Chapter 30
ZINAIDA
“Are you sure you don’t want to come out with Luke and me?
” I ask Ofelia half an hour later as we have champagne in the foyer.
Aside from brief congratulations, we’ve barely had a moment to speak to her.
After a performance I already know will be the talk of London’s classical scene for weeks, Ofelia has been the star of the after-party, besieged by new fans and reviewers alike, as well as some of London’s top musicians stopping to offer their congratulations.
“No, that’s fine.” Her face is flushed, her eyes feverish, and she shifts from one foot to the other, searching the foyer just as she did when we arrived, despite the fact that her brother is standing quietly at her side.
“Mickey and Lars are taking me out to celebrate.” She turns to Luke.
“Luis will be with us,” she says quietly. “You don’t need to worry.”
“I’ve got security too, Luke,” says Mickey calmly, smiling at us. “We’ve got it from here, I give you my word.”
Luke nods unsmilingly. “Will Alexei be joining you?” I don’t miss the grim edge to his voice.
Mickey’s eyes narrow. “No,” he answers coldly. “He won’t.”
For a moment Luke and Mickey lock eyes. Whatever passes between them, it’s clearly enough to reassure Luke, because when he turns back to me his expression is resigned.
“Ofelia.” Smiling at the music critic gushing over her performance, I steer her away from the crowd. “I don’t want to interfere . . .” I begin.
Ofelia turns on me, her eyes flashing. “Then don’t,” she says sharply.
“I’m nearly twenty years old, Zinaida, and I’ve got more keepers than a rare specimen in the zoo.
I don’t need another one, no matter how well-meaning you are.
” She takes a deep breath, clearly battling herself for control.
“I’m truly grateful you and Luke came tonight,” she goes on in a calmer tone.
“It means a lot to me, honestly. I just . . . I need some space.”
I smile at her. “I understand that,” I say quietly. “If you ever need more of it, you have a standing invitation at my Mayfair club, you know that, don’t you?”
She nods. I don’t miss the sheen of tears over her eyes.
After years of being onstage myself, then managing dancers, I know the signs of overstimulation and post-performance emotion all too well.
“Just take it easy tonight,” I say gently, smiling at her.
“Try not to drink too much too fast, or at least, not until you’ve put something in your stomach.
If you find yourself suddenly exhausted, ask your brother to take you home.
And if all else fails”—I wave my phone at her—“you have my number, as well as Luke’s.
There’s always a bed for you, and an ear, if you need either. ”
“Thank you.” Ofelia smiles rather shakily. “Really. But I’ll be fine.”
Somehow, I rather doubt that, I think resignedly, remembering Alexei Petrovsky’s grim face and iron tension beside me throughout Ofelia’s performance.
But though I might be close to her parents, I know there are boundaries I can’t cross, and right now, those lines are too close for comfort.
So I make general conversation with Mickey and Lars, who is as sweet and harmless as a giant golden retriever. It’s hard to believe he is a software genius worth millions, and even harder to understand why he and Alexei are so close. I can’t imagine two men being any more different than they are.
“We’re taking her to Midnight Chocolate,” Lars tells me, beaming as if a late-night dessert bar is the height of sophistication. “They do an unbelievable chocolate fountain.”
Ofelia’s less-than-thrilled expression makes Luke’s grim one soften slightly. “That sounds brilliant,” he says, bestowing an approving look on Lars. “Nice choice.”
“Amazing,” mutters Ofelia, casting her brother a resentful look.
Mickey just shrugs, still smiling quietly.
“Cheers, Luke,” he says, gripping his hand. “Thanks again for coming.”
“You’re welcome.” Luke glances at me. “I’m just going to have a quick word with Luis. I’ll meet you at the door.”
I nod, say my goodbyes, and start edging toward the exit. I’m almost there when an uncomfortably strong hand grips my arm.
“Miss Melikov.” I turn, masking my dislike of unwanted physical touch with the poise of long practice, to find Rhys Stewart glaring at me.
“Mr. Stewart.” I give him a knowing smile. “It’s been some time since we’ve met.” I lift an eyebrow just enough to remind him that on the last occasion we did meet, he was bent over a bed in one of the Quartier’s back rooms, being pegged by one of my more adventurous girls.
“Luke Macarthur is a damned good man, or at least he was.” His voice is low and shakes slightly. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near you or your . . . operation. Cut him loose, before he loses whatever shred of integrity he still possesses.”
Despite the sudden, sickening lurch in my stomach, I keep my customary poker face intact. “You seem very interested in my private life, Mr. Stewart. Why is that, exactly?”
His expression darkens even further. “Luke Macarthur and I know a lot of the same people,” he says tersely. “People I can’t afford to have knowing my secrets.”
Was that an open threat?
Rhys Stewart is no lowbrow criminal. He’s high enough up in the shadowy world to have been given membership to the Quartier and dangerous enough to be responsible for several high-level assassinations, all carefully disguised as accidents.
I should know. I helped orchestrate one of them.
And now he’s threatening Luke.
The sickening feeling in my belly grows, made poisonous by fear.
I have to put an end to this. Right now, before he gets any ideas.
I give Rhys a dismissive smile. “Luke is a nice handbag, Mr. Stewart, nothing more.” I affect a bored tone, scanning the crowd as if already distracted.
“I’d have thought you knew better than to concern yourself with my affairs.
As everyone knows, they never last for very long.
” I turn back to face him. “I do hope to see you at the ball,” I murmur and have the satisfaction of seeing his eyes flare with interest. I breathe an internal sigh of relief.
For the moment, at least, it seems Luke has been forgotten.
Idiot, I think contemptuously as I turn away. So predictable.
To my surprise, Luke is standing directly behind me.
Did he hear that? I eye him anxiously, but he’s smiling as if nothing at all is amiss.
“Shall we?” There’s nothing in his reassuring hand on my waist that implies he’s upset with me.
I can’t say the same for the way he’s looking at Rhys. That stare could freeze a tropical beach.
“Stewart,” he says coldly.
“Macarthur.” Rhys’s tone matches his own.
For a second the two men face off. Then Luke turns me toward the exit, and Rhys is gone, absorbed by the crowd.
Since it’s still early on a Saturday night, Luke heads for the Quartier instead of home. So close to Christmas, the clubs are all running at full capacity, and neither of us can afford to take the whole night off.
“Did you catch the vibe between Ofelia and Alexei?” he says as soon as we pull out of the parking garage.
Extremely relieved he seems disinterested in my exchange with Rhys Stewart, I nod. “I did.”
Luke shakes his head, frowning. “That is not going to end well. Roman clearly doesn’t know about it, or Alexei would be dead already.”
“I’m not sure Alexei is necessarily in the wrong here.
” I meet his skeptical look. “You saw him,” I say.
“It’s obvious that Alexei didn’t want to be there tonight.
He arrived late—deliberately, I would guess—to avoid disturbing Ofelia before her performance, then left before he could disrupt the aftermath.
My guess is that she has a high-level crush, and Alexei is doing his best not to encourage it. ”
“Hmm.” Luke’s skeptical expression doesn’t change. “It looked like more than that to me. Why are you laughing?” He gives me a quizzical look.
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “You just sound exactly like a protective father.”
“Ha.” Despite his light tone, there’s a strangely grim twist to his mouth.
“Doubt that’s something I’m ever likely to know much about.
” His phone rings, saving me from asking what he might have meant.
It’s Anatoly with a question about one of the functions we have on.
To my sneaking relief, their conversation lasts the rest of the way to the Quartier.
Thinking about Luke and fatherhood at the same time raises a thousand questions I feel completely unprepared to answer.
Particularly after Rhys Stewart’s not-so-subtle threats.
Not to mention after watching Luke with Ofelia tonight.
Without warning, all the doubts Darya helped me push aside, about Luke’s place in my world and what that world will do to him, come flooding back with a vengeance.
A man like Luke deserves to be a father.
I think of the gentle way he dealt with Ofelia, the utter trust in her eyes when she looked at him.
He deserves to have a daughter who stares at him exactly like that, I think. Like he’s the hero of her world, not the demon threatening to destroy it.
And that’s something I just can’t give him.
Even if I can have children—something I wouldn’t know, having been put on birth control by my father in my early teens and having chosen to keep myself on it ever since—I know I’m not cut out for motherhood.
I don’t belong in the sunlit life shining out from the photograph beside Luke’s bed. And regardless of Darya’s assurances, or Luke’s seeming determination to remain in my world, deep down I know that expecting him to remain in it is fundamentally wrong.
The car pulls up outside the Quartier, and I open the door, accepting Anatoly’s arm before Luke can ask any awkward questions. “Thanks for filling in for Charlie,” I say without looking at him. “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”