Page 129 of Lethal Legacy

My father takes it and nods, for all the world as if he were giving permission. I’m grateful to Roman for that, for giving Papa that courtesy.

“You look stunning,” Roman says, smiling at me. “But that dress is missing something.”

“What?” I turn this way and that, wondering if I’ve left the tag on the dress.

“These.” He holds out a velvet-covered box, grinning, and opens it.

I gasp. Inside, nestled on a bed of midnight satin, are a pair of inch-long diamond and sapphire earrings. They match my dress perfectly. I look up to see Abby grinning like a maniac.

“You knew,” I say accusingly. She just shrugs, still grinning. The kids all cluster around, making admiring noises.

I take out my studs, and Roman replaces them with the earrings. His large fingers handle the delicate clasps with surprising sureness. I glance at Papa. He’s watching Roman, a strange expression on his face that I can’t quite read. When he sees my face, he gives me a brief nod, but his smile is slightly fixed. His eyes slide to Roman, then back to me.

I know this isn’t the way he imagined me being taken to dinner by a man. But it’s the life we have, and I hope he can come to peace with it.

Roman gestures to the door. “Shall we?”

Dinner is in a restaurant inside a cleverly renovated ancient mountain castle.

“It dates back to the Moorish occupation,” Roman explains as he hands the car keys to a smiling valet. “Although, like most castles in Andalucia, it was Visigothic before that, and probably Roman even before that.” He holds out his arm, and I slip mine through it. “There’s a wonderful flamenco performance during dinner, with local dancers. I thought you’d enjoy it.”

“It sounds wonderful.” Slightly overwhelmed by the entire thing, I allow him to lead me through the stone archway.

The restaurant is in a courtyard surrounded by arched colonnades. A fountain trickles in the center, and flowering plants climb over the stone pillars. A stage is set up at one end with instruments, clearly awaiting performers. Our table is set on a private terrace at the rear of the courtyard, though with a clear view of the stage. The terrace juts out over a dramatic cliff. In the distance the Malaga lights twinkle. I like that they’re far away. The night is still but for a light breeze, and the low lighting allows the stars to gleam down.

“To us,” Roman says, after the champagne has been poured. He holds my eyes as we drink.

“Thank you for the earrings.” I stammer slightly, flushing again. I’m still not sure what to make of the extravagant gift.

“You’re welcome.” His mouth curls in a smile that, for once, is neither sardonic nor slightly cruel. “They suit you.” He gestures around the terrace with his glass. “All of this suits you.”

Not entirely sure how to respond to that, I take another sip of champagne, searching around for something to say. I feel oddly shy, which is incongruous, given how intimate we’ve been with each other. “The kids love it at the finca,” I say finally.

“I don’t want to talk about the children tonight.” He sits back as the waiter brings out a selection of tapas that look divine. “Or about the journalist,” he goes on, “or the Orlovs, or about my work. Tonight, I just want to enjoy being here, with you.”

He traces my hand with one long finger, and I shiver. His voice is low, his eyes intense, and I want to tear his clothes off.

“I think,” he says, “that it’s about time we got to know one another a little better.”

I tense, and he continues stroking my hand, not taking his eyes from my face.

“I don’t mean to frighten you. Or ask you anything you don’t want to tell me. I just want to learn a little more about you, Miss Lopez.” He grins, and I start to feel more relaxed. “Like for example, how did you learn to make such good coffee?”

I laugh. I can’t help it.

“Well,” I say, looking at him shyly, “it was actually my mother who taught me. She was Colombian. She insisted on having a professional standard machine in our kitchen at home. Then, later, Papa and I were living in Argentina for a while. I needed work by then, so I found a job in a coffee shop. I was so bad at it,” I admit, and he laughs softly. “No, really. I was. The first day I broke three glasses. I thought I’d be fired, but luckily they kept me on. I didn’t know the first thing about how to operate a cash register, or carry three plates, or anything, for that matter. It was a steep learning curve.”

I find myself telling him about those early days, when Papa and I were still living in a tiny apartment in a rundown part of Buenos Aires. “I had three jobs,” I say. “I was cleaning, as well as working in a bar and at the coffee shop. We were trying to save money; I didn’t have a lot of choice. But I kind of liked it,” I say when his smile fades. “I’d always envied kids who had paper rounds, you know? Or a part-time job. They seemed so... free, compared to us.” I halt, aware that I’ve probably said too much. To my relief, however, Roman doesn’t push me for an explanation.

“I was the opposite.” He gives me a wry smile. “My father had me working for him from as early as I can remember.”

“Really?” I try not to push him too hard, but I’m fascinated. “What kind of work were you doing?”

“He had a shop. He... mended things, and made others. He made jewelry, too.” He nods at my earrings. “In fact, he made those.”

“These?” I’m so taken aback that I can only stare at him. I touch the sapphires tentatively.

“Yes.” Roman lifts a piece of tapas to my mouth and watches as I eat it. “I used to sit in the back of his workshop and fetch his tools. He would make me watch what he was doing, then imitate it. My father always said that the only way to learn was to teach the hands first, and the mind would follow. Sometimes he got me to work blindfolded.”

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