Page 33 of Lethal Alliance

Not after this.

Besides, Malaga is barely three hours on the freeway from Granada. As soon as we arrive, we’ll be back in the thick of the hunt. I know there’s no way in hell Darya will accept being on the outside of that investigation. Brutal as it is, there’s no real choice other than ripping off the Band-Aid and getting this over with.

“So.” Her voice has a brittle edge that doesn’t bode at all well. “You and Inger...?”

She doesn’t need to finish the sentence to make her meaning plain.

“A long time ago.” I glance at her briefly, taking in the pale cheeks, rather fierce eyes, and hard-pressed lips with no small amount of trepidation. Admitting to a youthful affair is one thing. Being forced to admit it in a car to the woman I love and nearly just lost—not to mention Inger’s son, watching my every damn twitch—is about the worst kind of purgatory I can imagine. I dodged Mickey’s questions on the way here. I know there’s no chance in hell of doing it twice.

Worse, this is Inger, who has repeatedly tried to humiliate Darya. Not to mention hurt the children, first emotionally, and now by physically endangering her own daughters. I brace myself to do something I really fucking hate: owning up to a mistake.

“Inger and I had a brief affair back in Miami, the same summer that I met Mikhail.” I glance in the rearview mirror. “It was already over between us when she met your father, Mickey.”

That isn’t entirely true, but I figure some details are better left unsaid.

The truth is that the moment Inger realized who Mikhail was—or rather, that it was his father’s yacht that was moored at the local marina—she dropped me faster than she had her panties.

“We were very young.” I meet Mickey’s eyes in the mirror again. “Not much older than you are now. I wish I could say that there was more to the story, Mickey, but honestly, that’s about it.”

I glance sideways, but Darya gives me nothing, just stares at me with those gleaming eyes.

Fuck.She’s really not going to make this easy. I want to touch her, to cut the distance between us by restoring the sensuality that has always bonded us so closely, but nothing about the situation lends itself to physical intimacy. I clench the steering wheel to stop myself from reaching for her. It’s paralyzing how much I want to.

“Mikhail turned up on your Deda Yuri’s yacht shortly after it ended between your mother and me.”

Actually, the two things happened on the same day, but who’s counting?

“Inger fell for Mikhail as soon as she met him and never looked back.” That part is true enough. I figure Mickey doesn’t need to know that it was the yacht, rather than Mikhail, that Inger fell for. Though by the way his mouth twists with distaste, I guess he’s smart enough to have worked that much out for himself.

“Did Papa know?” His eyes in the rearview mirror are laser sharp. “About you and Inger?”

“Yes.” At least I can answer that without hesitation. “Mikhail asked me right at the start if I minded, if I was serious about her. I wasn’t, and I stepped aside immediately. We never really talked about it again. Two months later, Inger was pregnant. They married a few weeks after that.”

An uneasy silence settles over the car. I can still feel Darya’s eyes on me, but I can’t sense her reaction to the story. I swallow uncomfortably. I’m not used to feeling ashamed. But I was, after Mikhail told me Inger was pregnant. Not because I’d defiled something innocent, which by then, I knew Inger certainly was not, but because I’d been almost pathetically grateful that it was Mikhail she had set her sights upon. I knew, then and there, that I was not remotely equipped to make somebody a husband or father. I took no satisfaction from having dodged what I already knew was a toxic bullet, but I did learn from it. Afterward, I became almost pathological about keeping my relationships strictly businesslike.

“But you must have wondered if the baby was yours. Papa, too.”

Christ, the kid is relentless.

I shift uneasily in my seat, choosing to meet Mickey’s hard stare instead of Darya’s quiet scrutiny. She’s still wearing the headscarf and Moroccan outfit. I want to tear both off and run my hands through her hair, make her mine again. This car ride is fixing to be the longest of my damned life. “Inger and Mikhail had been together all summer. Her parents were very traditional, and they’d already met Yuri.”

“But—”

“We’re Russian, Mickey.” To my surprise, it’s Darya who heads him off. She turns in her seat, giving him a quiet, reassuring smile. “Questions just aren’t asked in such circumstances. Maybe in a less traditional world they might be, but not for us. Marriage would have been the only option, given the public nature of their relationship.”

Mickey settles reluctantly back in his seat. “I guess.”

I should be grateful for Darya’s intervention, but I’m not. Especially given that she won’t quite meet my eyes. Mickey might be more or less satisfied with my answers, but despite her coming to my rescue, something tells me Darya is nowhere near done. And a queasy sensation in my gut suggests that her questions are going to be a hell of a lot harder to answer.

In the brief reprieve that follows Mickey’s questions, I sneak another look at Darya. Her face is closed, her arms folded protectively across her body. Everything about her posture fills me with unease. Even Mickey seems disinclined to continue his cross-examination. He, too, is watching her, clearly concerned about the impact of so many revelations. In the end, however, it’s Darya who broaches the next question.

“What about Masha?” She looks between Mickey and me. “Did you have any idea about her? Did Mikhail?”

“I don’t think so.” It’s my turn to frown. “I still don’t know how the hell that connection happened.”

“I do.” Mickey’s tone is flat and hard. We both glance at him. “It was when Inger left Papa.” His jaw is set, his anger clearly visible. “I remember that summer. I was eight, Ofelia was ten. Papa said we had to go to Miami for the holidays and stay with Deda and Baba Melnyk. Inger’s parents,” he adds, for Darya’s benefit. “We didn’t want to go. Their house is really small, and it smells weird.”

I can’t help but grin at they way he wrinkles his nose. “He’s right,” I say to Darya, as an aside. “Inger’s mother is a big believer in traditional cooking. That house has smelled of cabbage ever since I can remember. And despite all the money Mikhail gave Inger’s parents, they’ve never moved.”

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