Page 44 of Dimitri
The weather was turning nasty and instead of heading straight home, she was at the market picking up supplies so that she could stand behind a stove, cooking for a man. Figures, she thought sourly as she picked up a head of lettuce and squeezed. She had come in with the intention of picking up a few things: chicken, pasta, some red peppers, and onions and now she had a full cart.
This was madness.
She could hardly remember the last time she had put this much thought into a meal. Was she nervous? Maybe a little, she admitted, but mostly she was excited in a way that surprisedher. Every ingredient seemed to matter more, every choice felt weighed with possibility. As she wandered down the aisle, she caught herself smiling at nothing in particular and rolled her eyes at her own foolishness.
She was at the dairy fridge, contemplating whether to purchase oat milk or stick to the two percent she normally used when she heard her name.
The polite smile froze as she stared at the tidy woman with the familiar chestnut brown hair and quiet hazel eyes that pitched her back in time.
"Martha." Her hands trembled slightly, and she had to put down the milk. "Hi. I had no idea you were back."
"I just arrived." The woman stared at her intently, shifting to make way for a woman with a toddler seated on the handle of the cart.
"Your hair..."
Unconsciously, she passed her hand over the thick coils. "It's grown."
"Michael always liked that type of thing." There was a look of disapproval on the attractive face. "My son loved you more than he ever loved anyone."
Guilt, the awful taste of it roiled inside her stomach.
"I'm so sorry..."
"That he's dead?" Martha Greenstone had always disapproved of her and after the terrible tragedy had hurled accusations that left her reeling.
Angling her chin, she met the woman's gaze squarely and reminded herself that Michael had been her only child. She was entitled to be bitter. "I loved him."
"'Loved?'" The woman smiled mirthlessly. "Does that mean you've moved on?" She eyed the loaded cart with a curl of her thin lips. "Wine, cheese, fruits. No doubt you are heading home to make dinner for some man, while my son is dead."
"How dare you..."
"It's because of you that he died!" The remark had shoppers turning to look at them curiously.
Allison fled. Leaving the loaded cart in the middle of the aisle, she raced out to the parking lot and got into her car, her body shaking.
Chapter 12
She drove around aimlessly, taking several back roads to avoid traffic. The sleet had stopped, but the roads were icy, even the ones less traveled. And she was exhausted. Bone weary and so disillusioned, she couldn't bear it. His mother had brought it all back. The woman had shunned her even before the funeral, and if it had been up to her, Allison would never have been there.
But she had stood her ground.
Now she was back and would no doubt find a way to become a thorn in her side.
It was late. She stared at the dashboard in surprise. She had been driving around for more than an hour. She had promised Dimitri dinner, and he would no doubt be waiting for her. But he hadn't called. Maybe he would give up and go away.
That would be for the best, wouldn't it? She could not be in a relationship with him, no matter how she felt. The chance encounter with Martha at the market had proven that. Now shehad time to feel ashamed that she had fled and left a cartful of groceries for some poor employee to pack away.
Rubbing her hands over her moist cheeks, she suddenly realized where she was. She had taken a narrow dirt road off from the highway. The place was dark as pitch, with only a few houses here and there.
Straightening up, she hurriedly pushed the start button and made her way back.
As Allison navigated the winding road, her thoughts spiraled with guilt and frustration. She replayed the argument in her mind, every word echoing painfully. The silence inside the car felt oppressive, pressing down on her chest as she gripped the steering wheel tighter, wishing she could outrun her own memories.
*****
He felt the anger churning through his gut and had to take several breaths to tamp it down. She was over an hour late. Here he was, like an eager schoolboy with the taste of his first woman, waiting for her, and she did not have the decency to call. He had broken in as usual, carrying the huge bouquet of flowers his grandmother had gone to the trouble of cutting and had placed them in a vase. They were now residing on the counter in thekitchen. The excellent vintage was being iced in a bucket on the table, and he was left cooling his heels in the living room.
Well, to hell with her! Surging to his feet, he grabbed his coat and shoved his arms in. He was goddamned Dimitri Petyr Petrov, son of Ivan Petrov. In Russia, people stared at him with respect and awe. Women fell over themselves to be with him.
