Roulette

by Megan Mulry

  And his fiancée is in the other room.

  I shove him away and scrape at my lips with the back of my fist to wipe off the taste of him. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Kissing you. And it’s even better then I remember.”

  “You’re sick, you know that?” I point toward the house, from which the sound of light laughter and conversation is wafting. “Your fiancée is sitting in there. Are you insane?”

  He reaches for me again, and I try to pull away, but he gets hold of my wrist in that incredibly tender way again. “When it comes to you, I think I am insane, Mikhaila.”

  My heart starts to pound, because I think he’s talking about feelings and not just one-night-stand sex feelings, and he’s looking at me like he looked at me in the museum and over dinner in that hole-in-the-wall—like we understand each other, like we’re different from the rest of the world. And I want him so badly in that moment that I have to close my eyes and just inhale him because I can’t touch him or actually do anything about it.

  “Rome.” My eyes are closed. I want to imagine for a few seconds that I’m allowed to say his name like he belongs to me. But then I open my eyes; it’s all too much, just stupid passion, like my mother always falls prey to. Meaningless panting and groping, maybe with slightly higher stakes because of our work and Aziza and all of that, but nonetheless just a game to him. Still, I want to cry, because the way he’s looking at me—so hopeful, innocent, even—doesn’t feel like a game at all. It feels real and powerful.

  But I force myself to see him for what he is. The spoiled man-boy who does whatever he wants whenever he wants. Gets engaged on a lark. Sleeps with women and never calls them again. Buys and sells companies like new toys. Flies his jet to his château. Or to bring a girl coffee.

  I tell myself he’s ridiculous, and I think he sees the moment I think it.

  His face shutters, and he drops my wrist. “Fine. You pretend this is nothing between us if it makes you feel better.” He turns to walk away, and I practically rip the sleeve off his blue oxford shirt to stay him.

  “Feel better?” I nearly shriek, but somehow manage to keep my voice to a strained whisper. “You think this feels good, you asshole? Knowing you’re sleeping with that beautiful, loving woman—”

  He pulls me into his arms, and I let him. I hate myself a little, but not nearly as much as I should, because, god, he feels like heaven wrapped around me like this, kissing my neck and telling me how much he missed me and how angry he was that I never called and he didn’t want to interfere and how Landon was putting all that shit about us moving in together all over social media, and it’s all mixed together with his hands roaming all over me and kissing me and me just melting into him.

  When his hands grab hold of my hips and my ass and he pulls me against his erection, all the melting comes to a halt.

  “Stop.” I may be kissing him when I say it, but at least I say it. “Just stop.”

  “Miki—”

  “I mean it, Rome.” My voice is still damnably breathy, but I’m pulling away from him inch by inch and I am not crying, so that’s a bonus.

  He releases my hips and stares at me a few seconds longer, then drags both of his hands through his hair, and all I can think is how jealous I am of his hands. I turn away slightly so I don’t have to torture myself by staring at his parted lips and his turquoise eyes glinting in the reflection of the moonlight and the pool.

  “This is not over.” He sounds almost threatening, like he did on the phone the first couple of times we were negotiating.

  I shut my eyes. “Just go. I’m never going to be some girl on the side. You made me want way more than that, you bastard. I deserve perfect, remember?”

  He swears in French, and I hear his steps in the moist grass as he heads back toward the house. A few seconds later, I hear voices in the kitchen. Everybody is saying good-bye. I just stand there like a statue under all those stars until his arrogant sports car roars out of the driveway, and then it finally quiets down and Margot comes out and gives me a hug.

  “You okay?”

  I nod. “I think I’m okay.” I turn to face her. “He’s so hot, right? I’m normal to be confused by his hotness, right?”

  Margot laughs at my attempt to reduce my feelings to some teen summer blockbuster. She pulls me into another one-armed hug. “He’s very hot, Miki. But . . .”

  “I know.” I sigh and smile back at her. “But. But. But. I know all the buts. I can handle it.” I take a deep breath and start to feel slightly normal again. “We’re grown-ups. It’ll be better next time I see him. I knew I would have to see him for work and everything. It’s just sooner than I had anticipated. And it’s probably better he’s engaged, because now it’s really not even a possibility.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” Margot takes a deep breath, too, like she’s leading a yoga class. “You’ll get over it. He didn’t say anything about breaking it off with Aziza, right?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “And you probably wouldn’t want him to anyway, right?” Margot presses.

  “Well. I wouldn’t go that far. If he wanted to break it off with Aziza the Perfect Woman, I certainly wouldn’t spend too much time trying to keep them together.” I laugh at the absurdity of it all, and Margot laughs with me.

  “You’re going to be fine. You’re smart and grounded and honest, and he’s . . .”

  “Hot?” I offer.

  She smiles again. “Not . . . emotionally available.”

  “Right. Not available. That’s what I meant to say.”

  Étienne comes out a few minutes later with another bottle of wine and three glasses.

  “Everyone good?” he asks cautiously.

  “Yes,” I answer. “No need to walk on eggshells. The first awkward meeting is over. Thanks for everything, Étienne. I promise there won’t be any drama to ruin your wedding tomorrow.”

  He puts the three wineglasses on one of the small tables between the pool loungers and opens the bottle with familiar ease. “Wherever Rome goes, there’s bound to be drama.” He shrugs as the cork pops free. “I’m used to it after a lifetime of watching him misbehave.” After he pours the wine, the three of us stay outside for a while longer, staring up at the sky from the lounge chairs and talking about silly things to do with the wedding and the photographer and the flowers.

  Margot and Étienne are holding hands and smiling while they talk, and I start to feel less maudlin. Rome is just a philanderer; I don’t need to turn it into some torrid misadventure. I take another sip of wine and enjoy the simple pleasure of being with my old friend on her wedding weekend at her beautiful new home.

  Near midnight, after I wash my face and brush my teeth, I’m too keyed up from this roller-coaster day, so I reach into my bag, pull out my e-reader, and fire up the book I was reading on the train. About fifteen minutes later, my phone vibrates. I look down at the unfamiliar number and answer it, thinking it might be Alexei.

  “What are you wearing?” Rome whispers.

  His voice is low and sexy, but it doesn’t make me any less furious at him. “What am I wearing?”

  I thought I was whispering, but Zoe pulls out one earbud and leans up on her elbow. “Everything okay?”

  “Yep. I’ll just take this outside.” I slip out of bed. “Sorry to disturb you. It’s my uncle in Russia.” I roll my eyes as if it is such a drag and then pad through the living room and out the front door.

  “Are you crazy?” I whisper hotly into the phone, once I step out of earshot of the house.

  “Obviously, yes. I am completely mad about you.”

  “Where are you calling from? What’s this number?” I ask.

  “It’s the landline at my place.”

  “Your château, you mean?”

  “Yes,” he answers happily, and sounds like he is settling back in bed. “I�
�m in my château, looking at my Matisse and thinking of touching you—”

  “My god. I feel so sorry for Aziza. You’re not even married, and you’re already cheating on her?”

  “Oh, darling, this is not even close to cheating.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “So you’ve said. Yet you’re still on the phone, aren’t you?” he taunts.

  We both breathe into the silence.

  “Silk pajamas,” I whisper, wanting to torment him.

  His voice is thick when he finally replies, “Don’t even . . .”

  “You started it,” I nearly snarl. “You want me to be an immoral hussy? This is me being an immoral hussy, flirting with a man who’s probably in bed with another woman—”

  “She has her own room.”

  “That’s totally none of my business. I’m hanging up now. I thought I could flirt or whatever, but this is so far out of my league, my mousy-statistics-professor league. Good night, Rome.”

  But like some panting teenager, I don’t actually disconnect the call; I hang on just to listen to his goddamned breathing.

  “Je t’adore, Mikhaila,” he whispers, and heat flares up my chest and neck and my breasts ache and then the phone goes dead and I am standing barefoot on the rough gravel in my friend’s driveway in the middle of the night.

  Oh, god.

  I tiptoe back into the house and try to go to sleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Saturday morning passes in excited preparation. Lulu is the most nervous of anyone. She flutters around Margot until their mother has to pull her aside and tell her to relax. Étienne and Margot are getting married at noon in a tiny church in the nearby village of Saint-Martin-de-Castillon. The wedding luncheon will follow at Rome’s château, a former cloister that he renovated a few years ago.

  The few of us who are staying at the farmhouse have some mimosas with breakfast, so I am feeling properly festive. When we get to the church, I am laughing with Jules and feeling like I might be able to survive after all. There are a few photographers snapping pictures of Rome and Aziza. I roll my eyes—my decision to see him as utterly absurd is once again legitimate. He smiles right into the camera and jokes with some of the photographers, shaking hands and grinning when one of the paparazzi asks whether he saw the latest news that he was recently voted the sexiest man in Europe.

  “So, no more Woman of the Week, hein?” one of the reporters quips.

  I look away in disgust. Jules escorts me up the medieval church steps, the sun bright and promising. Some of Étienne’s tall, handsome British cousins have also arrived, and Zoe is right that there’s a fine flock of them to choose from. I decided to wear one of the fabulous Lanvin minidresses my mom helped me pick out in Paris, and it shows a lot of leg. I’m pretty close to a Viking maiden to begin with—tall and broad-shouldered—so when I sport really high heels, I sometimes feel like I run the risk of looking mannish. This morning, Lulu and Margot made that sound like the most preposterous thing they’d ever heard, and they forcefully encouraged me to wear bright-gold four-inch heels from Giuseppe Zanotti.

  Anyway, I am feeling all Amazonian and powerful, towering over Jules, and I am starting to believe some of the hype about the power of clothes. I feel fortified. Jules settles me into the second row, along with Margot’s cousins who flew in from the States, and I am grateful that I am squarely on the bride’s side of the church, so I won’t have to worry about any of the groom’s French relatives being overly close in the seating arrangement. Despite all my efforts to the contrary, I am afraid if I am near Rome, I might just hurl myself at him.

  I sense him in the church before I see him. When I turn to look, he is insanely gorgeous—dark-blue suit, black hair slicked back from his forehead but already coming loose. Irresistible.

  In the end, it doesn’t matter that he is on the opposite side of the church. I can feel him staring at me from a distance just as easily as I felt him breathing on me under the stars last night. I dig my fingernails into my palms. He is so totally off-limits. I do not have an addictive personality, so why do I feel like a junkie?

  The one or two times I allow myself to look in his general direction, he is blatantly watching me. I feel my body swell and spark in response. I spend the rest of the ceremony staring at my clenched hands, trying to let the wholesome joy of Étienne and Margot and sweet Ariel, the ring bearer, wash away my egocentric lust.

  Jules and I ride with Trevor and Lulu to Rome’s château. Lulu cheeps like a songbird about how much I’m going to love it, how amazing the architecture is, and what an incredible job Rome did with the renovation. I know she means well—she is a furniture designer and restorer by trade. Then she’s on about how great it’s going to be to have Rome and Azi so close when they come to visit more often in the summer, after they’re married, and how they’ll all hang out by the incredible pool that’s built into the side of the rock face, until I get peevish and tell her I’ll see it for myself in ten minutes, so she can stop talking.

  Trevor and Jules both look out the window to avoid getting drawn into the tense conversation.

  “Sorry. I know I can be overly enthusiastic.” Lulu is quiet for a few seconds, and I feel like such a jerk.

  “I’m sorry, Lulu. I’m just stressed about work and Landon, and I guess I got emotional at the wedding.”

  “Oh! I’m so sorry.” She turns from the front seat to look me in the eye. “That was really insensitive of me. I keep forgetting everything you’ve been going through recently.”

  “No, you’re right to be excited,” I add in apology. “I’m sure it’s going to be a beautiful reception.”

  As Trevor’s car hugs the tight turns that take us higher into the mountains, I try to keep my heart rate steady. We pass through a cool rock formation and come out on the other side, then pass through a tiny village.

  “We’re almost there,” Jules says.

  After a few minutes, we make another hairpin turn, and then the view opens up and fields of early lavender stretch out in endless rows. I gasp because the cloister in the distance is one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever seen—and because it belongs to Rome and it’s obvious it isn’t the result of some check he wrote to an architect or fling he had with a designer.

  “Right?” Lulu asks over her shoulder. “Amazing, right? I wasn’t being overly enthusiastic, was I?”

  “No, you weren’t,” I answer quietly.

  Trevor pulls the car into the big courtyard and parks it under one of the enormous plane trees to the right. A pair of huge, ancient wooden doors—which have likely been there since carriages passed through the entrance—are held open with two topiary trees that have been festooned with white silk. Other than that, it’s just a beautiful day at a beautiful country château, without any real indication that it’s a wedding reception.

  Then we turn into the inner courtyard and I see that the perfectly orchestrated symphony of casual elegance continues. Waiters pass champagne, and there’s a three-piece group near one of the lemon trees, playing American bluegrass. It should be totally incongruous, but it all works seamlessly. Round tables are set with gleaming silver and bright-white linen and white wildflower centerpieces, and tiny white lights have been strung up everywhere, flickering like fairies’ wings within the ancient walls.

  I turn to see Margot hugging Étienne, and she looks blissfully happy, like this day—this man—is everything she ever hoped for. I’m still on a contact high from their love when my gaze moves a few feet to the left and I see Rome, staring at me, lifting his flute of champagne, and toasting me from across the enchanted courtyard.

  His attention is diverted when Aziza comes up beside him. She looks upset, and I turn away, not wanting to see them together or get caught staring back at Rome or whatever. I grab a glass of champagne from one of the passing servers and try to look busy observing all the decorations an
d architecture. Margot’s parents arrive a few minutes later, and I spend a while chatting with them about the ceremony and how beautiful the day is.

  I feel my phone vibrating in my small clutch and excuse myself from the conversation. Wending my way into a shadowy part of the house for a bit of privacy, I see that it’s Alexei and listen to his brief message, then call him back.

  “Hey, Alexei, what’s up?” I take a sip of the (obviously) exquisite champagne and hope Alexei’s not calling about anything urgent, though I doubt he would be calling me on a Saturday if it were something minor.

  “Have you heard from Durchenko?”

  “No. Why would I have heard from Durchenko? It’s been only a week.”

  “Well, he’s got some bee in his bonnet that you’re trying to work out a side deal with Clairebeau. Are you and Rome together?”

  “What?” I look around, as if I’m being spied on at that very moment, and go farther into the house, until I find a smallish office and shut the door. “I’m actually at his house right now, but . . .” I look around at the artwork and try not to choke on my champagne. The Matisse with the palm tree from the hotel room in the South of France; a Léger nude; a few small statues—I think one might be a Picasso goat. Well, that figures. Randy bastard.

  I turn my attention back to Alexei. “What was that?”

  “Miki! What the hell are you thinking? No contact, remember? We agreed no contact with Clairebeau until after the two weeks—”

  “Alexei! I couldn’t help it!” I turn angry, instead of defensive. “And how could Durchenko know any of this, anyway? I’m at my friend Margot’s wedding, and it turns out her husband and Rome are cousins. It’s nothing to do with business.”

  “It’s always to do with business, Miki.” Alexei sighs and sounds like he is ready to explode. “Please tell me Aziza Mahdi is not there.”

  “Of course she’s here. She’s Rome’s fiancée. What does she have to do with anything?”