Roulette

by Megan Mulry

  “Rome is such an idiot,” Alexei says under his breath.

  “Well, at last we agree—”

  “Oh, not in that way. I mean, I kind of admire him, I must say. But he’s playing it a bit deep, don’t you think?”

  “Playing what deep?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Miki, what are you doing in here?” Rome enters the office and shuts the door behind him. I am so screwed.

  “I have to go,” I snap quickly, turning off my phone and shoving it back into my purse. “Nothing,” I reply to Rome. I try to casually walk toward the door. “I just needed to take that call, and I didn’t want to be rude at the party.”

  Rome is blocking my way, kind of nonchalantly but with a hint of menace that prevents me from leaving the room. His strong, wide chest is like a wall between the exit and me. “Landon checking in again?”

  “Damn it, Rome. I broke up with Landon, okay? Would you just drop it? Why do you even care?”

  He looks startled and then furious. “Why do I care? I guess that’s the question, isn’t it? Why do I care about a woman who thinks I’m ridiculous—”

  “I don’t.” He looks so not ridiculous right now, in his bespoke suit fitted so beautifully to his amazing body. And his eyes are so serious.

  “A woman who thinks I’m a womanizing playboy—”

  “But you are!” I want to sound full of conviction, but my voice cracks, because he doesn’t look at all like a womanizing playboy right now. Instead, he looks like he wants to pull me against him and never let go, until we’re both soldered to each other. The rest of the world can go to hell.

  He reaches for me, and I’m actually afraid of how much I want him, so I recoil from the power of our connection. I will hate myself if I give in to him like this. “You’re engaged,” I whisper.

  He reaches out one hand and rests it against my cheek, and my eyes close involuntarily as I lean into the small touch. “What if I were free?”

  My heart—my stupid heart—pounds to the galloping beat of what-if-what-if-what-if. “But you’re not. You’re not free, Rome.” I pull his hand gently away from my face.

  The door swings open, and it’s Aziza and she’s definitely been crying this time, not just disturbed-about-something crying, but actual puffy-eyed bawling. “Oh! I’m sorry to interrupt!” She starts to pull the door shut.

  “No!” I practically shout. “Come back. I was just finishing a phone call, and I didn’t realize it was Rome’s study. I’m sorry.” I walk to the door, cutting a wide berth around Rome. “I didn’t want to talk on my cell phone in the middle of the party. I’m just leaving.”

  “Okay,” Azi says softly, then turns to look at Rome as he’s looking at me, and I want to slap him hard across the face. Aziza looks so desperate and sweet. I feel like the worst person in history—or at least like I’ve been influenced by the worst person in history. I scowl at Rome and close the door behind me.

  I start to walk away, but I pause when I hear Rome yelling at Aziza about how foolish she is and how she has no sense, and I am tempted to go back into the room and bash him over the head with one of those priceless Giacomettis I spied in the corner while he was asking me stupid questions about Landon. What kind of bastard yells at his fiancée when she’s just walked in on him coming on to another woman?

  I can still hear Aziza crying as I turn toward the entrance of the house. I want to get as far away from all this chaos as I can. My phone vibrates again, and I pull it out and lean against a large door near the kitchen. I hope that the bustle of the catering staff will drown out my conversation.

  “Alexei, what the hell is going on?”

  “Pavel Durchenko—”

  “What about him? I am at my best friend’s wedding, and I’ve had enough of this bullshit. We will get back to him in a week. Just tell him to back off—”

  “He and Aziza Mahdi have been together for the past year . . . secretly.”

  “What?” My voice is more like a high-pitched, strangled squeal.

  “Shhh,” Alexei hisses into the phone. “No one knows. Well, I suspect Rome knows and that’s why they’re getting married, to help her get out of a terrible situation. And now Durchenko thinks you’re in on that or something. He is so livid, Miki, I honestly thought he was going to whip out his gun and shoot me just because we’re related—”

  “He’s there in Paris?”

  “Yes. And he has photos of you all at some church a few hours ago. He’s obsessed with spy photos. Well, that part was quite good, actually.”

  “Alexei!”

  “Sorry. I just mean he’s got all the latest gadgets and the best people working for him, so be careful—”

  “Be careful?” I half whisper, half squeal again. “How the hell am I supposed to be careful?” I look down at myself. “I am at a wedding in the South of France in a skimpy silk dress and a pair of way-too-high heels—”

  “I saw in the photos. You look very pretty.”

  “Alexei. Seriously. I meant I am in no position to defend myself if Durchenko loses his temper about all this. I refuse to get dragged into some sordid love triangle. Does any of it have to do with Segezha?”

  “Yes, I get the feeling it’s all somehow related. Apparently, Clairebeau’s been trying to make a side deal with Kriegsbeil, and now Durchenko is yelling about how Rome had better mind his own business. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Don’t worry—”

  “I’m already worried! Do you want me to come back to Paris? I was going to stay a few extra days, but I can be on the train tomorrow.”

  He hesitates. “Maybe I should come down there instead, and we can all work together. Is Rome staying in Provence, too?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Oh. I thought maybe—”

  “Well, don’t think, all right? There’s nothing going on with Rome and me, and there never will be!”

  And of course that’s the moment Rome happens to walk down the hall and turn to face me in the alcove, like I’m some interloper in his house, his beautiful house—because I am an interloper in his house. He shakes his head slowly and keeps walking, as if my words are just one more Judas kiss in an infinite receiving line of Judas kisses.

  I curse myself and Alexei and tell him I’ll call him later. He tells me he’ll be back in touch about whether he’s coming down to Provence. When I go back out to the party, I try to put on my happy face for Margot’s sake. Other than avoiding Rome—which isn’t too hard, since I can tell he really wants nothing to do with me at this point—I end up having a pretty great time. Étienne’s cousins from London are tons of fun. Trevor’s brothers are really interesting—one of them is a horse breeder who splits his time between Ireland and Dubai and who’s going to buy some horses in Ojai later in the year. We exchange phone numbers and agree to meet up for dinner if we’re both in LA at the same time.

  Unfortunately, Zoe, the reporter, is relentless. She asks me all sorts of inane questions about my mother, and I keep trying to steer the conversation back to Margot and Étienne. She keeps trying to fob me off.

  “Oh, no one really cares about Étienne’s second marriage.” She moves in closer to let me in on her secret. “The real reason I came was to get a closer look at Jérôme de Villiers and Aziza Mahdi.” Zoe’s look is scheming as she takes a sip of wine and stares at Rome across the grassy area where he is talking to Margot’s father. I watch as he inhales on his cigarette, and I want to rip it out of his hand. I’ve noticed he’s been smoking a lot this weekend, the stress of everything probably getting to him. Just because he’s a dishonest bastard is no reason he should die of lung cancer.

  “Really?” I try to act disinterested.

  Her head swings around to face me. “Of course, really! He’s impossible to reach; he never gives interviews, even though I’m his cousin
’s cousin!” She seems genuinely affronted. “It could really launch my career to get some sort of exclusive scoop about him and Aziza. I’m thinking maybe she’s not really going to marry him at all, right? That she’s just using him to get out of some old-fashioned arranged marriage back in Somalia or some other sticky situation. There are tons of rumors going around that she’s a real trollop—sleazy Russian-billionaire boyfriends and all that.”

  I just won my second imaginary Oscar.

  “I mean, sorry—I forgot you’re half Russian, aren’t you?”

  “Just the sleazy half.”

  She bursts out laughing. “Good one. You got me. Sorry—just a slip of the tongue. You know how it is.”

  She laughs again, retelling the joke to herself, probably committing it to memory for future reuse. She keeps staring at Rome, then lets her attention slip over to the other side of the party, where Aziza and Lulu are laughing at something Trevor is saying. “They don’t look very in love for two people who just got engaged, do you think?”

  I take another sip of wine and make some sort of grunting, noncommittal reply.

  Zoe shrugs. “Oh well. You’re no help. And Étienne has already told me he’ll never speak to me again if I publish anything without his permission, but it’s my life, too, right?”

  I don’t know why Zoe has latched onto me as her working-girl partner in crime, but I need to break off the conversation before I let something slip. “Sorry, Zoe. I just remembered something I need to tell Margot. I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure, sure.” She is already distracted, watching Rome like a shark circling slowly until she smells blood in the water.

  I know I am probably getting tipsy, because my visits to the bathroom are becoming more frequent. By eight o’clock, it is starting to get dark and people are getting ready to leave, so I go for one last time before the four of us—Jules, Trevor, Lulu, and I—make the drive home.

  I am humming and wending my way up the narrow stone stairs at the back of the hall near the kitchen, when I feel the air shift. I swing around. Rome is standing right behind me. He looks over one shoulder, then shoves me up the rest of the stairs and into the tiny bathroom, until the two of us are enclosed in the small, private space.

  I back away from him a pace, but he closes the distance between us in an instant and grabs the flesh of my inner thigh with one hand. I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from groaning.

  “This dress is too short,” he says in a low, menacing voice. His hand begins to knead its way up my thigh.

  “What do you care?” I taunt him. I’ve had one too many glasses of champagne, and suddenly I don’t give a fig if he’s engaged or if I’m going to get mown down by some angry oligarch. I just want his hands on my body. Everyone else can deal with their own problems.

  He puts his face right in front of mine, staring at me desperately, looking at my eyes, my lips, down the front of my dress, then back into my eyes. I think he is going to talk, but he just keeps staring at me like that. My breath is short; I just want to smell him all around me, to breathe him in. I shut my eyes and lean into him, shifting my thigh to force his hand even higher up my leg.

  “Kiss me, Rome, please,” I beg.

  “Miki,” he whispers in my ear, then licks the tender edge with the tip of his tongue. I moan and push my hips against his hand. He reaches his other hand up and grabs my loose hair into a rough hold. “Look at me . . .”

  I open my eyes. He is so heated, his eyes snapping and firing, those tiny yellow spindles bright. His lips are barely opened, but the glistening skin just inside his mouth makes me weak. I lean in to taste him. He tugs on my hair to stop me from slipping back into that dreamy state.

  “Miki.” Even though he whispers my name, it comes out with harsh finality. “Tell me . . .” He kisses me, and it’s almost a punishment. “Tell me this is real.” His hand fists more tightly in my hair. “Tell me you trust me.”

  God, I want him. So badly. But nothing feels real. And trust is about the last thing I feel for anyone right now. I shake my head slowly, wanting him and doubting him all at once. “I have nothing to go on. You’re hiding things from me—”

  “That is all bullshit, and you know it. Aziza has drawn me into a fucking viper pit with these stupid secrets, and I’m going to have to deal with it in my own way.”

  “What about the Segezha deal?”

  He falters, but only for a second. “What about it? None of that matters. I am not hiding anything when it comes to my feelings for you. I have never—”

  “Never what? Never wanted something and not been able to have it in five minutes or less?” My anger is starting to bubble up. “You’re spoiled, Rome. You want me?” I lean in and kiss him, wet and messy and tipsy. “Want me to get on my knees again . . .” I start to bend down, and he whips me up so we are eye to eye.

  “Miki, stop it.”

  “Because you know I want it, isn’t that it? And you can’t figure out why I keep trying to get away from you. Well, I’ll tell you why: Because you are so bad for me, Rome, that’s why! You make me want to beg and be a liar and a cheat. You want to take things from me that I can never get back . . .”

  I’m sort of crying like one of those crazy women on late-night Spanish television by this point. He loosens his hold in my hair and tries to soothe away my hurt, and the slow intimacy is far worse than the rough passion. His tenderness feels far too real.

  “Please don’t,” I whisper, but I think he can tell his kindness is going to break me.

  He leans in and kisses me, so soft and gentle, his tongue a sweet promise that merely glances against my lips. “I meant what I said in Saint Petersburg,” he whispers. “You deserve perfect.” He kisses me one more time, then turns and leaves the bathroom, and I’m standing there gasping and breathless, unsure of what just happened. Is he going to be the one to give me perfect, or is he going to leave me alone so I can forget about him and find some imaginary future perfect?

  I turn to see myself in the mirror and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m a wreck. We’ve all been dancing for hours, so everyone at the party is a bit mussed, but the kissing and the crying have made me look just like the crazy Telemundo woman I imagined earlier. I take a few deep breaths, then clean myself up as best I can. I splash my face with cool water and pat it dry with a linen hand towel, then go back to the party.

  Luckily, Rome and Aziza have gone off somewhere in the house or garden by the time I wander downstairs. Margot is sitting on Étienne’s lap, and Lulu and Trevor are slow-dancing to the acoustic guitarist from the band. The rest of the musicians are packing up.

  Diana, Margot’s mother, is barefoot and swaying with her arms around her husband. Jules looks happy and tired. I go and sit down next to him.

  “What did I miss?”

  “Oh. Were you gone?”

  That answers that. “No, not really, just to the loo for a few minutes. Looks like everything is winding down. Should we head back home?”

  “Sure. Why don’t we ask Lulu and Trevor if we can make our way back once they’re done . . . you know . . .”

  I look in the direction he is looking and see how Lulu is staring into Trevor’s eyes under a stray beam of moonlight. The guitarist is playing a few sweet chords from that old Oasis song, and, Jesus, they look so happy, it gives me chills. Jules watches them like a science experiment. I wonder if he is even capable of imagining that type of intimacy. Probably not.

  I know I am. I can still feel Rome’s lips against mine. But even more devastating was the way he asked me to trust him, the way he looked at me like I was the first—and maybe the last—person he has ever asked that of. And I’m not sure I will ever be able to.

  I am perfectly capable of imagining Rome’s hands at my lower back, and lower still, like Trevor’s are against Lulu. I can imagine looking into Rome’s eyes with that longing. My
stomach goes into free fall. Again.

  I suppose I need to get used to these moments of profound longing. I’m beginning to see why my mother just indulged herself.

  The musician finally strums the last chords and smiles up at Lulu and Trevor. The three of them speak quietly to one another and then say good-bye. Aziza and Rome come out of the house holding hands, and I try not to stare. God damn him. I have to get out of here.

  Margot stands up, and we all smile and hug and look around to make sure no one has left anything. Étienne and Rome are arguing about money—Rome insisting he always meant to pay for the entire wedding when he offered to host it, and Étienne sort of furious and grateful and buzzed all at once. Margot simply beams with happiness. She hugs Rome and thanks him again and tells him he’s the worst, but then I hear her tell him he’s the greatest. I know the feeling.

  I turn before Rome has a chance to say good-bye to me, and I walk to the outer courtyard with oblivious Jules. Lulu and Trevor take Jules and me in their car again, and the Montespans go with Margot and Étienne. The newlyweds have decided to postpone their honeymoon until later in the summer, once Étienne’s current caseload is lighter. Meanwhile, Margot keeps saying she is thrilled to have an extended house party until then.

  I hate to be so selfish, but after all that drama in the bathroom, all I keep thinking is that one day, one fine day, I will be driving home from my own wedding with a man holding my hand and looking at me the way Étienne was looking at Margot. Perfectly content, as if everything in the world in that moment is perfectly enough.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sunday morning I wake up to the sound of Zoe shoving all her stuff into her bag.

  “What’s up?” I ask, opening one eye and then slipping deeper under the cool cotton sheets. The windows are open, and the morning air is chilly and gorgeous. I want to stay in bed for days.

  “Rome and Aziza are going back to Paris earlier than expected, and he offered me a seat on his private plane. Can you stand it?”