Page 62 of Lethal Legacy

Mickey gapes at me, turning slowly red. Ofelia is staring at me like I’ve just stepped off a spaceship. “You speakRussian?”

“Yup.” I grin at her. “As well as German, Swiss, and a bit of Arabic.” I wink at them. “So good luck withthat.”

“Even Roman doesn’t speak that many languages.” Ofelia looks at me consideringly. And then, suddenly, like the sun coming out from behind winter clouds, she smiles. “Can you teach me to swear in Arabic?”

“Oh, Lord.” I sigh dramatically and they all giggle. “Somehow I don’t think your godfather would approve of that.”

Mickey snorts. “Since when does he approve ofanythingwe do,” he mutters. Ofelia and he exchange knowing glances.

I pretend I didn’t hear.

It’s patently obvious that Roman is even more remote from the children’s day-to-day lives than I previously suspected. It’s equally obvious that their security detail are immensely protective of them, beyond simply a professional capacity. Dimitry, in particular, seems to have an easy familiarity with them that I wouldn’t have predicted. It’s somewhat incongruous to watch his tattooed bulk piggybacking little Masha to the car, the careful courtesy he shows Ofelia, or the gruff humor he shares with Mickey. All of the security men are polite and young enough to be reasonably inconspicuous, although, just as I did when I was younger, the children treat them with a wary tolerance. I used to hate being followed everywhere I went by Papa’s henchmen, even if I understood why it was necessary.

By the time we’re home, the shops are shutting for siesta, and the kids are hungry enough to have no objections when we sit down to a traditional three-course Spanish lunch prepared by Chef. There’s still no sign of Roman.

The kids are yawning by the time they’ve finished lunch, and all head off happily to have a siesta which, Ofelia loftily informs me, “English people just don’t understand.”

“I’ll be across the corridor,” I say. “But you can message me if you wake up before I do.”

“Will you wait till I wake up to make the cookies?” Masha says sleepily as I tuck her in.

“Sure I will.” I close her door and find Ofelia and Mikhail already crashed out, clearly exhausted from their early start.

Luis stretches out on the sofa, yawning. “Go.” He waves me away. “I’ve got this.” I’m glad to see the security detail outside the apartment are alert and clearly still on English time.

I message one of Papa’s nurses. He answers with a photograph of Papa and him playing chess on the terrace, a wry-smile emoji, and the message:he’s beating me.

Content that all the humans in my world are, for now, either occupied or at peace, I open my own door.

In my apartment I strip off and stand under the shower. It might be only early spring, but the Malaga air already feels like soup by midday. And I need to clear my head. It’s the first time since reaching the airport that I’ve had time to really think through what happened last night.

I haven’t heard a word from Roman, though I suppose his security team alerted him that the airport pickup went off without any difficulty, so there’s no real need for him to call. And it isn’t like he hasn’t made it abundantly clear that this isn’t a romantic situation.

I almost snort with laughter at that. Given how fast he got rid of me,romanticis the last word I’d use.

But still.

My body doesn’t seem to notice the difference. Or care that it’s being exchanged for money. I showered this morning, of course, but the faintest trace of his scent has still clung to my skin until now. I wash slowly, my hands traveling the same places his did hours earlier, catching the occasional smoky hint of his aftershave as I scrub every inch of myself. I called it hellfire the first time I was in his penthouse. But if hell is a place for sinners, then it’s me who’s most definitely there now. As my own vanilla-and-coconut body wash gradually replaces the dusky notes of his scent, I find myself wanting to cling to it, to hold it to my skin like a secret. Without his actual presence, last night feels almost like I imagined it. If it wasn’t for the faint soreness between my legs and the strange sensation of loose-limbed satiation throughout my body, I’d seriously wonder if fantasy had overtaken reality in my mind.

Was it really me who lay bare in front of Roman last night, touching myself while begging him to take me?

I shiver as the needles of water hit my bare skin, awakening my body to the state of semiarousal that seems a permanent affliction these days. I find myself wondering when he will text me.Ifhe will text me.

Oh, for goodness’ sake. He’s not your boyfriend, Darya Petrovsky.I use my own name to jolt me out of my dangerous state of limerence.It’s a business deal. He’s your employer. And of course he’ll booty-call you—he’s already paid for your ass, girl.

That should make me feel ashamed, or at the very least, extremely aware of my place.

Only it doesn’t.

I dry myself slowly with the plush, thick towel and take my time rubbing moisturizer into my skin. After all, if I’m being paid to be his beck-and-call sex slave, then I have standards to keep up.

I just wish I wasn’t watching my phone with a pulse throbbing between my legs, half hoping he’ll slip home during siesta.

I have to wrap my head around my new role. Stop looking for reassurance. Do my job and lower my expectations.

I slip in between the crisp sheets and sigh with pleasure at the bliss of sleeping on a cloudy mattress. My enjoyment of it is made even better knowing that Papa is safe and that I’m not facing the prospect of a backbreaking eight-hour shift and Pete’s roving hands. Instead I’m looking forward to an evening of banter and baking with the kids, followed, if I’m lucky, by round two in Roman Stevanovsky’s apartment.

Don’t get invested. He might not even bother.

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