by Megan Hart
“It’s not at all inevitable, Theresa. And it’ll make me feel better.” He sipped from the glass with a grimace and set it down before leaning back in the chair to link his fingers behind his head. His grin was hard and didn’t soften his expression at all.
Theresa drew in a slow, calming breath. “They’re not going to offer you more money or any kind of guarantees beyond what they already have. You’re coming across as greedy.”
“Oh,” Ilya said with a purposeful leer, “I’m very greedy.”
Theresa pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. This wasn’t funny, and though it was easy to see exactly how her former stepbrother had earned his reputation for being an alluring rogue, she wasn’t going to succumb. He could treat her the same way he treated every other woman in his life, but that didn’t mean she was like any of them.
She leaned forward. “You’re going to screw yourself over. That’s all that’s going to happen. They’re going to build that hotel and those condos up all around you and not put one cent toward developing the dive shop or diving area, and, in fact, they will do their very best to make sure that you can’t do anything, either. Your business,” she said, “is going to wither and die and leave you with nothing.”
Ilya’s brows rose, and that tilting smile vanished. “Damn, that’s harsh. Why you gotta be so cold, Theresa? What do you have wrapped up in all of this, anyway?”
That was a good question. She had put her reputation on the line to get this deal together, gambling on all the pieces falling into place just right so that maybe she could come up for air instead of drowning in years of debt. She’d first convinced her former boyfriend Wayne Diamond to sign off on the offer to buy the dive shop and quarry Ilya and his ex-wife, Alicia, had owned together by telling Wayne the owners were eager to sell. Then, offer in hand, she’d encouraged Alicia to sell her 60 percent. Ilya was the only one she hadn’t been able to convince, and she was running out of both ideas and time.
“I mean, why do you care,” Ilya asked when she didn’t answer, “if my business crashes and burns or I end up in the hole, or what? What’s it to you, really?”
“Why wouldn’t I care? It’s not like we’re total strangers. You act like I should just sit back and watch you screw yourself out of what could be something really good for you.” The words slipped out of her, almost so low she couldn’t be sure he’d be able to hear her over the ambient noise in the bar, even with her leaning closer.
Ilya frowned and leaned across the table. “You don’t owe me anything, you know. If anything, my family’s the one that owes you. My mother’s the one who kicked out you and your dad without more than a few hours’ notice, then erased you from our lives like you’d never been a part of them.”
She couldn’t say anything about that; it was true, even if Ilya didn’t quite understand the entirety of what had happened back then. The truth was Theresa didn’t, either. She’d given up trying a long time ago, even if some small part of her had always remained tied to the Sterns and that time when she’d been part of their family. In fact, that winding thread of incestuous entanglement was exactly why she wasn’t just laying out to him why, exactly, she was so desperate to make this deal happen. Whether she liked it or not—and she definitely didn’t—her connection with Ilya’s family had in many ways directly led to the mess she was in right now.
“Of course,” he said, with one of those grins that had laid waste to women for years, “considering what a pain in the ass my mother is, maybe you guys got out lucky.”
Lucky was far from what Theresa would’ve considered herself, but she shrugged, dipping her chin in response. They shared a look, longer than necessary. His gaze held hers, dropping for a second or so to her mouth before his lips thinned and he looked away. Ilya sat back, raising his glass and draining it before slamming it on the table.
“You’re buying, aren’t you?” He waved over the waitress for another. “One for me. Not for her. She doesn’t drink. Right?”
Theresa rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
Ilya shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Theresa gathered the papers she’d spread out in front of them both shortly after arriving, before Ilya had waved them away and told her flat out he wanted more money and written promises regarding the plans for Go Deep and the quarry property. She put them neatly into the folder she’d brought along, then closed it and slid it across the table toward him. He gave her a look.
“I’ll take the requests to them,” she said. “But you should realize this isn’t a negotiation. They’ve settled with Alicia for her majority share, and they’re going to move ahead with the project, no matter what.”
“Screw them,” Ilya said evenly. “And you know what? You, too.”
That was it; she was done.
Theresa got out a pair of twenties—all the cash she had in her wallet. All the cash she’d have for the next couple of weeks until her commission check from the first part of the sale cleared. She tossed the money on the table and stood. She didn’t bother saying good-bye. Her heart was pounding, her throat closing, her eyes burning. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was give him the benefit of seeing her upset—and how familiar did that feel? Years had passed, and the difference now was that instead of Ilya teasing her about the posters on her wall or stealing the last slice of pizza, holding it above her head so she couldn’t reach it, he was actively pushing the point of something sharp into her soft places in order to get a reaction out of her.
Outside in the parking lot she gave herself a few seconds to breathe in the night air, fresh with the promise of spring. At her car, she opened the trunk to sort through a few of her bags, looking for her pajama pants. At the sound of a male voice behind her, she jumped, hitting her head on the edge of the trunk and letting out a cry.
Blinking against the pain stars blooming in her vision, she whirled. Pepper spray, dammit, where was . . . oh. “You scared the hell out of me!”
Ilya had backed off a step, hands held up. “Sorry. Shit, Theresa, ease up.”
She took in a breath and put a hand on her head, rubbing away the sting. “What do you want?”
“I was hoping you’d give me a ride home.”
“After what you said to me?” She laughed harshly. “You must be drunk.”
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t need a ride. And I’m sorry,” Ilya said in the tone of a man for whom apologies had always worked in the past. “I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean it, really. I know you’re just doing your job.”
She hesitated, wishing she could tell him to screw off. There weren’t any ready cabs in this rural town. None of those phone-app car services. There was no way he’d be able to walk home, and that meant risking he’d decide to drive himself if she refused. She didn’t want that on her conscience.
“I know it’s out of your way,” Ilya said while she was weighing her answer. He shuffled his feet in the gravel and had the grace to look at least a little bit embarrassed, that earlier put-on charm dissipating. “I’d owe you. Not enough to agree to that deal. But I’d owe you.”
Theresa sighed. “Fine. Get in.”
She realized too late that the passenger-side seat sported her cosmetics case, pillow, blanket, and—oh . . . there were her pajama pants. She bent across the center console to start moving things into the backseat so he could get in. Ilya helped, then slid onto the seat.
“What’s up with all this stuff? Your landlord still fixing the ducts or whatever he was doing before?”
She’d forgotten she’d told him that lie a few weeks ago when she’d been staying at his house after Babulya’s funeral. She shrugged, not looking at him. “I’ve been on the road for a while. For work.”
When he snapped on the radio, she didn’t say anything. It was better than trying to make conversation. She sensed him looking at her but kept her eyes on the road.
“Was your hair always that curly?” Ilya asked.
Theresa’s brows knit. “Huh?”
“Your hair.” Incredibly, he reached to touch it. “It’s so curly. And soft.”
She burst into laughter, shivering at the touch of his fingers and pulling away as best she could while keeping the car on the road. “You’re drunk.”
“It looks good,” Ilya said. “I like it.”
She frowned at that. “Okay, well, thanks. I’m glad to know that my personal appearance is up to your presumably high standards.”
Ilya laughed, low. “Salty.”
She didn’t answer that. She’d decided sometime ago that she was finished owing men her smile or her good humor or anything else. His stare still burned into her, but she ignored him. They drove in silence for the next few minutes until she made the last turn onto Quarry Street.
“Still wigs me out sometimes,” Ilya said as they pulled into the driveway. “All the houses.”
Theresa peered through the windshield, turning on the wipers to swipe at the faint drizzle that had misted the glass. Before Babulya’s death, Theresa hadn’t been back to Quarry Street for decades, and the changes had been extreme. It made it easier for her, a little. Reminded her she wasn’t coming back to the past; she was only visiting. “Things changed, for sure. That’s what they do.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what they do.”
CHAPTER TWO
By the time they pulled up in front of his house, the whiskey had settled in his gut with a low, roiling reminder that he meant to quit drinking any day now. Ilya didn’t feel drunk, but that was part of the problem. He hardly ever did, not until he got out of the car and the ground tilted under his feet so that he had to grab the door to keep from tripping.
Ilya turned his face to the sky for a moment, letting the late-night rain tickle his closed eyelids. He opened his mouth, tasting it. So maybe he’d die from the poisons in the water, whatever. Something else could kill him first, and worse than that.
“Life,” he said aloud like an answer to a question Theresa hadn’t asked. “Life’s what kills us.”
“Oh my God.” She sighed, and he looked at her. She’d gotten out of the car and was leaning on the roof. Her hair—that cloud of soft, dark, curly hair—was getting wet. She pointed at him. “You need some help getting inside?”
“No, nope. I’m good.” He closed the car door. From across the street, a faint movement in the window of the Guttridge house tempted him to drop trou and send a full moon Dina’s way. If she was watching, she deserved it.
Theresa came around the car and took him by the elbow. “C’mon.”
“Sure, sure, let’s go prove to my mother what a disappointment I am, okay?” He didn’t try to fight off her grip, even when she steered him around the small lip on the front walk that would surely have reached out to trip him if he’d been trying to walk on his own. “Again.”
“Again,” Theresa agreed.
Ilya stopped and turned to look at her. “I was being sarcastic. Self . . . self-defecating.”
“Oh, that’s exactly what you are.” Theresa’s brows rose, and she shook her head as she tugged his arm. “All over the place. C’mon. Inside. It’s wet and chilly out here.”
In front of them, the house with its dark windows was an unneeded and despised reminder that nobody was waiting up for him.
“She didn’t even leave the lights on for me!”
Theresa huffed something under her breath and led him to the front door, where she waited for him to fumble in his pocket for the keys that insisted on hiding from him. Rain slipped down the back of his neck beneath his collar, trickling down the line of his spine and making him shiver. She must’ve been impatient, because with another of those sighs, she pushed his hand aside and dug deep into his jeans to pull out the keys.
“Is that a key in my pocket, or am I just happy to see you?” It was a stupid joke, but he laughed at it.
Theresa looked at him for a second or so with her hand against him. The only barrier between her fingers and a few of his intimate parts was the pocket’s thin inner fabric. Then her fingers curled around the metal and dragged out his keys fast and hard enough to scrape him through the material. Ilya winced and yelped, but Theresa ignored him.
She opened the door and guided him inside, then hung the keys on the hook by the front door. “There. Now you won’t lose them.”
“I never put them there,” Ilya said with a gesture at the hook.
“If you put them on the hook,” she said calmly, “you won’t have to hunt for them in the morning.”
Then there was silence, unbroken except for the rhythmic plink, plink of water dripping off them both and onto the floor. A little unsteadily, Ilya reached for the newel post and found her shoulder instead. His fingers squeezed. He pushed the wet hair off her face with his other hand.
“I’m sorry I said you should screw off,” he said.
She snorted softly. “Whatever. It’s not the first time you were ever awful to me.”
“Was I awful to you?” he asked her, weaving a little, his fingers slipping down her shoulder to squeeze her upper arm like that would keep him on his feet. “Back then, I mean? Was I a terrible stepbrother?”
For a moment she didn’t answer. “We barely had time to be siblings, really. You weren’t great, but you could’ve been worse.”
“You grew up,” he said.
Theresa smiled, finally, and he hadn’t realized until that moment how hard he’d been trying to get one of those out of her. “You’re drunk. Let’s get you some water and then to bed.”
“It’s been a little while since a lady said that to me.” Ilya wove a little bit, squinting to focus on her face.
Theresa rolled her eyes. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
In the kitchen, she drew him a glass of water from the tap and ordered him to drink it. Clear, cool, fresh. The liquid hit the back of his throat and slid down like heaven. He gulped, waiting for his stomach to protest, but everything stayed settled, and he held out the glass for another fill. He drank that one, too, watching her over the rim as she leaned against the counter.
“Who’s been talking about me?” he asked her.
Theresa eyed him, then went to the fridge to pull out a can of cola. She cracked the top and sipped, letting out a long, slow, appreciative sigh. “People talk. That’s all.”
“You moved all the way to the next town over, and you’re saying people talk about me?”
“Miranda Dillon,” she said.
The name sounded familiar, but that didn’t mean anything. She could’ve been someone who came to Go Deep to dive. She could’ve been a local news reporter. She could’ve been his kindergarten teacher. Something in the way Theresa looked at him suggested something else, probably a one-night stand. Lots of those were blurry in his memory, like most everything else at the moment.
When he didn’t answer her, Theresa finished off the cola and tossed the can into the recycling bin. “You don’t even remember her?”
“I . . . is she blonde?”
“Good guess. Yes. That’s your thing, huh?”
“What’s your thing?” Ilya tried to sound serious, but the words came out mixed and mumbled.
Theresa laughed. “I’m not going to talk to you about my thing, Ilya. It’s late.”
It was, but he knew better than to try to go to bed just yet. That would lead to a sick head and stomach in the morning. Besides, he wanted to know what kind of guy she was into. Why it had suddenly become so important to him, Ilya had no idea. Only that it was.
“You like a strong dude, I bet. Like a muscle guy? No, no.” He shook his head. “Like a professor. That sort. A smart dude.”
“Oh, brother. Let’s get you upstairs. I’ll help you get to bed.”
“So long as you promise . . . promise not to take advantage of me.” He blinked and straightened, attempting to put on a haughty attitude, but dammit, that was hard when the world was tilting. “Shit. I am drunk.”
Theresa sighed. “No kidding. C’mon.”
�
�I can make it by myself.” He shrugged off her grasp, determined not to be pushed into doing something he didn’t want to do. Too many women in his life had tried to make him do stuff “for his own good.” He was tired of it.
She laughed at that, a trill of giggles. “Sure you can. Like the time you huffed too many whippets and tripped on the last step and got a concussion?”
“You remember that?” Ilya touched his forehead reflexively, remembering the pain. His nose had bled. Niko had laughed himself into hiccups, but Theresa had brought him ice wrapped in a dishcloth. Funny, the things he could remember when there were so many others he’d forgotten. He looked at her. “Yeah, you were there.”
“I was there,” she agreed, and hooked her arm beneath his to lead him toward the hall and toward the front stairs, not the steeply pitched and creaking back set.
He flicked the wall switch at the bottom of the steps, turning on the light in the upper hallway. He put his foot on the bottom stair, his hand on the railing.
“You’re going to wake everyone,” Theresa said.
“Ask me if I care. Couldn’t even leave a light on for me. They deserve to be woken up.” The words came out muttered and slurred. He was so tired, and she’d been right about bed being the best idea, but he wasn’t going to admit it. All the way up the stairs, one foot at a time, down the hall. He stopped in the bathroom and fumbled with his zipper so he could take a long, hard piss, which rattled in the bowl. He didn’t bother to flush.
In his bedroom, he fell face forward onto the unmade bed. He felt her hands slipping off his shoes, one at a time. Heard the thunk of them on the floor. He wanted to thank her, but with his face pressed into the pillow and his mouth open, already drooling, the most Ilya could manage was a grunt.
The bed dipped as she sat next to him. “Do you need anything?”
He shifted, meaning to answer her, and somehow found her hand with his. Their fingers linked. He kissed the back of her hand, since his words weren’t working any longer.