Page 130 of Lethal Legacy

“Wow.” I don’t ask what, exactly, his father was making. It’s the fragile rules of our conversation—to tell each other our stories, without actually divulging anything specific.

“My mother was Colombian, too.” Roman smiles at my surprise. It’s nice to think we have that in common. “She worked as a dressmaker. Her workshop was at the back of my father’s. So a lot of my childhood was spent running around with parcels under my arm, doing deliveries for both of my parents. She was a great cook, too,” he adds. He gives me a small smile. “She used to makealfajoresevery Friday afternoon, when I came home from school.”

“Oh!” I remember the way he looked the day he came in to find me baking with the children. “So you really did know what I was making that day.”

He grins. “I could smell those cookies all the way up the elevator. You’ll be making them again, trust me.”

“How old were you when—” I stop when I see his face cloud over. “Abby told me you and Dimitry met when you were very young,” I say instead.

“We did.” His smile has faded, but to my relief, he doesn’t shut down completely. He waits until the waiter has served the next course, a delicious array of spiced chicken and pomegranate. “My mother had to... leave, when I was young. A couple of years later, my father was... he died.”

What he doesn’t say could clearly fill an encyclopedia, but I play by the rules and don’t ask.

“After that I was on my own. I met Dimitry a while later, and we kind of stuck together. Then, when I was sixteen, I met Mikhail. His father, Yuri, took a liking to me. When they left the States and came back to Spain, they brought me with them.” He shrugs. “The rest is history, I guess.”

We talk as the various courses come out, not about anything in particular, just getting to know one another in a way we haven’t been able to before. I tell him how much I loved playing piano when I was younger, and about the art that Papa collected, the galleries we used to go to. He tells me that he loves going to auctions, finding little-known treasures others miss. “That’s where I found those earrings,” he says, nodding at them. “My father’s pieces turn up every now and then. Not many people recognize them. Some of them are expensive, others not so much, but to me, they’re all pieces of my past, and incredibly valuable. I buy them anonymously,” he adds, grinning. “I don’t want to push the price up.”

I laugh aloud at that. I realize, to my surprise, that I’m having the nicest night I can remember in a really long time. If ever. This is a side of Roman I’ve never seen before, a glimpse into the man behind the ruthless mask and corporate exterior. I’m not entirely certain why he’s trusting me with this part of himself, but nor do I feel inclined to question it.

After dessert, the lights go down, and the musicians walk onto the stage to a round of applause.

“They sing first,” Roman murmurs to me across the table. “Then theflamencawill come out.”

I’ve seen a lot of flamenco performed since I’ve been in Spain. There are performances at every fiesta and on almost every street corner. But when the male singer cries the first, low strains of his song, chills run down my spine.

“It’s calledcante jondo,”Roman says in my ear.Deep song.He’s moved our chairs to the front of the table, so we’re side by side, and his lips touch my ear as he speaks.

I shiver.

The singer’s words soar into the night like a paean to Spain. He sings of dusty olive orchards, red under the dying sun. Of love lost and found, and generations bound to the earth. His words are both tragic and beautiful, and so clearly a love song to the country around us that they are incredibly moving. By the time the rapid clapping of the other musicians begins, and the steady drumbeat rises, signaling theflamenca’sentrance, I’m utterly spellbound.

Dark eyes lined with kohl, her hair pulled back in a large chignon, the woman begins to dance. She isn’t a young woman, probably somewhere in her forties, and her body is rounded with age. But somehow her years and curves only add more intensity to her dance. Her feet fly in rapid, intricate steps, the metal soles of her shoes rapping out a complex rhythm. Her body ripples in elegant, sensual movements, telling the story that is being sung. More than anything, it’s her face that entrances me. Frowning in concentration, her eyes intense and gleaming with fierce triumph, she whips herself and the audience into a gradual frenzy. By the time her flying feet and the rapid clapping reach their climax, I’m breathless, every nerve in my body alight.

We burst into a sea of applause, and I turn to Roman to find him watching me, his eyes dark with desire. It’s like a spark to the smoldering need inside me.

“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper.

39

LUCIA

Roman doesn’t take me back to the finca.

Instead, taking my hand, he leads me through the castle and into an elevator operated by a valet. We stand with our backs against the wall, staring at the valet’s white-jacketed back, not daring to look at each other as the elevator rises a couple of floors, then opens silently. I step out as Roman tips the man and walk over the flagstone floor. Rustic as the apartment is, with a vast wrought iron candelabra overhead, the wood and glass decor is sophisticated and subtle. The doors are open onto the terrace, which is almost as wide as the one we dined on. Candles burn behind filigree sconces on the wall, casting decorative shadows over the stone. Off to our right, light and chatter spill from the dining room, the sound of background flamenco guitar poignant on the night.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe, leaning over the stone balustrade.

“So are you.” I turn to find Roman standing in the doorway, staring at me. He crosses the terrace in a few strides, pulling himself up short a pace from me.

“There’s something I need to say.” His voice is slightly hoarse, his eyes on mine particularly serious, and I feel a faint flutter of anxiety. “It’s about that contract.”

I tense. I can’t read his intention, and I try not to worry about what is coming next.

“I’ve tried to honor that,” I say nervously. “I know it’s been difficult. With Papa and everything else.” I’m stammering.

“No, Lucia.” He shakes his head impatiently. “What I mean is that I don’t want—dammit.” He rubs a hand over his face.

Is he actually uncertain of himself?

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