Page 196 of Lethal Legacy

Because instead, Darya had to become Lucia Lopez.

A survivor. Sometimes a warrior. Someone who had to stand up for both herself and her father. I didn’t get from Miami to Morocco without learning how to stand my ground under threat or take what I need, instead of waiting patiently for someone to offer it.

But tonight, I feel like something not entirely Darya or Lucia.

Darya knows these rooms, these people. She understands the rules and precisely how to behave.

But Darya would also have quietly absorbed Inger’s taunts with a pained smile and diplomatic silence.

Lucia, on the other hand, knows how it feels to be the waitress standing behind the counter, struggling for a share of the tips and the next shift. Lucia knows how to confront a threat from those who would take what is hers. She understands that, sometimes, pretty manners and diplomatic silence aren’t enough.

Darya knows how to run.

But Lucia knows how to stand and fight.

Ever since I slipped the mulberry silk dress on tonight, I’ve felt as if my two personalities have merged. The past few months with Roman have forged me into something new again. A woman who knows her own worth and who isn’t afraid to fight for it.

My hand slips to my belly.Who isn’t afraid of anything, if it means taking care of the life inside me.

“Miss Lopez.” A handsome face swims into focus before me. It’s the son of one of the women at the table, a slender, well-dressed man in his midthirties. “Can I tempt you to dance?”

“Oh, yes,rypka,you must!” Katerina pushes me toward the man, giving me the standard Russian grandmother sales pitch in my ear as she does. Her hissed fact sheet tells me that the man in question is a highly eligible bachelor, has a more than adequate income, and very respectable bedroom skills.

Russian women are nothing if not thorough when it comes to their research.

“So, Lucia.” He waltzes me skillfully into the center of the dance floor. “You’ve created quite the sensation this evening. There’s nothing thedvoryanstvolike better than seeing old Russia triumph over the new. You’re quite the modern Russian fairy tale, Miss Lopez.”

“I do my best,” I say, laughing as he expertly turns me beneath his arm. “And I imagine that dancing with the fairy tale will do wonders for your standing with the old dragons watching us?”

“You really do know the game.” He chuckles.

“Oh, I grew up playing it, believe me.” Oddly enough, there’s a definite pleasure to be found in exercising those old skills. It’s like a professional baseball player going back to slum it in the minors. I have nothing to lose in this room, and thus, ironically, I’m the most celebrated thing in it.

Isn’t that always the way?

“Excuse me.” Roman’s low growl sends a shiver through me. “I’m reclaiming my date.”

My dance partner’s face falls into respectful lines, and he drops me like I’m a hot coal, taking a wary step backward. “Of course, Mr. Stevanovsky.” He nods courteously in my direction. “Miss Lopez.”

“Good lord,” I say lightly as Roman’s arms close around me and I feel the familiar, delicious thrill race through my veins. “You didn’t have to terrify him.”

Roman’s mouth curls, sending a bolt of lust straight between my thighs. “And you didn’t have to seduce him.” He puts his mouth close to my ear. “But we both enjoy the game, don’t we, Darya?”

I shiver, pressing myself closer to him. His arms tighten about me, his thigh slipping between mine as he guides me across the floor. He moves my body like he owns it, like we’re one being. I know that this will be the dance theprincipessasbawdily speculate on during tea tomorrow morning.

“They’re watching us,” I murmur, feeling him hard against me.

“Let them watch.” Roman spins me out and pulls me back in, his hand roaming to the base of my spine. “In fact, let’s give them something to really feast on.” He dips me low over his arm, running his hand down my throat, between my breasts, and down my abdomen as he pulls me slowly back up. As my head comes up, his lips claim mine, briefly, but enough to let everyone in the room know to whom I belong. My arms slip around his neck, and he pulls my hips into his. “Now,” he murmurs, “they’re really watching.”

He’s right. And I don’t particularly care.

My lips touch Roman’s ear. “I’m sorry for what I said to Inger in the car.”

He spins me out and brings me back, grinning darkly. “No, you’re not.”

“No.” I laugh as he half dips me again. “You’re right. I’m not.”

“She had it coming.”

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