I pressed a hand to my somewhat-flat belly, closed the lid on the toilet, and sat down to assess my feelings. Pictures of Roman holding a little boy with his dark, wavy hair or a little girl with long blond curls flashed through my head. The scene flooded me with warmth. He was a wonderful father to Milada, even though she wasn’t his biological child. The warmth gave way to cold panic. His words from our first meeting at the Masquerade de Marquis fought their way through my memories. “My friends say I’m the devil.” He’d tried to warn me off that night, but I’d been swept away by his mystique and the glint of desire in his eyes. Look where it had landed me—squarely in hell.
When I was able to collect my composure, I called Everly. Even though she hadn’t replied to my text, she was my only family. Times like these called for girl power. I needed her level-headed sensibility to reel me back from the brink of panic.
She answered on the last ring before the call went to voice mail. “I can’t talk to you right now,” she said, in a thick, nasally voice.
“What’s wrong?” Alarm bells rang in my head. I clutched the phone tighter, fearing the worst. “Are you okay?”
“No.” She hiccupped.
“Are you sick? Want me to call the doctor?”
“No. I just—” Her words ended in a choked sob.
“I’m coming over, and I won’t take no for an answer. Hold tight, sweetie.” I dropped my phone into my purse and dashed downstairs to find Lance. The sight of his calm, unsmiling face soothed my nerves. “Can you get the car? I need to go to Ms. McElroy’s apartment. It’s urgent.”
“Certainly.” He swept an arm toward the elevator. On the way, he texted my driver. Once the elevator doors had closed and the car began its descent, he studied me. His eyes filled with compassion. “Is everything okay, ma’am?”
“No.” Tears burned the backs of my eyelids. I blinked them away and straightened my shoulders. A breakdown was a luxury I couldn’t afford.
The elevator doors opened. We rode down to the ground floor in silence. Through the tall glass windows of the building entrance, the rising sun glistened on the chrome trim of my car as it pulled to the curb. Quiet enveloped the inside of the Maybach. I ran a hand over the luxurious fawn-colored leather. Fancy cars had never been my thing, but Roman had insisted on the gift. When I’d protested, he’d waved a hand through the air. “I replace all my cars every year, Rourke. It’s procedure. Not everything is about you.” The twinkle in his eye had suggested otherwise.
I wrapped my arms around my waist. Even when I was furious with him, I yearned for his embrace, to smell his spicy cologne, and to hear his deep voice.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at Everly’s apartment. She opened the door, gaze downcast. Right away, I noticed her puffy eyes. Lance waited in the hallway while I went inside. She’d only lived there a few weeks, but the place already bore the marks of her good taste. White walls, comfortable, overstuffed furniture, and pale-blue accents provided a calming effect. I pulled her into a tight hug. My drama with Roman would have to wait. “Talk to me.”
She sniffed, hiding behind her tissue. “It’s so stupid. I didn’t want to say anything, because you told me so.”
“Nicky?” Her head bobbed up and down. My heart squeezed for her. “What did he do? I swear I’m going to kill him.” Fierce feelings of protectiveness welled inside me. She was my tribe. No one had the right to hurt her, especially a bastard like Nicky.
“He—he—he said he had last-minute business. And then I saw this.” After swiping away the moisture on her cheeks, she flashed her phone screen in front of me. Photos of Nicky at the opening of a new Soho nightclub with a young, glamorous starlet, time stamped for last night. “I thought maybe it was a mix-up or a publicity stunt, but one of my friends said she saw them there. They were definitely a couple.” Her shoulders sagged. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re not. You’re kind and beautiful and smart and way too good for him.” I swept her hair away from her face. “Any man who doesn’t recognize how fabulous you are doesn’t deserve you.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you last night.” Her hand found mine and squeezed. “I realized this morning I’m that girl—the kind I used to complain about—the one who always picks the wrong guy then cries about it.”
“Have you asked him to explain?” Although my head insisted the photograph reflected the truth, my heart wanted to believe otherwise, for Everly’s sake.
She nodded. “I went to his apartment this morning, and she was there. He didn’t try to deny it or anything. He just shrugged, like he didn’t care. I was so humiliated.” I drew her into another hug, fighting back the sting of empathetic tears. “You know what burns my ass the most? The whole time he was with her last night, he was texting me, pretending like I’m special when I’m really not.”
“Oh, Everly. I’m so, so sorry.” I stroked her hair, wishing I could absorb the pain for her. “At least you’re not pregnant by a Russian warlord.”
The morning sunlight reflected in her tears as her eyes went wide. “Are you joking?”
“No. I’m serious. I’ve got a bun in the oven.”
“Did you pee on a stick?”
“Twice.” Tears welled in her eyes again, and we both began to cry. No wonder I’d been so emotional lately. My hormones were all over the place.
“Oh, sweetie, that’s wonderful. And I’m a little bit jelly, because that big, hot man stud of yours knocked you up. It is Roman’s, isn’t it?” She held me at arm’s length and cocked an eyebrow.
I shoved her shoulder playfully. “Of course.”
“Just asking. I know how you like to get freaky at the club.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes remained glassy. She sniffed and dabbed at her nose with a tissue.
“Stop. You know it’s his.” We laughed; something I hadn’t done in weeks.
“I’m going to be crazy Auntie Everly. I’ll teach her or him how to curse and spit and smoke cigarettes—”
“You don’t smoke or spit.” I rolled my eyes at her but smiled. She personified the epitome of etiquette and good taste.
“Kidding. I swear.” She lifted two fingers in an approximation of a scout pledge and placed her other hand over her heart. “Seriously, you’re going to be a fantastic mom.”
Mom. I was pregnant with Roman Menshikov’s baby. A slow, secretive smile stretched my mouth, followed by the warmth of pride. If only my mother, who’d believed in fairytales, could see her daughter now. The excitement faded as reality returned. I sank down on the couch, overcome by the exhaustion of the past month, and shook my head. “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”
“It seems like the perfect time to me.” Worry drew her eyebrows together. “You’re—you’re going to have it, right?”
The option to terminate the pregnancy had never occurred to me. I placed a defensive hand on my stomach. Fierce feelings of loyalty and protection burned in my veins. “Absolutely. This baby means the world to me.”
“It’s clearly a sign from God that you need to get your ass over to your man and make up.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Taking my arm, she drew me to the sofa and onto the plush cushions. “It’s only as complicated as you make it. If you want to be with him, make it happen. Have you thought about seeing a counselor?”
I rolled my eyes. “Right. Can you imagine? ‘My husband and I are having difficulty adjusting to our new life as a married couple. And, did I mention that he’s a war lord?’”
“Okay. Maybe not.”
“He’s in some kind of trouble.” I spoke slowly, choosing my words with care. Divulging unnecessary details might put her in harm’s way, something I couldn’t risk. Until I knew more about Roman’s situation, caution was imperative. Instead, I gave her the broad points of the story. “Someone is threatening him, I think.” Speaking the words aloud gave our predicament gravity. “I’m scared, Everly.”
We stared at each other. Her clear-blue eyes sharp
ened. “Roman’s a smart man. I’m sure he has everything under control.” She patted my hand. “Mom said you’re coming to dinner tonight. You can ask Daddy. He knows everyone’s secrets.” Her eyes narrowed. “What about you? You seem to have plenty of secrets yourself.”
“No—well, maybe. You remember the time I called off work when we were in Paris a few years ago? I wasn’t sick. I went to the hotel bar the night before, hooked up with a guy, and had a horrible hangover the next morning.” I grinned, trying to lighten the mood.
“You told me you had food poisoning. I’m impressed.” Her smile brightened. “As long as we’re confessing, I might have borrowed your favorite blue sweater in high school and never returned it.”
“Are you kidding me? You know how hard I hunted for it, and you never said a word.” The humor of the moment faded. I sobered and the smile fell from my lips. “No more secrets. You’re the only person I’ve got, Everly. I need you.”
“Absolutely.” She extended her little finger, the same way she had when we were seven years old. “Pinky swear.”
Memories of hopscotch, dollhouses, and Malibu Barbie burned in my heart at the gesture. I curled my finger around hers. “You’re the best.” Through the deaths of my parents and her divorce, we’d managed to remain close. I wouldn’t let Nicky Tarnovsky come between us. She was my best friend, and I’d protect her to my dying breath.
6
Rourke
With Lance at my side, I left Everly’s building and headed toward the car. During my visit, heavy clouds had moved across the city, obscuring the sun and casting the tall buildings into shadow. Numbness descended over my emotions while my mind raced with endless questions about Roman, his secret life, and our impending parenthood. Having a child bound us together for eternity. There was no escaping him now—if I wanted to escape.
Two paces from the car, Lance stepped in front of me, shielding my body with his. Startled out of my reverie, I glanced up. A middle-aged, balding man in a tan suit approached with rapid footsteps. As he walked toward me, his right hand disappeared inside his jacket. Lance shoved me into the open car, slamming the door behind me.
I toppled onto the cool leather seat and let out a startled, “Oof!”
The man withdrew a badge and ID from his inside suit pocket and held it up to the car window, his voice muffled through the glass. “Mrs. Menshikov, I’m Federal Agent Timothy Frankel. I need to speak with you about your husband.”
Lance placed a hand on the man’s chest and shoved him back a pace. “Go, go,” Lance urged the driver.
“No. Wait.” I held up a hand and weighed the merits of speaking to him. Although I didn’t want to incriminate Roman, this man might provide important clues to my husband’s secrets. I rolled down the window. “It’s okay, Lance.”
“Can we go somewhere and talk—alone?” Frankel returned his ID to his pocket but not before throwing an irritated glare in Lance’s direction. “How about your place?”
“No,” Lance said, his brow furrowing. “Absolutely not.”
I pushed the car door open. “If you want to speak with me, get in. Lance, you sit back here with us.”
“Alright.” Frankel slid into the vacant seat across from me.
Lance followed him into the car. “For the record, Mrs. Menshikov, I don’t like this.”
“It’s okay, Lance,” I said.
“Give me your gun.” He extended a hand toward the agent. After a moment’s hesitation, the man removed his pistol from the holster inside his suit coat and handed it, butt first, to Lance. He placed the weapon on the seat beside him and turned to the driver. “Take us around the park. Make sure we aren’t followed. If this guy does anything out of line, you know what to do.”
The ominous note of warning in his command made my hands tremble. I clasped them together, not wanting the agent to see my fear.
The driver nodded, lifted the partition, and merged into traffic.
“What can I do for you?” I forced my features into a neutral expression. Panic sharpened my senses. The details of his appearance washed over me. A tiny scar on his forehead. Pock marks on his cheeks. Bushy, dark eyebrows. He smelled of cheap cologne, but the lines of his expensive suit had been tailored to fit his trim build, suggesting a taste for the finer things in life. The thin sole of his left shoe showed when he rested an ankle on his knee. Maybe his lifestyle outpaced his bank account.
“I’m investigating the death of Lavender Cunningham,” he said, leveling his flat gaze on mine. “Can you tell me about the last time you saw her?”
“We had a meeting to discuss arrangements for one of Roman’s social events.” Had it really only been a month? It seemed like a lifetime ago. In the blur of recent events, I’d completely forgotten about Lavender and the Masquerade de Marquis. “That was the only time we’d ever met in person.”
“Were you aware she’d had a longstanding relationship with your husband?”
“Yes.” With forcible effort, I unclenched my fingers and drew in a breath, getting a mouthful of Aqua Velva. I exhaled through my nose, fighting back a rising tide of nausea. “They have a business affiliation.”
“Really? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” Sarcasm dripped from his voice. “Did he also tell you about his monthly deposits into her checking account, the Upper East Side apartment he had purchased for her, the cars, the vacations? I can go on, if you’d like. There’s a lot more.”
The scent of his cologne intensified and stirred the contents of my stomach. I will not throw up. I will not throw up. I mentally repeated the words and tried to breathe through my mouth. Roman had told me about a past dalliance with Lavender, but vacations and cars suggested something much deeper than a fling. I resisted the claw squeezing my heart and lifted my chin. How should I answer his question? If I said no, I’d look like a fool. If I acknowledged the affair, then I might be implicating myself. A scorned wife had plenty of reasons to cause harm toward her husband’s mistress. I decided to hedge my bets and stick to short answers. “I trust him.”
He shook his head, pityingly. “You don’t seem stupid, but I can’t understand why you’d let him support a mistress right beneath your nose.” His gaze narrowed. “Unless you married him for his money and were relieved to get him off your back?”
My temper itched beneath my skin, begging to be unleashed on this douchebag. Instead, I pressed the button to crack the car window and took a gulp of city air. “Is this why you wanted to talk? So you could question my motives for marrying Roman? If it is, then you’re wasting my time and yours.”
“I’m trying to figure out who might have killed Ms. Cunningham. Was it the eccentric billionaire wanting to get rid of a pain-in-the-ass mistress? Or his jealous wife?”
“I thought it was a suicide,” I said, relaxing as the nausea subsided and my head cleared.
“So did local law enforcement until her ties with the Russian mafia were unearthed. That’s where I come in. You see, Ms. Cunningham’s real name was Olga Walenska. She and your husband go way, way back. Back to his childhood.”
Betrayal knifed my chest. I covered my surprise with a pleasant smile. Roman had never mentioned his connection to her beyond their working relationship. Why hadn’t he told me? “I’m afraid I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.” All the while, my blood simmered with the urge to punch him for giving me another reason to question my marriage. “Why don’t you ask my husband?”
“I’d love to, but he seems to have left the Four Seasons. Do you know where I can find him?”
“If you can’t find him, then you must not be very good at your job.” My breakfast churned in my stomach. A strong sense of fight-or-flight lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. I swallowed hard. Perhaps I’d underestimated Agent Frankel’s abilities to get beneath my skin.
He studied my face. “You’re white as a sheet. Are you feeling well?”
“I’m fine.” Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I bit the inside
of my cheek to keep from defending Roman and myself. Frankel was trying to bait me, and I wouldn’t give in to his bullying.
Taking my silence as agreement, he continued, his words gathering speed and volume. “I know you’re living separately. Are you having problems? Did he tell you about Lavender? Is that why you split up? Everyone will understand if you’re angry with him—or with Lavender. Did you argue? Talk to me, Mrs. Menshikov. Maybe I can help. Tell us what you know, and I can offer you immunity.”
“From what?” My panic escalated.
Frankel said nothing, his stare burning through me. Lance glanced between us.
I lowered the driver partition. “Stop the car, please. Agent Frankel is getting out.” And then I vomited on his shoes.
We left Agent Frankel standing on the curb at Central Park West and Eighty-First Street. Through my misery, I caught a glance at his opened mouth and lowered brows as the car resumed traveling. If I hadn’t been completely miserable, I would’ve laughed.
“Are you okay?” Lance withdrew a packet of disposable wipes from the console and handed them to me. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No.” I wiped my hands and mouth. “I mean, yes, I’m fine. I should have something to eat. I’ll be better in a minute.” In fact, the tide of nausea ebbed with each passing second.
He chuckled. “I’d pay good money to see you puke on that guy again.”
“Well, if I don’t get some food in my stomach, your shoes might be next.” While he disposed of the mess on the floor, I dug through the small cabinet next to the mini-fridge for crackers. I nibbled around the edges, gingerly, waiting for any signs of gastric rebellion. “Thank you.”
“You handled him well.” Lance handed me a bottle of water and settled back into his seat. “I’m impressed.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He’s just trying to goad you into giving up information. If they had any evidence at all, they would’ve hauled both of you in already.”
“True.” I rested my forehead against the cool window. Had Roman’s problems been a result of Lavender’s murder? Was he somehow mixed up with the Russian mafia? A new, more horrifying thought took shape. What if he was the Russian mafia?
The Exiled Prince Trilogy Page 38