Half Empty

by Catherine Bybee

  Trina ducked out from under his arm and into the pouring rain.

  Only then did Dante’s grin fall.

  “I’m not married, asshole!” she said in English. And because it sounded even harsher in Russian, she tossed that language at him, too.

  “My condolences to your wife,” she yelled before running to the closest exit from the square.

  He didn’t chase. Then again, he wouldn’t have to, since he knew where her hotel was.

  For twenty minutes, she zigzagged through the never-ending maze of streets until she found a familiar path.

  She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and cussed all the way back to the hotel.

  Chapter Three

  She lugged her overstuffed suitcase down two flights of stairs since the small hotel didn’t have an elevator.

  “Mrs. Petrov . . . you’re leaving us?”

  “I am. I’m going to need a water taxi to the airport.”

  “You’re booked through the end of the week.”

  She eyed the door. “Change of plans,” she said in English before switching to Italian.

  The older man typed a few things into his computer before pulling up an invoice for her to sign. When she did, she once again caught Fedor’s ring out of the corner of her eye.

  This is ridiculous.

  “Shall I call for a taxi now?”

  Her gaze fell on her suitcase, then the ring.

  She held up a hand. “Hold off. I need to do something first.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Watch my suitcase. I’ll be back.”

  She didn’t run, but it was one of the fastest determined walks she’d done since her days as a flight attendant when she was late for work.

  Luciano’s was only an hour into their day, and only one table was occupied.

  “You’re early today,” Luciano greeted her, a kiss to each cheek.

  “I’m not staying.”

  Luciano looked disappointed.

  “I’m actually on my way home.”

  “You’re leaving Venezia?”

  “I am.”

  He kissed her cheek again. “It saddens my heart, even though I knew your time here wouldn’t last forever.”

  “Thank you, Luciano. You’ve been one of the best parts about my visit.”

  “Will you return?”

  “I’m sure I will. This will be one of the first places I find when I do.” Trina looked over his shoulder. “Is Marco here?”

  “Of course.”

  Luciano yelled out his son’s name, and the younger man stepped out from the back of the restaurant, placing a long apron around his waist.

  “Ms. Trina is leaving us,” Luciano announced.

  “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “We will miss you,” Marco said.

  Trina hugged Luciano first, and then turned to his son.

  After she hugged the younger man, she pulled away and captured his hands in hers. “Follow the dream, Marco . . . and the money will come. If you love her, don’t let her go.”

  He smiled.

  She patted his hands, knew he felt that she’d slipped something in his, and squeezed.

  “Ciao,” she said to both of them as she left the restaurant nearly as quickly as she’d run in.

  Behind her, they called her name.

  Trina started to run.

  An hour later, as she sat in the airport lounge, she looked at her naked hand and released a long-suffering breath.

  I’m at the airport. Trina texted Avery instead of calling.

  It had taken two hours, but she’d managed to grab a standby seat en route to Paris. As Trina had planned, a storm was descending upon that part of France, and the chances of planes being grounded were actually quite high.

  Having been a flight attendant for most of her young adult life, she knew which regions to avoid to minimize nasty weather and delays. Now she used that knowledge to do the exact opposite. London was known to have fog all times of the year, but summer storms were a much more likely issue in the southern regions.

  If the rain over France didn’t delay her, she’d find her way to Florida, where a tropical depression would. No matter how you spun the wheel, she’d end up arriving in Texas after the weekend she was supposed to see her friends. She didn’t want to face them.

  More importantly, she wanted to trudge through the anniversary of Fedor’s death by herself.

  Their marriage had been on paper, something the First Wives would remind her of. But for some reason, Trina had grown to care for her late husband more since his passing than she had during their marriage. She’d stepped into his world as a hired bride. She was supposed to end their marriage after a year and a half and leave with five million dollars.

  Only Fedor had eliminated the need for a divorce with the use of a gun.

  His suicide had been in the papers for weeks.

  Then, when his mother died of incurable cancer, the reason he’d wanted to marry in the first place, the papers had blown up.

  Alice left her entire fortune to Trina, along with one-third say in the oil company she co-owned with her sisters, Diane and Andrea.

  When all was said and done, Trina became one of the wealthiest women in the world, with well over $350 million in assets.

  The fact that she was sitting between an overweight man and a teenage kid who smelled as if he’d been living in a hostel during his backpacking experience in Europe was quite ironic.

  Avery would no doubt call her out on not chartering a private plane to reach her destination on time and in style.

  Private jets were smaller and didn’t risk bad weather conditions like the larger commercial airlines did. Maybe she should consider chartering after all, she mused.

  I tried, I did . . . but the only thing available was a small Lear, and they refused to fly.

  Yup . . . the line would work and wouldn’t be a lie.

  She’d even lose ten or twenty thousand on the booking just to stay away a few more days.

  Trina spent two nights in Paris before the storm blew past and she inched her way toward Florida.

  There again, she booked a hotel and glanced at flights without trying hard to find something to get her to her Texas ranch.

  Her phone lit up as soon as she landed in Miami.

  “Where the hell are you?” Avery was ticked.

  “Miami. In baggage claim.” Trina watched the conveyer belt that unloaded luggage down two chutes at a painfully slow rate.

  “Are you connecting in Miami?”

  Trina was more than a little irritated that the call wasn’t losing its connection. “I tried booking, but there weren’t any flights. I’m going to find a private charter.”

  “You know, if you’d actually planned on coming home for our club meeting, you wouldn’t be scrambling.”

  She switched the phone to her other ear after catching sight of her bag sliding down the chute.

  “I was on an open-ended vacation. I’m allowed to forget. Are you in Texas?”

  “I am. Lori and Shannon will be here late tomorrow night.”

  “Great. I should be right on their heels.”

  Avery was silent.

  “Are you still there?” Trina reached for her bag, holding the phone to her ear with her shoulder.

  Once she managed to grasp the handle of her suitcase, her purse slid off her shoulder, and her phone took a nosedive to the cement floor.

  “Shoot.” She fumbled while tossing her bag over the side of the metal conveyor belt, nearly taking out the woman on her left. Trina bent down to retrieve her phone and cussed.

  The image of a call in progress was distorted by the cracks that now spiderwebbed all over her screen. Trina put it back to her ear right as Avery called her a name.

  “I dropped my phone.”

  The woman Trina had nearly taken out now pushed around Trina to grab her luggage. Trina shuffled to the side, once again attempting to multitask.

  “What are you doing?”
<
br />   “I told you I’m in baggage claim.”

  “You sound like a hot mess.”

  “I am a hot mess. And now my phone is toast.”

  “Okay, okay . . . call me when you have a plane booked so I can pick you up from the airport.”

  With an irritated grunt, Trina turned the phone off completely and shoved it in her purse.

  The humidity of Miami slapped her once she breached the doors. She scanned men in dark suits holding signs with last names, looking for hers.

  Petrov stood out like a beacon.

  “I’m Trina,” she told the driver she’d ordered with her service.

  He was short, dark . . . and spoke with a thick Cuban accent. “Mrs. Petrov.”

  “Trina’s fine, thank you.” No more Mrs. Anything, thank you very much.

  With a nod, he took the handle of her rolling bag and led their way out of the airport.

  “What do you mean my room isn’t available?” Trina stood at the check-in counter and stared at the registration clerk.

  “There was a mix-up. Our guest that is staying on the penthouse floor has the suites for tonight.”

  “One guest has the whole floor?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Must have a big family.” Which ultimately meant noise.

  “We do have a junior suite available a few floors down.”

  Trina glanced around the crowded lobby. She normally didn’t book a massive suite for just herself, but she thought the quiet of an executive floor would give her what she needed to work off some of the jet lag that was already setting in. Since money wasn’t an object . . . why not?

  “If that’s all you have.”

  The clerk smiled and went through the motions of processing her credit card and activating a key.

  “We are truly sorry for the inconvenience. We’ll be giving you the junior suite for a regular room price for your trouble.”

  “It’s not an issue.”

  Once settled in her room, Trina kicked off her shoes, washed the miles off her skin with a shower, and fell face-first on the bed. Thirty minutes into what was meant to be a four-hour nap in an effort to get back to a normal sleeping pattern, an infant in the next room howled.

  And jet lag officially started kicking her butt.

  Wade Thomas kicked his boots up on the coffee table while his personal assistant, Ike, put on Wade’s hat. It wasn’t really Wade’s, but it was one exactly like it, which they used when they split up at the end of a tour.

  “A few more hours at that gym of yours and you’ll really be able to be my double.”

  Ike turned to the mirror and lowered the brim of the Stetson to hide his eyes. “No amount of bulk can hide the fact you’re prettier than me.”

  Wade chuckled. “You mean you’re uglier.”

  “Women like rugged.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  Ike turned back around and stood taller. “Well?”

  “Looks about right to me. Jeb, what do you think?” Wade asked his personal bodyguard, standing at the door.

  “I won’t let anyone close enough to tell the difference.”

  Folding his hands behind his head, Wade made himself comfortable.

  “Enjoy the flight home, boys.”

  “You have the charter booked for tomorrow night. You sure you don’t want me to have the hotel car take you to the airport?”

  “Plain yellow taxi is less conspicuous.”

  Ike didn’t look convinced.

  “Hey, it worked last time.” And the time before that, and the time before that. Wade’s idea of having his assistant dress like him, and having the posse escort Ike out the front doors of hotels so that Wade could catch some peace, had been a welcome change. Eventually his mob of fans would catch on. But in a metropolitan city like Miami, he was less likely to be discovered.

  Both men looked him up and down, as if they were forgetting something.

  “Go.” Wade made a shooing motion with his hands.

  Once he had the penthouse to himself, he studied the street below from his perch. It took a bit of time, but eventually a stretch limousine pulled away from the covered turnaround, while several cars followed it in a rush.

  His cell phone rang.

  “Looks like we’ve drawn their attention.”

  Wade felt a fifty-pound weight lift from his shoulders. “Text me when you’re on the plane.”

  “Will do.”

  Alone at last. Seemed he wanted that more and more in the past couple of years, and it wasn’t easy to get. He’d turned in his privacy for fame. Something he knew came with the bill, but he had yet to get used to it.

  Now he was headed for some much-needed time off. He had the occasional gig here and there, but his official tour was over, and would be until he had another album out. That would take well over a year.

  Wade kicked off his boots and stretched out on the king-size bed. He didn’t bother closing doors or turning off phones. He’d hibernate in the room until he received the all clear from Ike.

  Until then . . . sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Trina jumped out of bed as if the hounds of hell were pulling her into the blazing depths of molten heat.

  It was solid dark, with only the ambient light from the digital clock casting a dim light in the room.

  The time flashed eleven thirty.

  “Oh, no.”

  She flopped on the bed, knowing she’d overslept her limit and was now going to drag through jet lag for days.

  The crying in the next room had kept her from sleeping when she wanted to, until she simply crashed. Obviously the baby was up, since the whining was permeating the walls once again. You would think a hotel that cost as much as this one did would have soundproof walls.

  She rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom. One look in the mirror and she cringed. What she really wanted was a shower, but that would prepare her circadian clock to be up for a full day instead of a few hours and probably mess her up for a week. Trina settled on a washcloth to her face and a brush through her hair.

  Once finished in the bathroom, she found the room service menu right as the baby let out the loudest scream to date. Instead of fighting the inevitable, Trina threw on a pair of jeans and a tank top, grabbed her purse, and headed down to the hotel bar.

  The dim lighting of the glass-and-mirror decor made it easy for her eyes to adjust as she slid behind a stool and picked up the bar menu.

  The bartender, a man somewhere in his midforties, slid a cocktail napkin in front of her and smiled. “Good evening.”

  “Hello,” she greeted him.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Cabernet.”

  He nodded. “The kitchen closes in ten minutes.”

  Her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten?

  “I’ll take the sliders.”

  He started to turn away.

  “And fries.”

  He took a step.

  “And wings.”

  He looked her up and down. “Hollow leg?”

  She dropped the menu. “Jet lag.”

  He hesitated. “Anything else?”

  “I should probably have a vegetable.”

  “Side salad it is.”

  That sounded perfect. “With ranch.”

  He waved and walked away.

  While she waited for dinner, Trina sipped her wine and thumbed through the many messages left on her phone from Avery.

  Not that she could read them very clearly, since her screen was cracked all to hell. It was surprising the thing still worked.

  Her salad arrived at the same time a tall man slid into a seat two bar stools away. She vaguely heard him order a beer before she dug into her first course.

  Her stomach happily accepted the food and she hummed with approval.

  “Well, hello,” the man to her left said in her direction.

  With a full mouth, Trina glanced up, fork in hand, and met his blue eyes. He
had sandy blond hair, a face meant to make women melt, and a sly, mischievous smile.

  Trina slowly started to chew.

  She’d seen that grin before.

  From a certain married Italian.

  Another forkful of lettuce and dressing made it to her mouth. “Not interested,” she said around her fork. Maybe if she floored the man with bad manners, he’d look the other way.

  His laugh sat low in his chest.

  When she looked again, he smiled with dimples that reached the corners of his eyes.

  “That’s a first.” There was a southern drawl to his words.

  She kept chewing as the bartender handed him his beer. Trina took note of his clothing. A T-shirt was hidden beneath a light jacket, blue jeans . . . and boots. If she had to guess, she’d say he left his hat in his room.

  “He’s a fool,” the stranger said without a prompt.

  Trina wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Excuse me?”

  “The man who put the chill in your tone. He’s a fool.”

  His observation collided with a compliment. “Most men are,” she decided to say.

  He winced. “Ouch.”

  She’d been raised better than that. “Sorry,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t continue his path. “Bad timing.”

  He seemed satisfied with her apology. “I understand.” He turned in his seat, leaned against the bar.

  Before he could say anything more, the bartender brought her a parade of food. Once it was all sitting in front of her, it filled the empty space between her and her unwanted admirer.

  “Now this I have to see,” he said.

  “Me too,” the bartender added.

  She popped a fry into her mouth and looked to find both men staring.

  “Enjoy.” The barkeep walked away.

  “I’ll take an order of those burgers our friend here is eating,” the stranger announced.

  “Sorry, the kitchen just closed.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Midnight.”

  Mr. Country, minus the pearl-snapped shirt, groaned.

  “The room service menu has some premade sandwich wraps.”

  “That sounds about as appetizing as a long walk in cold rain.”

  Trina bit into her tiny burger and closed her eyes as the hot meal hit all the right spots.