Page 64 of Lethal Legacy

Oh, fuck no.Then again, thankfully, Inger’s promises are notoriously fickle. “We’ll see,” I lie again. I listen to her rabbit on about her modeling career, which, despite her boasts, is very much on the downturn, and hang up as soon as I can.

The truth is that the minute Inger met Mikhail and realized it was he, not I, who was heir to Yuri’s fortune, she dropped me like a hot pan and never looked back. Which, even at seventeen, I didn’t see as any loss at all. Mikhail enjoyed a brief fling with Inger that should never have become any more, except that Yuri had taken a liking to her. First because she looked and spoke like a perfect Russian princess, and later because Inger knew exactly how to flatter him. Mikhail then found himself coerced into meeting her parents, who were not only first-generation Ukrainian immigrants, but quite poor. They thought all theirRozhdestvashad come at once when Mikhail, with his college education and Yuri’s inheritance behind him, walked through their door. When Inger managed to fall pregnant, Yuri wouldn’t hear of Mikhail doing anything but putting a ring on it. And Mikhail, with his happy-go-lucky nature, just shrugged and said cheerfully that he figured he’d have to get married some time or other. My affair with Inger was diplomatically not referred to by either of us again.

Inger handed Ofelia off to a series of nannies weeks after the child’s birth. When little Mickey was born, she considered her wifely duties entirely done and turned her full attention to her always middling career. She and Mikhail had long been living separate lives when Masha came along, the result of a final drunken night when Inger attempted to seduce Mikhail in exchange for a better divorce settlement.

In the years since I rose to take Mikhail’s place, Inger has renewed her efforts to seduce me. I take her out exactly as often as it takes to keep the peace. I’ve become extremely adept at dodging her advances without offending her. If it weren’t for the children, I would have cut her loose entirely years ago. But she’s their mother, and the only parent they have left. Cutting her off isn’t, sadly, an option.

And at least her lack of interest means she won’t inspect Lucia too closely.

I, on the other hand, want to inspect Lucia extremely closely, as soon as possible. Fortunately, the phone call with Inger has dampened my libido enough to make me hold off from contacting Miss Lopez until after I see her at home this evening.

Anyway, I tell myself, keeping Lucia guessing is a good seduction tactic. By the way her body reacted when I touched her before Dimitry called, she was more than ready for another round. And that means the longer I string her out, the more she’ll be thinking about it.

I imagine her in bed now, thinking about our last encounter, and swear softly. The torture is supposed to be on her end, not mine. She’s here to take care of the children, and for me to fuck her out of my system. Not necessarily in that order. She’s here to make my life easier, not send my head into a goddamn tailspin and my body into chaos.

I refocus on the screen, counting the hours until I can go home and set my plan in motion.

Iam not remotely prepared for the scene that greets me.

It starts with heady scents that hit me right out of the elevator: sweet, buttery, and almost unbearably familiar. The door to the children’s apartment is open. Both security guards are leaning around it, laughing. They straighten up smartly enough when they see me, but they clearly didn’t hear me, since the music coming from inside is only mildly quieter than the squeals of laughter.

“Boss,” says Bryce, composing himself. Dimitry, however, doesn’t even bother acknowledging me.

“I could have been anyone,” I snap. “Do better.” It’s not entirely true; there’s good security downstairs, and nobody rides the elevator without a personal code, but still. Dimitry should know better. The fact that he doesn’t actually need to be here at all, and has clearly just stuck around purely for entertainment value, annoys me more than it should.

“Boss.” He nods politely, but he’s still grinning more than he should be.

I walk in to absolute chaos.

The apartment itself is clean enough. It’s the kitchen where the action is clearly happening. From the doorway, I can see Mickey perched at the counter, laughing at something. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him laugh that I pause for a moment, just taking that little miracle in by itself. He’s drumming two wooden spoons on the counter in time with the fast Argentinian salsa playing, and as I watch, he points the spoon at someone I can’t see. “No, Masha, it’s Luce’s pick next,” he says, then reaches forward and dips his spoon into something. When it comes back it’s covered in caramel, which he promptly licks off.

Masha, out of eyesight, is squealing something that sounds like “Poppins” over and over.

“No way,” I hear Ofelia say, and to my shock, it sounds like she’s laughing too. “I will not listen to ‘A Spoonful of Sugar’ one more time, Masha. Put another one on, Luce.”

“Fine. But you have to dance too, then.”

“I can’t!” Ofelia protests, laughing helplessly. “I don’t know how.”

“It’s easy.” I hear Lucia’s voice. “And you can’t makealfajoreswithout dancing. It’s illegal in Argentina.”

Alfajores.No wonder the scent is so familiar. Two melt-in-your-mouth cookies stuffed with a luscious dollop of creamy dulce de leche caramel. My mother made them every Friday, when the school week was ended. We used to call them Mary cookies,though I can’t remember why. I don’t think I’ve eaten them since the day she left. I shrink back against the wall, sliding just beyond eyesight, until the kitchen comes into view.

The benches are all covered with flour, caramel, and trays of the butter cookies ready to be made into caramel sandwiches. Most of the caramel, however, seems to be either on the counter or on the children themselves. Masha, her face absolutely covered in a sticky mass of caramel and baking goods, spoon in hand, is propped up on a stool, jiggling her little body in wild movements that would topple her if Ofelia didn’t keep hauling her upright. Ofelia, flour all over her tank top, is mixing more caramel in a bowl, hauling Masha up with the other hand, and watching Lucia with shining eyes and a smile. An actualsmile.

Lucia is dancing. Onlydancingdoesn’t begin to describe the bewitching sight before me.

Her hair is up in a messy bun, stray curls dripping down the nape of her neck. Her hips are fluid as any professional dancer’s, rotating in a way that makes her dress flip enticingly high up her thighs, while her feet move so rapidly they’re almost a blur. She’s wearing some cute little floral number that skims her hips and flares out to just above her knees. Under normal circumstances, the dress would probably be perfectly innocent.

Except that Lucia’s curves make it a sultry invitation. Especially dancing salsa, solo, in the middle of the kitchen.

I pull back behind the dividing wall and stare shamelessly at the vision in front of me. She’s laughing aloud, one hand extended in invitation to Ofelia, a half-mixed bowl on the counter in front of her.

I’ve never come home to such chaos. And I’ve never felt a bigger gut punch of desire, along with something else that aches deep inside, in a part of my soul I thought long forgotten to me in this life.

Lucia takes Ofelia’s hand and spins her around, then spins herself beneath Ofelia’s arm. They both emerge breathless and laughing, caramel streaked down the swell of Lucia’s cleavage and smudges of flour on her face.

Then she catches sight of me and comes to a dead halt, mouth open in a perfect O of surprise.

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