by Jasmin Quinn
“Let’s sit, talk.” He led the way to the table, pulled out a chair for her and as she seated herself, pushed it in. Then he sat at the head of the table. She was to his left, close enough to hold his hand.
She dropped her hands in her lap. Looked across the table at nothing, not at him. Her heart was hammering in her chest and her throat was parched. The server came out with a bottle of wine. Fuck.
“Not tonight,” Rusya said.
“I’m okay if you want to have wine.” Esma flicked her eyes to his.
He gazed at her until she looked away. Then to the waiter, “Some sparkling water please. For both of us.” The young man nodded, left and they were alone again.
“Let’s talk about today,” Rusya said. Straight to the point.
Two could play that game. “Let’s talk about last week. About the sauna.” She met his gaze again. Challenging. Nothing less than he deserved.
Rusya blew out a small breath as the waiter returned with their drinks and bowls of soup. A light meatless borscht with a savoury aroma that made Esma’s stomach growl. She picked up her spoon, took a taste, and then another. She was hungry, the soup was good.
Rusya took a taste too, put his spoon down, drew his napkin to his lips. “You’re angry at me and you’re not managing it well.”
Esma blinked her eyes at him. “I should manage my anger like you? You threw me across the f… the room.”
“I had cause. You’re playing a game. I don’t like games, Esma.”
“Neither do I, Rusya. I’m not playing a game.”
He slammed the table with his fist and the dishes rattled, a little soup from her bowl slopped over the edge into the saucer it was sitting on. “Then say what the fuck is on your mind!”
Esma jumped at his outburst and sucked in a breath. She dropped her hands to her lap, her eyes to her hands. They were trembling a little and she hated that she couldn’t control her response to his temper. Say what the fuck is on her mind? “I don’t know what to say to you. You had me by the throat a couple of hours ago.” A shiver wracked her as her mind conjured the vivid memory. “Now you want me to eat with you. It’s messed up.” She stole a quick glance at him. He was watching her intently, his eyes narrow.
“Will it help if I apologize for what I did? In the sauna?”
That was a good question. Esma had a better one. “Are you sorry?”
Rusya sat back in his chair, dropped his eyes to the bowl of soup for a couple of heartbeats, then returned them to Esma’s face. “No.”
It was Esma’s turn to pause. To think. To decide what’s next. “This afternoon, you were crystal clear about the nature of our relationship. You’re the boss.” She stopped, chose her next words carefully. “I obviously crossed a line too, being angry at you for doing whatever you did after the sauna. Perhaps we could call it even and move on. I will be respectful of you, I promise. But whatever’s happening, beyond the work. I can’t cope with it. It can’t happen again.”
Rusya listened as she talked, hung on to each word, considered them. “I can’t promise you anything, Esma.”
Everything about that statement hurt and Esma felt her heart break. She touched the napkin to her lips. “I don’t want to dine with you, Mr. Savisin. May I please be excused?”
They stared at each other, his mouth tugging down. Disappointed. Finally, he nodded. “Go.”
Chapter 15
It was Monday, Esma was starting the third week of her fucked up job when the inevitable happened. Anto Kharzin dropped by. She’d heard that he and Marisol got married, that it was a very quiet, private wedding that few people knew about and even fewer attended. Rusya wasn’t in when Anto showed up and Esma supposed that was the only saving grace.
She was sitting on the couch, papers spread across the coffee table, pencil tucked between her teeth, tapping on her laptop when she heard his laugh in the hall, loud, booming. And Janice’s softer voice. A few seconds later, the door opened and he walked in alone. She put the laptop on the couch, removed the pencil from her mouth, stood up and faced him.
He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d jumped out of a cake. He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes, and flared his nostrils. She saw his hands curl into fists. Silence, loud, lingering, even the room seemed to be holding its breath.
“What the fuck?” he said finally. Then he stalked over to her, loomed above her looking down. Esma could see his struggle for control, a tick to his jaw, muscles tense. Anto was the biggest fucker she’d ever met. Hard, unbending with massive muscles and huge hands. He was thinking about snapping her in two and he could easily. She was a twig to him.
She needed to diffuse this quickly. Rusya was out, but not for long, and he couldn’t come back to a blood bath. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be here. I have no choice.”
“Explain.”
“This is an assignment by Jackman. He’s setting Rusya up. I don’t know how it’s going to go down, but he’s planted me here as a translator for Rusya. If I didn’t comply, he would have killed me.”
“I’m gonna kill you.”
Esma felt the tenuous hold on her emotions slipping. “You don’t have to. Rusya will do it soon enough. I can’t sustain this.”
Anto shook his head, paced away. Agitated as he ran his fingers through his untidy hair. Still the same old Anto, Esma mused as she ran her eyes over him. Big man, big beard, big personality. Love and marriage hadn’t changed him.
“Your being here puts Marisol in danger.”
She swallowed a sadness. Marisol, his wife, his love, a woman whose life she saved. And he thought of her first, the danger to her, not himself. Marisol was lucky to have a man like Anto who would give up his life for hers. Esma would give anything to know that feeling for even a minute. “I won’t. I promise, Anto. There’s no association between you and me. I’ve not mentioned you, not reacted when he’s talked about you. And I’m not providing any useful information to Jackman. I haven’t even been in contact with him.”
Anto closed his eyes briefly, tilted his neck back toward the ceiling, then shifted his head from side to side, like he was trying to shake a monkey off his back. “I want you gone.”
Esma shook her head. She was losing her patience. “Tell that to Jackman. I’d happily leave except he’s threatened to kill me if I don’t comply with his orders.”
“Rusya will kill you if you stay. He’ll find out. You don’t want to be in his line of fire when he’s pissed off.”
Esma blinked her eyes a couple of times, willing away the sudden sheen of tears. “I know.”
“Why would Jackman do this and not tell me?”
“You know why. Jackman’s pissed at both of us. He’s losing you. And me, I fucked up on a grand scale last summer. I got over involved in your troubles.”
Anto’s eyes swept her, distant. Her reminder of last summer when he, Marisol, Esma and Dean Copeland were running for their lives. In a forest, gunfire raking the ground. She’d killed two men that day. Neither saw it coming. And she saved Marisol’s life. He knew it, he owed her, he might be bratva, might be loyal to Rusya, but he was honourable. He wouldn’t betray her.
He turned away and walked to the bar, poured a shot of Rusya’s vodka and tossed it back. Then another. Esma licked her lips. Her throat was parched, her brain was on fire. Her fingers itched. He didn’t know about her sobriety. He’d give her a drink if she asked.
“I stopped drinking,” she blurted.
He turned to her, confusion clear on his face. “What?”
She hugged herself tighter to quell the shaking inside. “Jackman locked me up when we got back. After Dean’s report.” She stopped, remembering the sonofabitch. Dean Copeland didn’t even try to paint her in a good light. Just the facts, every single fucking one of them. “He dried me out. Forbade me from taking another drink.”
Anto twisted the vodka glass in his hand, looked down at it, then back to her. She was holding her breath. She didn’t know this man, not really. But s
he knew Marisol, got to know her. The woman defined goodness, and if Anto loved her, then he had compassion and maybe even a heart. “Are you an alcoholic?” He seemed disbelieving even though he saw her dead drunk while she was on the job.
She dropped her eyes as shame filtered through her. “Yeah. I guess so. I went through withdrawal.” Her brain recoiled at the memory of the detox, the pain, the mental anguish. Alone. Jackman offered no support, no kind words. She fucking hated him. She turned so her back was to Anto. He didn’t need to see how unsettled she was.
His footsteps and then him, dropping himself in a chair, her usual chair, splaying out, head resting on the back of it, eyes open to the ceiling. “What are we gonna do, Turk?”
Esma exhaled a jagged breath as she sat down. He was going to protect her. She shouldn’t trust him, shouldn’t believe that he wouldn’t arrange for her to meet an accident some dark night when she was away from the safety of Rusya’s home. But she did, because she needed to believe that deep down, he was a good man. An honourable one. He owed her and he wasn’t going to repay her by taking her life.
“I’m going to tell him,” she said.
Anto straightened up, took a mouthful of his drink, held it for a second, then swallowed. “No. Not yet. He’ll either kill you outright or he’ll lock you up, torture you until you’ve told him everything about everyone and then kill you.”
“Fuck.” Esma felt the cold reality slide up her back and she shivered. “What am I going to do? I can’t run. Jackman will kill me. I’d rather take my chances with Rusya. If I explain it to him, maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he could use it to his advantage.”
Anto shook his head. “No. He won’t. That’s not how Rusya works. Double-agent bullshit and that kind of crap. He despises it.”
“But… “
Anto stopped her with a small wave of his hand as footsteps approached the office. Esma glanced quickly at him then dropped her eyes to the coffee table and started gathering the mess of papers together, tidying them into a pile. Look busy. Look like Anto and she just met. The door opened, Rusya walked in. They both glanced up. Anto cracked a huge grin as he put his vodka down on the coffee table. Fuck, Esma thought as Anto stood and the men embraced. Anto genuinely loves this man. The conversation switched to Russian.
“It’s good to have you back, brother,” Rusya said. His regard for Anto was apparent in the warmth of his words, the tightness of his hug, the smile on his face. He released Anto and stepped back, glanced briefly at Esma and then the coffee table. “I see you’ve got a drink already.” He walked to the bar, poured himself a measure of vodka and turned back to Anto. “How was your trip?”
Anto smiled wider if that was possible. “Ah, Rusya, you should fall in love. It’s the best thing ever.”
Heat rushed to Esma’s face as Anto said this. Then she stood, papers in one hand, laptop cradled awkwardly against her chest. “I should go.”
Rusya’s eyes grazed her. “Have you met?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
Anto picked up the thread of the conversation. “Your translator. You’ve been busy while I’ve been gone. Looks like we have a lot to talk about.” No jokes, no humour.
Rusya nodded, turned to Esma. “Yes, go. Work in the library for now.”
Esma gritted her teeth at how dismissively he treated her. “Sure.” And then as she opened the door, she threw back a muttered, “Nice to meet you,” at Anto.
Chapter 16
Three weeks and Rusya was feeling like a bear. He didn’t approach Esma again and she behaved herself around him. Came and went, was personable, but distant. He’d scare her, didn’t give her the answers she was seeking and he regretted it all, which annoyed him because he so seldom had regrets. He didn’t know how to undo what he did. He’d helped himself to her in a way that she couldn’t say no to, then instead of fucking her, he went out and fucked a hooker. Then, last week, he’d put her in her place and she accepted it, the violence in the moment.
But now he couldn’t move forward with her.
He didn’t even know what that meant. All he knew was that each time he looked at her, he undressed her in his mind. Every time he brushed against her, he had to restrain himself from reaching out and pulling her to him. And he liked to hear her voice, the cadence, the light accent brushing her words. He liked her intelligence, the way she framed her thoughts. He liked the way she smelled and the conservative way she dressed. He liked that she never wore jewelry because he wanted to buy her something to wear. And he’d know it was his gift to her when she wore it. He’d make her wear it all the time.
He thought about going out again. Getting a girl, but it was pointless – it wouldn’t settle him, wouldn’t quell the desire. He didn’t want to fuck anyone else but Esma. And it wasn’t only the lust, that was apparent as he explored his thoughts. The lust was there though, he couldn’t deny it. She was beautiful, her body exquisite. And the passion. Even in her discomfort around him, the passion poured out of her like a newly tapped maple tree.
He needed to find a way to turn this around, to get them talking. To move this forward. The day was over and he considered asking her to join him for dinner. Not here though. Maybe dine out somewhere. The Massey Club or the Rosewood. It was Friday after all. If she drank, he could offer her some wine, he thought as he stood by the bar pouring himself a shot of vodka.
He was making a mess of this and he knew why. Esma was different than any other woman he’d ever met. She was not Irina by any means because Irina was part of a deal. An arranged marriage to strengthen their bratva holdings. She understood her role, held her tongue and did what was necessary. A bratva princess. It hurt when she died, yes. But he moved on from that.
Esma was unique. Charming, spirited, emotional. Scrappy as she was, he couldn’t see into the future without picturing her. He knew if she tried to leave, he’d stop her. But he didn’t know how to court a woman, had never done it. He knew how to take what he wanted. He’d considered talking to Anto, but his throat closed on him each time he thought to bring up the subject. It was not like him to share intimacies with anyone and Esma was an intimacy. Perhaps the biggest one he’d ever had.
Anto was a bull anyway. Marisol was good for him but couldn’t match him. He didn’t understand love and relationships any more than Rusya did. It was bullshit, love was. It was one endless game that men lost at because women were constantly changing the rules. He glanced at Esma, her head bent over a sheet of paper, tip of the pencil in her mouth. Completely absorbed in what she was doing.
“It’s Friday,” he said, his pulse increasing marginally. “We should knock off early.”
She looked up from her work. “I want to finish this before the weekend.” Her answer was guarded. She didn’t trust him. Why should she? He’d thrown her across the fucking room. Even so, she offered him a small, beautiful smile that spoke to his heart and fucked with his cock.
“What are you doing this weekend?”
She stilled, gazed at him like she was deciding how to answer. Carefully, “I have a date.”
That seared him. She had a fucking date? “You what?” He knew how he sounded. Incredulous, angry, jealous.
She reacted. Closing her file, standing up. Like she’d been waiting for the show-down, waiting for the trigger. “Yes, I have a date –”
“No.”
She swallowed her next words, caught off guard by his sudden objection. Then, in a rush to get her words out, “You don’t get to decide that. You’re my boss, my sauna buddy, but fuck you, if you think you’re going to tell me what I can or cannot do on my off hours!” She walked swiftly to the door, opened it and fled.
Rusya found himself suddenly alone and a little in shock that she swore at him again. That she walked out on him again. Furious that her way of solving a problem was to leave. Always having the last word, then making a dramatic exit. That was bullshit! He almost followed her, to her room, but he restrained himself. His anger was growing. He would los
e control again because she’d done this once too many times. He told her he’d beat her for it, and he might, in his state.
He squeezed his eyes shut and considered his options. He could lock her in the basement for the weekend. He had a couple cells down there that were rarely used so that was a possibility. He could go to her and ask her to reconsider her date, ask her to go out with him instead. Another option. Or he could leave it alone. He’d made his position clear, and while she got angry with him, he thought it would be worthwhile to see if she respected his wishes.
He decided on option three. Option one and two would completely change the course of their relationship. He needed to be more subtle, not strong arm her or try to seduce her. The strong arming he was good at, the seduction he would totally fuck up.
Chapter 17
Esma was nervous. What had she been thinking? A favour to Janice to have dinner with her cousin. Go on a date, get out of the house. Earlier in the day, she’d changed her mind and was about to tell Janice the date was off, but she’d encountered Rusya on her way to find Janice.
He stopped her in the hall. “You’re still going out tonight?” He was surprised, unhappy, hovering over her, too close.
Esma wasn’t sure whether it was a question or a statement. “Maybe,” she murmured, trying to settle him, trying to settle herself as she made a move to step around him.
He blocked her. “With who?”
Fuck. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and challenged him with her eyes. “Why? It’s personal, Mr. Savisin. I can have a personal life, can’t I?” She’d been calling him Mr. Savisin since the failed dinner. She was drawing the line in the sand, keeping her distance, making sure he understood that she was not offering herself to him. Not without strings. It was stupid she knew, but that’s how her heart felt. All or nothing.
Her words pissed him off. Everything about her seemed to piss him off. “With who, Esma?” His voice was cold, his eyes flashing his anger.