Hers to Tame

by Rhenna Morgan

  “Um, hate to tell you this, sugar plum, but I’m the woman who gave you detailed dos and don’ts before you ventured out to buy your first battery-operated boyfriend.”

  The pillows shuffled and Frieda’s Keds squeaked against the faux wood floors. While she didn’t make a grab for the portfolio, her aunt did pull out a chair, sit and prop her chin on her hand, clearly ready for all the details. “Now, tell me all about Mr. Hottie and why you felt compelled to keep him a secret.”

  Cassie let out a tired exhale and dropped into the chair next to Frieda. Beneath her palm the navy-blue leather cover was buttery soft and cool, a welcome relief to the heat creeping up her neck. “He was the one who gave me the leg up on all the stories that got me so much good feedback at the station.”

  “The ones on that mobster? What’s his name?”

  “Stephen Alfonsi. And yes, those.” Cassie opened the book, the pages easily falling open to where the pictures sat wedged against the spine. “If it hadn’t been for Kir, I’m not sure I’d have had such a good run. Or any run at all, for that matter.”

  “Kir?”

  Cassie plucked the photo off the top and held it between her fingers. The composition of the image was amateur at best, but with Kir as the primary focus, nothing else really mattered. Her aunt wasn’t wrong. The man wore a suit extremely well. Though, with him seated behind the iron and glass patio table, you couldn’t really appreciate how well it fit his six-foot-two frame. But what really captured the attention of pretty much any woman who met him were his features. Blond hair worn just long enough to show he’d inherited cherub-like curls from someone in his family line, a sharp aristocratic nose and an equally strong jawline. “Kir Vasilek.”

  “Mmm. You say his name the way I say Häagen-Dazs. Either you’ve got a doozy of a crush, or you had a taste and are eager for another.”

  Oh, she’d had a taste.

  Twice.

  Now here she was seven months later, and she still hadn’t shaken the impact he’d had on her.

  “He’s quite charming,” Cassie said. “Confident and educated. Very well connected. He gave me all the information I needed to start a steady roll of stories when Alfonsi disappeared.”

  Frieda snorted. “Girl, everyone knows Alfonsi’s dead. Disappeared is just the politically correct way of avoiding saying he finally pissed off the wrong person. And good riddance, if you ask me.” She motioned to the picture. “So, you took this when you met him?”

  The same slimy disgust she’d felt the day she’d taken the picture slithered down her spine. “No.” She tucked the picture back in place, closed the book and stood. At the rate she was going at work, she was either going to be out of a job, or working for some smarmy gossip rag. “Have you seen my phone anywhere?”

  “Whoa. You just changed the subject on me.”

  “I did not.” Cassie shifted the clothes on the couch and checked behind the cushions. “I just need to check the anchor schedule for next week.”

  “Bullshit. You were looking at that man like he was the cat’s meow.”

  “No one says the cat’s meow anymore.”

  “I do. And when I look at a man like that, I keep him.”

  Under normal circumstances, she’d agree with her aunt. But Kir wasn’t just any man. Rumor had it he was the right-hand man for another up-and-coming mob boss in New Orleans. A fact she hadn’t known until after she’d had her second toe-curling tussle with him. “Kir’s not the kind of guy you want to have a relationship with.”

  “Why? Did you sleep with him?”

  Cassie ignored her aunt and checked behind the pictures.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Frieda stood and ambled to the kitchen counter. “I’ll take the lack of answer as a confirmation. So, does he suck in bed?”

  No-no-no-no-no-no. No thinking of Kir in bed.

  But it was too late. The same pleasant swirl she’d felt that first night he’d sauntered up to her at Bacchanal Wine and aimed that devastating grin at her took root low in her belly. If she dared to think about the way his body had felt against hers—how his low and graded voice had sounded in her ear, thick with a Russian accent and muttering all number of deliciously naughty things he wanted to do with her—she’d be daydreaming and sleeping restlessly for weeks. “I could have sworn I brought it in here. Maybe I left it in the car.”

  “...and he’s stellar in bed. Good to know!” Frieda lifted Cassie’s purse from the white Formica countertop. “It’s right here.”

  Thank God. Sweet diversion.

  Cassie marched the handful of steps to her purse and rooted around the massive hobo bag for her phone.

  Of course, Frieda showed no mercy. When it came to seizing life by the balls (as she put it), the woman was a veritable hound. “If you’re out taking pictures of him, you’re clearly interested. Why not just go up and start talking to him?”

  “I wasn’t taking pictures of him because I want to sleep with him. I was tailing him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all of my leads have dried up and I need a story!” The admission burst forth a whole lot more forcefully than she’d intended. What was worse was the guilt she’d somehow stuffed for the last month crowding around her like a malevolent ether out to choke the life force from her.

  Frieda studied her for long seconds, concern and caution etched across her face. “I’m confused.”

  All the fight, worry and conflicted emotions she’d wrestled since late last year bled out of Cassie at once, leaving her deflated to the point she was lucky there was a chair right behind her. She sat and stared up at her aunt. “Me, too.”

  “Okay, so break it down for me. Tiny bite-sized chunks.”

  Right. Tiny bite-sized chunks. The same way she pieced together her stories until the message came together and made sense.

  “We met at Bacchanal last year. He was charming and hot and seemed like a really good guy. We slept together and it was exceptional. We’re talking Oh my God, this is what I’ve been missing my whole life exceptional. When he called me to go out on a real date, I was giddy. Euphoric. And the time with him in and out of bed was everything right out of an insta-love story. But that’s when he gave me the leads on Alfonsi. He called me after to go out for a third date, but I never returned his calls.”

  “Why? By all accounts he’s amazing and those stories got you a raise at the station, right? That sounds like a damned fine reason to go for date number three and then some.”

  “It’s a bad idea because while he might be smart, witty, gorgeous and stellar in bed, the guys at work say he’s also a mobster.”

  Frieda’s eyes got wide and the comprehension in them likely mirrored the same shock in Cassie’s own eyes when she’d figured out who Kir worked for. “Oh.”

  “Yes. Oh.”

  “He’s like Alfonsi?”

  “No. Alfonsi was the boss of his organization. Kir works directly for the boss of his family. A guy called Sergei Petrovyh.”

  “And this Sergei guy is a jerk like Alfonsi, but Kir is a good guy?”

  Such a straightforward, simple question. But for all the digging she’d done in recent months, she couldn’t corroborate the information she’d been given. “The truth is, I don’t know. Rumor has it Kir and Sergei moved here with another friend of theirs about a year and a half ago and that they’ve got deep Russian mafiya roots, but I can’t find one shred of evidence that ties them to organized crime. Honestly, I can’t even find a source that will say a single bad thing about either of them. I can’t tell if Sergei’s just got them too scared to talk, or the rumors are all wrong.”

  “And you know this because you’ve been working on a story about them?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was working on a story.”

  “Well, what would you call it?”

  “I don’t know. Considering a story? Maybe?”

&
nbsp; Aunt Frieda stared down at her, an eyebrow cocked high and one side of her mouth screwed up in a rare show of consternation. No doubt, that agile mind of hers was going warp speed and closing in on the very thing that had stuck in Cassie’s craw for months. “So, basically, you thought this guy had the potential to be the one, but he’s got a mobster label on him, so you cut him off.”

  “Right.”

  “Now, half a year later, your boss is nagging you to pick up the pace on some new stories, so you’ve started digging hoping you’ll find some juicy story, but you can’t. You feel like shit because you actually thought about crossing this Kir fella when he not only helped you out, but is still ringing your bell.”

  Cassie slunk a little deeper in her chair, hung her head and fiddled with her phone. “The whole scenario didn’t sound that bad when it was stalking around in my head.”

  “It never does. And the truth is, you might have been smart to dodge this guy. Just because you haven’t proven the rumors, doesn’t mean they aren’t true. Nothing wrong with being cautious.” Frieda’s voice softened and she stepped a little closer. “But I’ve never known you to be the type to undercut someone who helped you out.”

  Engaging her phone, Cassie thumbed up her email account. “Easy for you to say. My editor hits me up nearly every day for what I’m working on next. If I don’t come up with something soon, they might give my weekend anchor slot to someone else. It took me two years to nail that seat.”

  Her emails filtered in one after the other, the last of which was a message from her editor, Ed.

  While her aunt’s voice rolled in the background, the content of what Frieda said didn’t register. In fact, the only thing that registered was next week’s weeknight schedule beaming back at her and the volcano-size eruption bubbling up from her belly.

  “Fuck!” Cassie tossed the phone to the table, shot to her feet and started pacing.

  Frieda planted her hands on her hips. “Now what?”

  “One of the main anchors is out on Tuesday.” Cassie spun, started a trek back toward the table and flicked her hand toward her phone. “They gave the fill-in to Lizbet.”

  “So? You’re on vacation. Last time I checked, that precludes you getting called into work unless it’s some kind of massive crisis. And besides—I’ve seen that girl’s work. She’s got nothing on you. You’ll get back to work and things will go back to normal.”

  Before Cassie could turn for a fresh loop, Frieda snagged her by the arm and whirled Cassie so she was face-to-face with her aunt. She grabbed Cassie by both shoulders. “Baby girl, you’ve got to stop this. You can say it’s your editor pushing you all you want, but we both know that’s not the case. You have nothing to prove. You’re doing a job you’re good at even if it isn’t the one you really want. One you have an uncanny knack for. Don’t ruin it chasing your parents’ approval.”

  “It’s not about approval. It’s about being a grown-up.”

  “Really? Because the Cassie I know and love wouldn’t undercut someone to get ahead no matter how good the story might be. When it’s time for you to find a story, you’ll find it. But if you keep chasing and trying to force things to happen, one of these days you’re going to end up with more regret than you can stomach.”

  A two-by-four to the gut couldn’t have had more impact. And the truth that rang in the wake of her aunt’s comment was as loud and resonant as a giant gong.

  You already have regret.

  A lot of it.

  She’d known the second she’d conducted her first interview about Sergei that she’d knee jerked by avoiding Kir when she should have simply asked him questions directly. Knew that, while living with her aunt at the ripe age of twenty-five might make Cassie a financial hanger-on, moving out had left Frieda alone when all she wanted was love and company.

  On the table, the leather portfolio sat slightly askew, the tip of Kir’s picture poking out of the top.

  Cassie slid back into her chair and opened the book. In the picture, Kir’s face was just slightly in profile, his attention and laughter aimed at a giant of a man just out of view. This she’d learned was his partner in whatever it was they did, Roman Sokolov.

  Yes, there were times when she’d been with Kir that he’d been demanding. Commandeering, the way a mobster might be. But for the most part, she just remembered how comfortable it had been to be with him. How engaging he’d been. How attentive and focused.

  Especially when things had gotten physical.

  She ran her finger along the edge of the picture. “What would you do?”

  Easing into the chair beside her, Aunt Frieda leaned in for a better look at the image. Her voice was full of tenderness and sympathy. “I don’t know, kiddo. But what I do know is that life is short.” She covered Cassie’s hand with her own and waited until Cassie met her gaze. “Maybe it’s time you stopped worrying about what everyone else thinks and whether or not they approve of your life, and just slow down and enjoy the life you have.”

  Chapter Two

  If anyone would have told Kir three years ago that he’d be celebrating his thirty-sixth birthday in the United States complete with a homemade cake and a family of his own, he’d have either laughed or punched them. But here he was—joined not just by the two men he trusted most, but by his pakhan’s wife, Evette, and the son Sergei had claimed as his own.

  Happy Birthday, Uncle Kir!

  The message Emerson had written in bright blue icing against white frosting was only marginally legible and smeared in places, but for the life of him, Kir couldn’t remember receiving a gift that meant so much. Hell, now that he thought about it, it was the only cake he’d ever been given. Which was rather sad for a man his age.

  All around him, the customers crowded into Bacchanal’s patio chattered and laughed while the lively notes from the Zydeco band playing inside the restaurant filtered out into the pleasant night. Even the little white lights strung overhead seemed a little brighter than on his normal visits. As if Evette, Emerson, Sergei and Roman had conspired to make them a part of the celebration as well.

  Beside him, Emerson shifted from one foot to the other and stared up at him, his dark blond hair long enough it slightly shadowed his keen eyes. “Do we have to sing the birthday song first? Or can we eat it now? Olga wouldn’t let me steal a bite before we frosted it.”

  “Boy, don’t go telling fibs to your uncle Kir on his birthday.” Seated next to her husband of almost six months, Evette was the epitome of casual class—short dark hair cut in an artfully messy style, sharp hazel eyes that always seemed to hold a wealth of laughter and a spunky grace that fit her petite stature. She shot Kir a conspiratorial wink then propped her chin on her hand and eyeballed her son. “You and I both know I had to make a second pass at the icing before we left tonight to cover up a suspicious hole on the backside of the cake.”

  Most kids might have balked or tried to talk their way out of it, but Emerson was nothing like other kids. More of a grown-up with a razor-sharp wit trapped in a rapidly growing body. He grinned right back at his mother and lifted his chin. “You can’t call that a bite. That was just a taste of the icing with a few extra crumbs along for the ride.”

  Kir barked out a laugh along with everyone else, but directed his words to Sergei. “He’s a clever one, moy brat.” He shifted his attention to Emerson and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I should make you suffer and force you to wait through the song.”

  “But you won’t,” Emerson said. “You like good food and good music too much to sit through all of us singing off key, and everyone knows Olga’s cakes are the bomb.”

  Roman’s low chuckle sounded on Kir’s opposite side. While his friend of many years was never long on words, his voice was menacingly deep and the growl as intimidating as his size. “He has you there.”

  “Indeed,” Sergei said, the pride behind his dark eyes as he gazed upon Emerso
n unmistakable—even to a man who’d never known the pleasure of receiving such a look.

  “Well, then. It seems we’re all in agreement.” Kir stuffed the depressing reminder of his youth back down to the bowels of his memory, grabbed his Stoli Elit and raised it in salute. “Let us cut the cake and eat.”

  He’d expected something simple—either a vanilla or chocolate center. He should have known Sergei’s cook—imported directly from Mother Russia when they’d relocated to the States—would do the unexpected and bake something indescribable.

  “That’s good,” Roman grunted after shoveling in his second bite. “What’s in it? Tastes like almond.”

  Evette licked a dab of icing off her lip and nodded. “Almond cake, gold cake and devil’s food all mixed together, plus raspberry jelly and rum.”

  “She’s a genius,” Emerson said with a mouthful, earning him a sharp look from his mother. He dutifully swallowed before he kept going. “You should open a bakery, Dad. We’d make a fortune with Olga’s cooking.”

  “Nyet,” Sergei said between bites. “If she cooks for everyone else, she cannot cook for us.”

  The wide eyes that came with Emerson’s quick comprehension were comical. “Oh. Right.” He forked up another bite and shook his head. “Bad idea.”

  For only five people, they put a significant dent in the cake in no time, the sheer gluttony of the night and the sugar rush from their dessert slowing the conversation considerably. Even Emerson, who usually seemed tireless, was a little heavy-lidded by the time everyone pushed their plates away.

  Evette noted her boy’s fatigue and leaned in to Sergei, whispering something in his ear.

  Sergei nodded, stood and motioned for Emerson to do the same. “Come. It’s time to get you and your mother home.”

  Kir and Roman got to their feet as well.

  “But it’s Uncle Kir’s birthday! The guys said we’re doing more birthday stuff after dinner.”

  “No, they’re doing birthday stuff later.” Evette scooted her chair under the glass-topped table and laid her napkin beside her empty plate. “The places they’re going don’t let eight-year-olds join the fun. You’ll have to stay home and keep your momma company.”