Page 37 of His to Ruin

“You’re right.” I scrub a hand over my face. “I’ll do better.”

“Good girl.”

He gets up and pours me a cup of coffee, setting it down on the table. As he retakes his seat, I grab his hand. “And don’t ever think it’s not your place to tell me what’s on your mind. You’re important to me, Jimmy.”

He carefully slides his hand out from under mine. His eyes glisten and he looks away. It’s the most emotional I’ve ever seen him. He clears his throat.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?”

“Thought we’d go to Disneyland.”

Jimmy’s face drains of what little color it holds. I let him stew for a moment before laughing. “I’m just kidding.” Visiting a theme park might be fun, but not for him. “I just wanted to see your face.”

“Thank fuck. My happy place doesn’t involve princesses and talking fucking animals.”

It’s probably best not to ask what his happy place is.

“So what do you want to do, Liv?”

“I want to see the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. I’d like to get a hot chocolate at Angelina’s, visit the Musée d’Orsay and the Louvre and I want to have a picnic in the Jardin de Tullieres. Oh, and some shopping on the Champs Élysées, perhaps.”

“All in one day?” Jimmy asks doubtfully.

“Well, no, but I don’t know how long we’re here for.”

“Your husband said a week.”

Well, I’m glad he shared that information with someone. I hold back from making a snippy comment because Jimmy is right about me curbing my bratty behavior, outside of the bedroom at least.

“I’m starved. What did you eat?”

“I brought bagels. There’s a couple left if you want one.”

“Nah, I want something greasy. There’s got to be somewhere around here to grab breakfast, right?”

Jimmy nods. “Get your purse. Oh, I almost forgot.” He reaches into his pocket and slides a black credit card across the table. “Mr. Reznov asked me to give that to you.”

“Why didn’t he give it to me himself?”

“Well, either because he didn’t think he’d see you before he left, or because he thought you’d stamp your foot and accuse him of trying to buy you.”

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, Jimmy, message received. I’m a pain in the ass.”

“Yeah, you are.” He gets up from the table. “Grab your things and I’ll meet you at the front door.”

Pocketing the credit card, which I may use to buy a new dress for this evening, I head to the bedroom to fetch my purse. Then I walk back along the corridor to the front door, which is open. I find Jimmy just outside, talking to a man whose somewhat weathered face is familiar. It takes a minute to place him as the driver who picked Piotr and me up at the airport last night. Ididn’t speak to him because I went out like a light the moment my ass hit the back seat of his SUV.

“Hi, it’s Marko, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Livvy,” I correct him. “Or Mrs. Rezanova, if you insist.”

“Ma’am,” he repeats with a polite nod. I guess he’s not going to loosen up anytime soon.

The two men walk ahead of me down the winding staircase and out onto the sidewalk. It’s a glorious day. The sun is already hot, and the sky is clear. A car is waiting at the curb. A brute of a man leans against the door. His pose is casual, with his legs crossed, but his eyes scan the street as if he’s looking for someone to kill.

Even if I was a complete outsider, I wouldn’t mistake this man for anything other than Russian Mafia. He fits the stereotype. Tall enough to dominate the NBA, he has broad shoulders and bulging biceps. Several tattoos are visible beneath the neckline of his black shirt. His severely cropped black hair and steely gray eyes add to the sense that this is a dangerous man.

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