Page 194 of Lethal Legacy

“What are you doing,” hisses Darya through gritted teeth. “You promised no paparazzi.”

“I changed my mind.”

“This is insanity,” she mutters.

“Then call me crazy.” I turn my little group at the top of the stairs to face the cameras. I keep my CEO smile firmly in place, and despite her glittering eyes and feverish color, Darya gives poised smiles at exactly the right time.

Inger and Nikolai, mounting the stairs with twin expressions of resentment, are entirely ignored by the snapping paps.

I turn us all back around as they get close and put my lips close to Darya’s ear. “But I don’t think I’m the only one feeling a little reckless tonight, Darya. Am I?”

I hold her eyes just long enough to see the uncertainty creep into hers.

Then we walk through the entrance.

I know what I decided. I know I have to let her run.

But that doesn’t mean I’m fucking happy about it. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to let up, not for one second, until the minute she’s actually gone.

Dimitry finds me the minute we’re in the door. “You were right.” His eyes scan the room grimly. “TheGuapais anchored directly offshore, within easy tender distance. Looks like Alexei is planning to make his move.”

“Of course he is.” I’ve hit the weird, calm plateau that always takes over before the storm erupts, the place where time slows down and every sense is heightened. The opulent ballroom glitters like the fake replica of a more elegant time that it is. I nod at the passing faces and return greetings, introducing the children while all the time scanning the marble floor and balcony tiers for the faces that don’t belong.

Searching for one particular face: a man with a missing eye.

Alexei Petrovsky.

The fucker’s here, I’d bet Hale on it.

“Check every damn corner of the place. Including the kitchens.”

Dimitry nods and disappears into the crowd.

“Sure.” I nod permission to a nervous-faced boy who’s just asked Ofelia to dance. I know his grandfather, met the kid more than once at the school events I’ve attended the past few months. Ofelia gives me a grateful smile and takes his hand, moving onto the dance floor.

“I’m going to ask the waiter for a drink for Masha.” Mickey stalks off without waiting for my permission, his sister’s hand in his.

Great. So he’s still not over whatever this is, then.

Mickey’s no sooner gone than Inger’s furious face appears in front of mine.

Awesome.

“What thefuckwas that shit you pulled at the entrance, Roman?”

“Keep your voice down, Inger. You don’t want people staring, now do you?” I’m still scanning the room, not looking at either Inger in front of me or Darya beside me. “Nikolai.” I rest my eyes briefly on my pain-in-the-ass adopted brother. “Maybe you should get your date a drink.”

“You’resupposed to be my date,” says Inger through a clenched-teeth smile. “That was our deal.”

“I told you I’d attend the ball with you, Inger.” I finally meet her eyes, not even attempting to hide my contempt. “Which I have. But since the paparazzi has photographed you and Nikolai falling out of every Z-list bar in Miami for the past two months, not to mention entwined in varying states of nudity on half a dozen hotel balconies, you’ll forgive me for not wanting to play the part of doting family man. Given the very public display you’ve put on, I think you can rest assured that your trad wife image has already been fucked up beyond all recognition. And if you think I’m going to allow the children to suffer the public humiliation of being associated with your indiscretions, you can fucking think again.”

I turn away, leaving Inger mouthing furiously behind me.

Let her be furious.

I’ve got more important concerns tonight.

I greet Boris Obolensky, the grandfather of the boy Ofelia is dancing with and one of the wealthier benefactors of the Russian Cultural Center. He and I’ve done quite a bit of business. He’s in his seventies, and his wife, Katerina, is the daughter of an exiled Russian princess. Their grandchildren were all in the Holy Week parade with the kids.

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