Chapter 27
LUKE
Much later, I push my chair back from Zin’s dining table, stuffed to the brink.
“You weren’t lying when you said you can cook.” I finish the meltingly tender herb-encrusted rib eye and then steal the last piece of buffalo mozzarella from the side salad.
“I’m glad you liked it.” Smiling, Zin picks up a sweet potato fry with her fingers, then sips her wine.
I find it mesmerizing, watching her eat.
There’s something incredibly earthy about her when she’s dealing with food, whether preparing or eating it.
It’s just as comforting as hearing the sound of her laughter, something that I find myself trying to elicit at every possible opportunity.
Making Zin laugh is a challenge that is fast turning into one of my favorite things to do.
“You read my mind, you know.” I eye her across the round wooden table. It’s so unlike the austere marble formality of the Mayfair penthouse as to be another world, just like the books on the shelves in three languages and the herbs growing on the windowsill.
“Oh?” She meets my eyes with a small smile.
“Uh-huh. I’ve been craving steak since Spain. Not that we went hungry. Mak ordered seafood from a local restaurant that was good enough to melt the mind.”
“I know the one.” She nods. “On the beach near Tarifa, right?”
“That’s it.” I look at her curiously. “You’ve been there?”
“With Mak and Dimitry, a while ago.” She nods. “I love it. You know . . .” Her voice drifts off, and she looks past me, a faint line on her porcelain forehead.
“Tell me.” I watch her, enjoying every minute shift in her expression, every glimpse behind the mask she normally guards with such ferocity. Everything about Zin feels different, somehow, ever since the moment I caught her on the stairs of the plane.
Not to mention the fact that I can’t stop looking at her mouth and remembering how it felt wrapped around my cock.
Or at her ass, which looks ridiculously hot in those sweats.
Or at the soft curve of her breast that swells so temptingly out of her top that I almost tore the fucking thing off the moment she walked out of her bedroom.
“I’ve always loved southern Spain,” she says. “The food, the climate, all of it. And being up at the finca with Darya . . . it was nice,” she finishes.
“Nice?” I raise my eyebrows at her.
She rolls the glass in her hand. “I guess lately I’ve been wondering .
. . I love what I’ve built here,” she says, slightly defensively.
“But when I was in Madrid, I was looking at an old building. I saw it ages ago, thought it would make a fantastic club. Now it’s up for sale, and I’m seriously tempted to go for it. ”
She pauses, and I wait, watching her. I know how massive it is for her to talk openly about anything, particularly her business. I understand it, too. She didn’t get where she was by sharing her ideas.
But I didn’t miss the expression on her face earlier, when I told her I’d be the one interrogating Kozlov.
At first, I thought she was angry. It was only when I looked into her eyes that I realized what I was looking at: relief.
Not for the first time, I’m aware that I want to see that look a lot more often, just like I want to hear her laugh.
“It’s a massive project,” she says slowly.
“A year, probably more. Then there’s all the time it would take after that, to get it to where it needs to be.
Build the clientele, create the right mix.
” Her eyes gleam as she talks, her hand movements becoming more animated.
“I’d have to relocate, at least for a few years. ”
“It’s only a couple of hours’ flight.” I turn my glass on the table. “It’s doable. And maybe now is a good time to shift your focus for a while. You’ve got a hugely competent team here.”
“Better now, because of you.” She meets my eyes directly. “I’ve never really thanked you for everything you’ve done. I didn’t see—I hadn’t realized how exhausted they all were.”
“You’re running an empire, Zin.” I lift a shoulder. “One you’ve built from the ground up in record time and which has exploded faster than anyone could keep up with.”
We’re quiet for a moment. The music in the background is nice, some acoustic mix that swirls in the air with her perfume and the delicious scent of her cooking.
Rain is falling outside, and the low lighting in her apartment turns everything to a soft, mellow glow and her skin luminescent.
The knit top is slipping off one shoulder, exposing an ivory strap and a hint of lace that I find it hard to take my eyes off.
The night feels electrified and peaceful all at once, like being lost in a private world. Like we brought Spain back with us and are still living in the last golden rays of sunshine.
“Was it good, spending time with Darya?” I want to keep her talking, keep whatever precarious magic this is alive as long as I can.
“Unexpectedly good.” She looks up at me, half smiling. “I like her.” The faint surprise in her voice is revealing. “And you,” she says, clearly eager to change the subject, “was it good, seeing Mak and Roman?”
“Always.” I push my chair back, crossing one leg over the other. “Although they’re both such smug pricks, it’s a miracle I haven’t knocked either of them out before now. No idea how Dimitry puts up with them both.”
She gives the gurgle of laughter that I’m starting to ache to hear. “You’re friends, then? With Roman and Mak and Dimitry?”
“I guess so, yes.” I twist the stem of my glass, aware she’s watching me closely.
“It was different when I was in the forces. Then, the people you work with are family, brothers. You don’t think about it much.
It’s just there. Even now, I can still catch up with the boys from my old regiment for a beer, and within minutes we’re right back into the same banter.
But the reality is that outside of the job, our lives are miles apart. ”
Her eyes narrow curiously. “And you feel like with Mak and the others, your lives are more similar?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “Not that you’d know. Mak plays his cards closer than any fucker I’ve ever known.”
She laughs again, and I lean over the table, filling her glass with the last of the bottle. One of her legs is drawn up on the chair, her arm resting on her knee, the glass dangling between her fingers. Her eyes on mine are the deep, sparkling sapphire I love, the color of her unguarded self.
“I think maybe it’s that we all see the world the same way,” I say slowly. “I don’t ever need to question if Mak is doing the right thing, and he never second-guesses my decisions. Same with Roman and Dimitry.”
Zin nods. “I think I know what you mean,” she says quietly. “I didn’t expect to have anything in common with Darya. She’s married. To Roman, of all people.” Her wry eye roll makes me laugh. “She’s got a house full of children, and it’s obvious they’re the center of her world and vice versa.”
“But you’re friends,” I say, echoing her own words.
“I think we actually might be.” She frowns.
“It’s a bit like what you just said, about seeing the world the same way.
Darya knows our life. She knows how . . .
dark it can be.” Her eyes flicker to mine, then away again, and I see the shadow behind them that is always there, just waiting to be conjured up.
I want to hunt down every one of those shadows and cast them out forever, stand between her and whatever caused them until she forgets that she was ever lost to darkness.
“Roman told me some of what Darya went through.” I stand up and walk into the kitchen, then pour myself a whiskey and her a Disaronno.
“I saw some of it myself when we went in for Roman’s daughters.
” My hand tightens on the bottle as I remember the flat terror in Ofelia’s eyes, the ragged remains of her dress, and the wounds I doubt she will ever talk about but I knew damn well she had.
I caught a glimpse of the thin lines of blood beneath her arms, saw the way she winced when she moved for weeks afterward.
She always claimed Vilnus never actually used a blade on her, but I’ve lived too long with men who’ve endured torture to really believe that.
And I think Roman chose to believe her simply because his mind couldn’t face the alternative.
I look up to find Zin watching me with dark, guarded eyes. I come back around to the table and put the drink down in front of her.
“You both survived the darkness,” I say quietly. “I’d imagine that’s a good basis for friendship.”
I take my seat again, turning the whiskey on the table.
She stares at me, and I hold her eyes, wondering what it is she wants to say.
“Darya told me I should sleep with you.” Her words send electricity through my body with the force of a fucking cattle prod.
“Oh?” I’m pretty impressed that I sound so calm.
I certainly don’t fucking feel it.
“Uh-huh.” She holds my eyes, the color slowly mounting on her cheeks. “In fact, her exact advice was that we should have searingly hot sex.”
A slow pulse starts threading through my body. “You two really covered some ground.”
Her mouth curls. “I wasn’t sure whether or not I was going to take her advice.”
I lean back in my chair, eyeing her across the table. “That was never going to be an option, Zinaida.”
She quivers, then goes very still. Her nipples are starting to swell beneath the knit top, and my cock is pounding like a bastard.
“You know those sweats you’re wearing?”
She nods slowly, her eyes not leaving mine.
“They make your ass look fantastic.” I take a mouthful of whiskey. “But I think it’s time you took them off.”
She swallows, but doesn’t move.
“Then again,” I say, tilting my head to one side, “maybe you should start with that top, since your nipples are so hard they’re about to put holes in it.”
She stares at me. I stare right back.