Chapter 20 #2
I’m saved from that mental merry-go-round by the arrival of the home secretary, who looks even more grim than normal.
“I understand I have you to thank for the safety of Niamh and her team.” Agatha eyes me over her coffee. “Or rather, that extremely big man I saw in the foyer earlier, when I arrived. Niamh tells me he single-handedly saved the day—or should that be the night?”
“Sophie’s House was asked to be on hand to rescue any victims the NCA might find.” I smile blandly, trying to ignore the ridiculous giddiness I feel at even the slightest thought of Luke. “Niamh and her team did an extraordinary job under very difficult circumstances.”
“Hmm,” Agatha says dryly. A tense silence is broken by her saying, “Well, miraculously, the entire incident appears to have escaped the notice of the tabloid press. The Avonmouth Port Authority has hushed it up, not surprising given their mistakes on the night.”
Normally I would allow Agatha’s deliberate skirting of the truth. But not after I nearly lost Sal and Ana. Not after Niamh took a bullet that could have killed her.
Not after I could have lost Luke.
“Referring to the Port Authority’s mistakes is a grave understatement, Madam Home Secretary.
” I meet her eyes without flinching, and with none of my normal diplomacy.
“The Authority not only cooperated with the traffickers, but actively fought on their behalf against your people. If it hadn’t been for my team, and that man you saw downstairs, you’d have been attending funerals today instead of the hospital. ”
Her mouth tightens. “Unfortunately, Miss Melikov, the actions of your team, while admirable, are also the reason I can’t ask questions in Parliament about the Port Authority’s failings.”
For a moment we face off over the table, Agatha meeting my eyes with steel of her own. But after a moment she drops the politician’s veneer and shakes her head, grimacing. “It’s a god-awful mess, Zinaida.”
At least Agatha never hides from the truth, which is one of the reasons I rather like her.
I unscrew the whiskey and put a decent shot in both our cups.
God knows I need it.
After Agatha leaves, I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed to discover that Luke has postponed our meeting because of something work related.
Or at least, that’s the excuse he’s given. For all I know, he’s busy trying to extricate himself from our contract at this very moment.
Get it together, Zinaida.
I try and fail to focus on the plans on my desk, some of which revolve around a club I’m contemplating opening in Madrid.
I want to discuss it with Luke. Does everything come back to him?
Right now, it does. Because every time I try to focus, all I can think about is Luke’s huge hands holding me in place, his twisted smile as he called me out when I said I was sorry.
“No, you’re not,” he said, and I don’t know what turned me on more—the fact that he knew it was the truth or that he didn’t seem remotely bothered by that fact.
I walk restlessly across my office and stare out at the wintry London day.
That’s the fucking problem.
Luke is the only man I’ve ever met who seems impervious to my mind games. I can’t predict his actions, nor manipulate outcomes where he’s concerned.
And without the games and manipulation, I have no idea how to play this thing at all.
How do other women do it?
An image of Darya Borovsky’s face slips through my mind. Not for the first time lately.
On impulse, I pick up my phone and dial her number.
The line rings in long continental beeps. Finally a cautious female voice answers. “Hola?”
“Darya.” I see my own face in the window and realize how tense I look. Female friendships really aren’t my fucking thing. “It’s Zinaida Melikov. I have business in Madrid next week. I was wondering if you might be free for lunch?”
There’s a long silence, during which I hear the muffled sound of a conversation in the background and seriously question what the fuck I’m doing. Calling Roman Borovsky’s wife on the basis of a few casual meetings?
Idiot, Zin.
Roman might be a friend, as far as our world goes, but beyond a few visits to my club and the odd lunch, Darya has no reason to see me as anything other than her husband’s associate.
Then the receiver is uncovered, and Darya speaks again. “I can’t manage Madrid,” she says, “not with the babies.”
I open my mouth to make a hasty withdrawal.
“But if you’re flexible,” she goes on tentatively, “I could arrange a child-free afternoon so we could have lunch here? I’d love to host you. If I’m honest,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “with three children under three, I’d be grateful for the distraction.”
I hear Roman in the background, making some kind of comment about distractions that is clearly highly suggestive, going by Darya’s gurgle of laughter and her playful aside that his comment “isn’t what I meant, Roman.”
I find myself smiling into the phone. There’s something almost unbearably sweet about imagining Roman Borovsky—hard, ruthless, and brutal—exchanging banter with his wife.
We make arrangements to meet in two days’ time.
“Why don’t you stay the night?” Darya says before we hang up. “Oh—and Roman says to bring Luke with you. Apparently he has plans for him, which, if I know my husband at all, probably involve machines with very fast engines and roads I don’t want to think about.”
I suddenly have an extremely clear vision of sitting behind Luke, my body pressed against his, during the long ride down to London on his Ducati.
“Somehow, I think Luke will enjoy that.” I don’t miss the slight huskiness to my voice.
Darya laughs. “What is it with men and fast machines? I look forward to seeing you, Zin.”
When I end the call, I find myself looking forward to lunch with Darya more than I’ve looked forward to anything for a very long time.