a plane to Moscow was much worse than skinny-dipping.
“You’re the first woman I’ve seen frown at a ten-thousand-dollar glass of vodka.”
My lips parted in shock, and I glanced at Ronan to see a lazy light in his eyes. He’d apparently learned I’d be horrified to know—let alone drink—something he bought me that cost so much. This was his payback for my picking out a cheap coat.
I stared at him in realization.
He stared back.
“Do you always get what you want?” I asked boldly.
His response was a clink of his tumbler against mine. “Na zdorovie.” Cheers.
I wasn’t going to win this one, but I didn’t want to torture myself by nursing the glass of pure liquor either. I tossed it back in one go.
Keeping his eyes on the stage, Ronan chuckled softly while I coughed and choked at the burn in my throat.
With the liquor settling like fire in my stomach, something magical electrified the air and swept over the hush of the crowd as the curtains opened and the performance began.
The opera was called The Queen of Spades. Since it was in Russian and my brain-to-mouth filter was impaired by two fingers of million-proof liquor, I asked a lot of questions. Ronan didn’t seem to mind, often translating what happened after a sip of vodka he savored on his tongue in such an impassive way it made it look like water.
“I’ll be disappointed if they don’t all die,” I announced to the mess onstage.
A corner of his mouth quirked. “I thought you would be the kind of girl to hope for a happily ever after.”
My happily ever after came on the lips of a mad fortune-teller, and sadly, I gave up on fairy tales and superstition long ago. Eyes settling on the stage, I pulled my star pendant back and forth, the heated lull of vodka in my belly softening my words. “I believe in happily-for-nows. They’re . . . real. Unique.” Dropping my necklace, I glanced at him, warmth and lightness pervading every cell in me. “I like unique.”
I sat in a red velvet chair in the heart of Moscow, holding this man’s stare through the vibrations of an opera singer’s soprano, buzzed on vodka and fascination, and it was the best happily-for-now I’d ever experienced.
The longer we stared at each other, the faster the intoxication spread through my bloodstream. Eyes half-lidded on his, I rested my head on the back of my chair.
“I’m thirsty.”
“You’re drunk.” It was practically an accusation.
Laughing softly, I said, “You made me drink it.”
“I didn’t know you would down it like a fraternity pledge.”
I smiled at the visual coming from his lips. “You can’t have everything your way.”
The expression he cast me said he absolutely could, and the dry, authoritative spark only stole the remaining wetness from my mouth.
“So thirsty,” I echoed with a soft, languid lilt.
He stared at me for a moment, thoughtfully and with something darker than a cloudy night, then he handed me his glass, which was already refilled. I thought he might snap his fingers and a Perrier would appear on a silver tray, but I wasn’t going to complain about sharing with him. I took a sip of vodka that didn’t burn as hot as his eyes. After returning it to him, I pulled my attention back to the stage to silently watch and listen to Liza’s hypnotic voice.
I was either drunker than I thought, or Liza kept glancing my way between her lines. She was gorgeous, with long black hair and exotic looks. It took a moment to realize she wasn’t looking at me but at Ronan.
basorexia
(n.) the overwhelming desire to kiss
During the intermission, one of the theater attendants slipped a piece of paper into Ronan’s hand. He read it and then put it into his pocket. Call it intuition, but I knew Liza wrote the note.
As the curtains closed and the lights came back on, we headed down the hall to the exit, but something drew me to a stop. A portrait on the wall in a gaudy gold frame. My mother’s hair was in an elegant updo, her eyes sparkling with an animate light. Ronan waited behind me, and if he noticed the uncanny resemblance, he didn’t say anything.
I swallowed and followed him out of the theater.
My mother performed here. Now I knew for sure, maybe I could come back and question some of the employees tomorrow. Someone had to know if she had family and where I could find them.
Having beat most of the crowd outside, we passed the old-fashioned ticket booth, where my attention caught on an elderly woman sitting on the ground wrapped in a thin, tattered blanket. Her eyes were full of crazy, and, as they held mine, her throaty, terrified whisper reached my ears.
“D’yavol.”
The hair on the back of my neck rose, my breath a ragged puff of vapor. I stopped and turned to look over my shoulder as if a red-horned devil would be standing behind me, but Ronan grabbed my arm.
“You’re holding up the line, kotyonok.”
“Sorry,” I muttered.
That couldn’t be what she said, could it? Did a concussion make you hallucinate?
We reached the car, but I hesitated. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
Turning around, I fought against the crowd back to the ticket booth. When the old woman saw me coming, her eyes widened with fear. She s
tarted to get up, but I tried to reassure her.
“Nyet . . . druz’ya.”
I thought I said “friends,” but she looked at me like I just told her we were uncles, which was annoyingly possible. I crouched in my heels and fur coat in front of her, took some rubles from my clutch, and offered them out. I wished I could give her all of my money, but I knew if I pulled cash from an ATM, Ivan would find me and force me home. I wasn’t ready to go yet.
The woman eyed the rubles warily for a moment, but then, as if she thought they might disappear, she snatched them from my hand. Her hands were red and raw, and with a gust of wind, a shiver wracked her. I chewed my lip in contemplation.
Oh, screw it.
I took the coat off and settled it on her shoulders. It swallowed her small frame. I didn’t know how Ronan would feel about me giving a crazy homeless woman a luxury coat he just gifted me, but my conscience wouldn’t let me sleep in a warm bed tonight while she was out here cold.
She ran dirty hands over the white fur, an expression of awe on her face. “Angel,” she breathed. “Ty angel.”
Her belief I was an angel made me feel better about the D’yavol comment. Maybe her mind was stuck in an episode of Supernatural.
I avoided Ronan’s gaze on the way back to the car, nervous of his reaction and wishing I was still buzzed. Albert leaned against the passenger door, watching me with cautious eyes and smoking another cigarette.
“That’ll kill you, ya know.”
He brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply.
I raised a brow at the challenge. “Keep smoking like that, and you’re going to break a lot of girls’ hearts when you go.”
He grunted.
I finally brought my gaze to Ronan’s unreadable expression. The theater attendant who served us drinks rushed over and said something quietly to Ronan, whose eyes lowered. I could see a hint of annoyance in them.
“I’ll be right back, kotyonok.” His dark gaze drifted down my body, caressing and setting fire to every curve encased by thin yellow fabric. “Wait in the car. You’re not wearing a coat.”
He walked toward the theater doors, the red-vested attendant following behind like a lapdog. Ronan stood out in the crowd, not only because people parted like the Red Sea to allow him by, but because of the smooth and powerful way he walked, as if he owned the pavement beneath his feet. The sight of his dark silhouette among falling flurries sent something dense and languid to every nerve beneath my skin, like the steady beep of a heart on life support.
Feeling unsteady, I turned to Albert, who actually rolled his eyes at me. Clearly, I wasn’t very secretive about checking out his boss. My cheeks were flushed from the cold, but my blood burned hot, so I leaned against the car beside him. My arm brushed his, and he eyed me like I’d just challenged him to a spitting contest.
I raised a brow. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to think you have a crush on me.”
“He told you to get in the car.”
“He’s awful bossy, isn’t he?”
He didn’t confirm nor deny, just stared forward and blew out a breath of smoke.
“Serious question,” I said direly, “and answer carefully, because this is the deciding factor in whether you and I can be pals.” After a heavy pause to make sure he knew the gravity of the matter, I asked, “Team Duckie or Blane?”
His narrowed eyes came to me. “I do not speak whatever language that was.”
I smiled. “Pop culture? Eighties films are back, you know.”
He looked like he was suffering from a headache, and I couldn’t hold in the small laugh.
After a moment, I asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Nyet.”
“Considering your outstanding use of language, I don’t see how that’s possible.”
He didn’t respond, standing at his incredible height. He had to be pushing six foot eight. I’d felt obscenely tall my entire life, and it was nice to be the shortest one in the group for a change.
“I have a friend, Emma, who loves the giant, grunting types,” I told him. “Says they have the softest, mushiest centers, and she just wants to climb them like a tree.”
Not a blink.
I sighed. “Can you hear me okay from all the way up there?”
Something close to amusement passed through his eyes, and an ember of success filled me, so I continued.
“We volunteer at the homeless shelter every Tuesday evening.” I rubbed my arms, feeling the icy chill creep in as I noticed the crazy woman had disappeared like a ghost in the night. “Her hobbies include knitting, scrapbooking, and cats.” I laughed at the repulsed curl of his lips. “Just think, she could knit you an oversized Christmas sweater with little bells attached.”
As if this tempted him, his cool gaze came my way.
“Just say the word, and I’ll set you guys up,” I said. “Long-distance relationships always build the best foundations for love.”
He watched me like he was seriously contemplating it, but then he casually asked, “Does she like to be gagged and spanked?”
He was trying to shock me, and it worked. I couldn’t keep the flush from my face, which finally evoked a small smile. Evidently, only my embarrassment would get a reaction from this giant bastard.
“Um, I’m not sure, but I can ask.”
“You do that.” He threw his cigarette butt to the pavement.
“Hey,” I complained. “We only have one planet, Albert.”
He stared at me like I was out of my mind when I stubbed it out before picking it up. And then like I was actually certifiable when I slipped it into his coat pocket.
“Do you want to live on Mars?” I asked. “Because I don’t.”
“Are you sure you’re not from Mars?”
“Ha ha. I’ve read better jokes in the joke book our cook Borya keeps next to the toilet.”
That earned me an actual laugh, one that sobered as fast as it came. Because Ronan stood behind me watching us like we were both Martians who had displeased him.
He opened the car door, and I slid into the back seat. When he sat beside me, the silence pressed on my chest. Ronan wasn’t even looking at me but out the window, though his presence chafed my skin. He didn’t have to say it for me to know he wasn’t happy I gave my coat away. I had a feeling it didn’t have anything to do with the money but something else entirely.
“I’m sorry.” I swallowed. “About the coat.”
His gaze met mine, searching and thoughtful, the weight of it stunning my body with a nervous energy. “You’re big on apologies.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but, consumed by this man’s quiet disapproval that rivaled my papa’s, what came out was, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “You shouldn’t give a fuck about what other people think. Trust me, they don’t care about you.”
For some reason, his words felt like a warning.
He was a conundrum dressed in Valentino with “fuck” on his lips . . . I didn’t know why I found the contrast attractive. Maybe the novelty and honesty of it.
“That’s a very pessimistic view.”
He fought a smile like what I said was cute. “It’s a realist’s view.”
It felt like I needed to prove him wrong, to convince him not everyone was out to get him. I may not believe in magical happily ever afters, but I’d seen goodness in its purest forms. I’d seen a man give the shirt off his back to someone who needed it more. I’d seen mothers walk miles to make sure their children were fed. There was good in this world, and that was a hill I’d die on.
“The boy in that picture in your office, I bet he cares about you.”
There was something between them—two dirty, homeless boys on the street—that screamed loyalty.
“And who cares about you?”
I didn’t hesitate. “My papa.” I knew it was true. No matter the secrets he withheld from me and the anxieties of abandonment, I knew he loved me.
Ronan found something unpleasant in my response. “You have a soft heart.”
I didn’t say anything because, as annoying as it could sometimes be, it was true.
“Don’t,” he said, as if I could simply change it. “The soft ones are easier to break.”
I wondered who gave this man such a jaded view on life, who cast him out into the cold street. Whatever happened to him, he was still kind and generous, and I couldn’t help but find that incredibly attractive.
“The soft ones are the most loyal,” I countered.
“And naïve.”
“If you mean trusting, yes.”
“I meant naïve,” he deadpanned.
“It’s not a crime to look for the best in people.”
Albert grunted from the driver’s seat, apparently eavesdropping.
I raised a brow. “If the world’s so bad, then why did you help me, a stranger?”
My words strangled the air as we held each other’s stares. I had to look away—needed to give in to the physical pull to avert my gaze before a click or a pop sounded against my head—but I didn’t. I didn’t want to. Somehow, this had turned into a challenge. He didn’t like it.
Or maybe he just wasn’t used to it.
His gaze narrowed. “Don’t play games you can’t win.”
“I’m not a sore loser,” I said, unwilling to give in just yet.
“You’re altruism’s poster child, aren’t you?”
“Of course not.” So many things said otherwise, but the defense that slipped out sounded superficial to my own ears. “Sometimes I eat dairy when there’s no other option.”
As if he couldn’t help it, he laughed softly. “That’s a concerning issue, kotyonok. I don’t think I’ll be able to look at you the same way again.”
All I got from that was he might want to see me again.
I ignored the annoying blush on my cheeks, but he must have noticed it because his expression went grim.
“You’re too sweet for your own good.”
“You can have some. There’s plenty to go around.” The offer escaped me without a single thought to how it might come across.
All of the playfulness in the air drowned beneath the intensity of his eyes. His stare burned me with the hot lick of a flame. My heart tightened at the tension, resolve wavering. But then he ran a thumb over the scar on his bottom lip and looked away.
The Darkest Temptation Page 6