Chapter 29
LUKE
“I’m sorry to put this on you, Luke.” Roman sounds about as harried as I’ve ever heard him.
“It’s Ofelia’s first piano recital tonight, and we promised we’d be in London for it.
But we’re in an absolutely shit state at this end.
Three kids with chicken pox, plus Abby’s due to go into labor at any minute.
I hate to ask it, brother, but if you and Zinaida could manage it, is there any chance you could go in our place? ”
“Of course,” I answer without hesitation. “Just send the details through, and we’ll be there.”
I tap Zin on the leg and point to the notepad on the table in front of her. Ofelia, piano recital, tonight, I write.
She nods immediately. Of course, she mouths.
“Thank Christ.” Roman’s relief is palpable. “I owe you, brother. I mean that.”
“It’s nothing.” I stand up, trailing my fingers up Zin’s leg as I do, enjoying her swift intake of breath, the way her body quivers under my touch. “Anything we need to be aware of?”
“I imagine you know as much about classical music as I do,” he says dryly, “so there’s no point in me giving you any technical background.
Mickey is going to do his best to be there as well.
But he’s in Miami with Lars Andersson and Darya’s brother, Alexei, so they may or may not get to London in time.
I’m not sure if Lars and Alexei will be with him or not, but I’ve reserved you all front-row seats under my name in case they are. ”
“No problem. It will be good to see them if they make it. I haven’t caught up with Lars and Alexei since Miami.”
Lars Andersson is a tech whiz kid turned billionaire software developer and Alexei Petrovsky’s closest friend. He was instrumental in helping rescue Roman’s daughter and in the years since has become something of a mentor to Roman’s son Mickey.
The sound of a crying baby cuts down the line. “I have to go,” Roman says abruptly. “Christ, if you think flying bullets are stressful, wait until you’ve got three sick kids. Thanks again.” He ends the call without anything further, and I put the phone down.
“That sounded like quite the circus.” Zin looks inquiringly at me.
“Yup.” I fold my arms, grinning. “And I’m not going to lie—I take a sadistic satisfaction in imagining the mighty Roman Borovsky brought to his knees by crying babies.”
We arrive at Amaryllis Fleming Concert Hall in South Kensington just before seven that evening. The temperature is below freezing, the air like a razor on the skin.
“Roman’s bloody right,” I say, pulling Zin’s coat tighter around her small frame.
“He really does owe us for this one. Christ, it’s cold.
” I usher her into the warmth, resisting the urge to pull her close to me.
We’re still not there, not in public, at least. Her entire staff might have seen through us weeks ago, but everyone is still maintaining the facade of not knowing we spend every spare minute in each other’s beds.
If I’m honest, the novelty of secrecy is beginning to wear thin. Particularly on nights like this, when Zin looks stunning in a black strapless sheath, and all I want to do is pull her to my side and make it clear to every damned man in the place exactly who she belongs to.
Put it on a leash, Macarthur.
Feeling a slight touch brush my side, I glance down to see Zin peeking up at me as she slips her arm through my own. She lifts a shoulder, coloring faintly.
I cover her hand with my own, trying not to let my fierce surge of triumph show. “Hey,” I murmur, my mouth close to her ear. “Is this our first date, do you think?”
Her soft gurgle of laughter turns me warm inside.
“Uncle Luke.”
I turn, my eyes widening at the vision before us. “Ofelia!” I stare at her in amazement. “You look absolutely stunning.”
“Thank you.” She colors slightly, kissing Zinaida on both cheeks. “I’m so glad you could both make it.”
“Of course.” Zinaida holds her hands, smiling warmly. “Luke is right. You look incredible, Ofelia.”
Dressed in a halter-neck midnight silk dress, her hair swept up in an elegant roll, with subtle makeup and diamonds glittering down her neck, Ofelia Borovsky isn’t just beautiful.
She’s five feet ten of absolute knockout, and by the awed looks of every man in the foyer, that’s not an isolated opinion.
She’s also nervous as hell.
Several years after her horrific ordeal at the hands of the Orlovs, Ofelia hides her emotions with a skill to rival Zinaida’s.
But I knew the child she was then, and I’ve watched her grow since.
I can recognize the signs. The feverish hint to her cheeks.
The way her eyes glitter as they roam the room, as if she’s searching for something.
Or someone.
“I know that your brother will do everything he can to be here,” I say, touching her shoulder reassuringly.
“Oh.” She leaps beneath the touch like a startled deer. “Mickey. Yes.” Her smile is oddly brittle. “Is Mickey—is he coming alone, do you know?”
“Roman wasn’t sure if Alexei and Lars would be with him or not.”
“Oh,” she says again. The way her eyes flare sets my sixth sense tingling. The lobby bell goes, and Ofelia glances nervously around the emptying foyer, visibly pale. “Well,” she says, her voice quivering slightly, “I’d better go and get ready.”
“Ofelia.” Zinaida steps tentatively forward, her expression concerned. “Would you like me to help you? I—well, I know a little about going on stage in front of a lot of people.”
“Um.” Ofelia bites her lip, her eyes sliding slightly guiltily to me, and for a moment, the elegant vision is gone and I see the scared child she once was.
“I know it’s not the same as having your family here, sweetheart,” I say gently, smiling at her. “But it might be nice for you to have someone backstage to keep you company?”
Her eyes flash around the room a final time, and I can tell she’s still hoping that Mickey will walk through the door. “Yes,” she says quietly, and it breaks my heart to see the light of hope in her eyes fading. “Thank you, Zinaida. I’d actually like that.”
The faint look of surprise in Zinaida’s eyes makes my heart twist. Something tells me she’s not at all used to this—to offering emotional support or asking for it.
I stand aside and nod toward the rear door. “After you, ladies.”
“You’re coming with us?” Ofelia rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the softening in her shoulders and face, the slight ease of tension. She might no longer be a teenager, but she carries scars that won’t ever fade, both physically and mentally.
I watch the two of them glide through the foyer ahead of me, one tall, the other tiny, both so stunning the crowd parts before them as if they’re walking the red carpet, and yet also vulnerable in ways I know that crowd cannot begin to understand.
I have a sudden, visceral urge to gather them both close, to put my body between them and any threat, real or imagined.
In this moment I am not just Zinaida’s security, or even her lover.
I’m Roman’s delegate, responsible for his daughter.
I’m the wall standing between those two brave, beautiful women and the darkness that both of them were born to, that neither of them will ever truly be able to escape.
This is what family feels like.
The realization hits with such strength it knocks the breath from my body, and my footsteps almost falter.
The last time I felt this kind of protective urge was the night I packed a bag for my sister and me and ran from our stepfather’s fists with Liana’s hand in my own.
Back then, I knew she was mine to protect, that it was my job to shield her from any threat she might face.
But for a long time now Liana has not only been safe and happy, but likely far better shielded from danger than she would ever be under my personal care.
She and her family live in a peaceful, sunlit world, where men with guns and dark intentions have no shadows in which to lurk.
Liana will always be my family. But she no longer needs me.
Zinaida does.
And tonight, so does Ofelia.
Roman didn’t just ask me to come tonight to sit in the front row and cheer his daughter on. He asked me to come because he knows that, if it comes to it, I will put my body between his daughter and any threat she might face, without a second’s thought.
Because that is what family does.
The door to Ofelia’s dressing room closes behind her and Zinaida, and I stand outside it, hands folded.
I stand in the wings with Ofelia until the stage manager frowns at me to leave.
“It’s fine, Uncle Luke,” she whispers, although I can almost hear her teeth chattering. “Go and take your seat. I’ll be fine now. There’s security everywhere.”
She’s right. Beyond the theater security, Luis, one of Roman’s drivers, is hovering discreetly in the background. We’ve exchanged a few words, but wisely, Luis knows better than to exert his authority over me when it comes to Roman’s children.
“You’re sure?” I smile gently at her.
“She’s fine, Luke.” Zinaida slips her arm through mine again and touches Ofelia reassuringly on the shoulder. “You’ve got this, Ofelia. I know you do.”
“Thank you.” Ofelia squeezes her hand gratefully, looking between us. “Thank you both so much for being here tonight.”
We turn away to find our seats, but not before I notice the way her eyes still scour the hall, sweeping back and forth over the empty chairs in the front row with “Reserved” signs on them.
“Mickey hasn’t answered my texts,” I tell Zin as we make our way to our seats, checking my phone for the umpteenth time.
Her smile is slightly oblique. “I’m not sure it’s Mickey she’s waiting on.”
Before I have a chance to ask her what she means, a man shuffles into the row next to us and takes the chair beside my own.
“Excuse me,” he says. His cultivated accent is oddly familiar.
I glance at him, then do a double take. “Ambassador Stewart?”