Chapter 11
Nadia
We walked hand in hand through the opulent palm-lined promenade of Atlantis Paradise Island Resort.
Caribbean noon sun filtered through gaps in the massive leaves, dappling our clasped hands with fractured light. Roman's palm was broad and rough, his fingertips calloused from years of gripping guns—that textured friction scraped against my skin with an impossible-to-ignore scorching heat.
Every step made my spine prickle. My heart hammered in my chest like a crazed rabbit. I could feel sweat starting to bead in my palm, that heavy emerald ring wedged between our knuckles, demanding attention.
"We've left the public areas, Mr. Sokolov." When we turned into the private elevator corridor leading to the penthouse suite, I finally tugged at the hand clamped around mine and lowered my voice. "Let go. You're about to break my fingers."
"I thought you were a professional actress." Not only did he not release me, he also tightened his grip even more cruelly. He tilted his chin toward the bellhop walking ahead of us, then turned his head slightly, dark brown eyes glinting with casual mockery. "Or are you uncomfortable?"
I immediately squeezed his hand back hard. "Uncomfortable? Don't underestimate me."
He laughed quietly and turned away without another word.
Leaving me silently cursing myself for letting him lead me by the nose.
The door unlocked with a soft click.
The moment those heavy double walnut doors shut behind us with a definitive "click," sealing out all outside eyes, Roman finally released my hand.
That domineering pressure and scorching warmth withdrew abruptly.
In the well-air-conditioned suite, air rushed into my damp palm, bringing a shiver of coolness. I instinctively tucked my left hand behind my back, rubbing my thumb hard against the knuckles he'd just gripped.
I looked up and finally took in our "safe haven."
The presidential suite at Atlantis Paradise Island Resort was staggeringly huge. Less a room than a modern palace suspended in mid-air. Soaring ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with unobstructed views of the Caribbean, the infinity pool's surface refracting golden shards of sunlight.
But what made me secretly relieved most was that this suite had two completely separate master bedrooms, even separated by a massive central living area.
"Wow, look at this place." I glanced around and couldn't help remarking, "I only pretend to be a rich person drinking champagne in a five-star hotel in my dreams."
"Jealous?" Roman raised an eyebrow.
"Of course I'm jealous." I rolled my eyes. "My old apartment—the whole thing wasn't as big as this living room."
"You're Mrs. Sokolova now." He shrugged. "You'll get used to it."
I didn't bother responding, just pointed at the door closest to the entrance. "I'm taking the east room. Since we're playing loving newlyweds, a closed suite door is enough. Inside, we follow the manor rules—separate beds, stay out of each other's way."
Roman was removing his suit jacket. He paused at my words, then tossed the jacket casually onto the sofa.
"Fine." He turned to look at me, a wicked smile curling his lips. "But if you get scared of the dark in the middle of the night, my door doesn't lock."
"I'm not a three-year-old." I snorted.
"No?" He tilted his head. "But I remember last night you were clutching me—"
"Shut up!" My face flushed as I cut him off. "That was an accident! I just... need time!"
"Of course." His grin got more infuriating. "But maybe my help could shorten that timeline."
"You—" I was too angry to speak, grabbed my bag, and rushed toward the bedroom. "Just don't think about entering my room!"
I slammed the door hard, deliberately turning the lock twice to make sure that bastard heard it loud and clear.
Leaning against the door, I exhaled a long breath.
The room was so quiet I could only hear the faint hiss of central air conditioning. I walked to the massive floor-length mirror, touched my burning cheeks, and cursed under my breath.
"Don't act like some clueless idiot, Nadia," I warned myself. "He's just using you, and you're using him. Got it? That moment of attraction is just the suspension bridge effect—it's only because he showed up when you were most afraid."
I took a deep breath, walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower, let the cold water stream over my body, trying to wash away that scent that had clung to me all day—Roman's cigars and sharp cologne.
But when I raised my hand to wipe water from my face, that heavy emerald ring on my ring finger glinted darkly through the mist, constantly reminding me of that man's presence.
"Fuck." I couldn't help cursing.
By the time I'd completely pulled myself together, changed into a simple emerald silk slip dress, dried my hair, and emerged from the bedroom, the sky outside had darkened.
The Caribbean sunset was spectacular—purple-red and orange-gold twilight like spilled paint buckets, spreading recklessly across the horizon.
The living room's main lights were off. Roman stood at the floor-to-ceiling window. He'd changed into a white linen shirt, hem tucked into impeccably tailored black dress pants. Even just his silhouette—those broad shoulders and narrow waist—was impossible to look away from.
Hearing my footsteps, he turned. His gaze traveled over me in the dim light with tangible weight, making me uncomfortable.
"I thought you planned to hide in that room until tomorrow morning." His voice carried low, husky amusement. "But the wait was worth it. That dress makes you look beautiful as an angel."
"I'd appreciate it more if you didn't complain." I avoided his invasive stare and walked to the island counter to pour myself ice water. "I'm hungry. Where are we eating dinner? Or are you planning to have the hotel's private butler bring foie gras and caviar to the room?"
"Since this is a trip, staying in the room the whole time would be boring." Roman glanced at his Patek Philippe. "Come on, let's check out the streets."
I had to admit, nighttime Bahamas had a wildness and vitality completely different from Chicago.
We didn't bring the whole entourage of bodyguards—Roman only had them maintain a safe distance in the shadows. We walked like ordinary tourists through streets filled with reggae music and tropical fruit fragrances.
But clearly, my luck wasn't great.
As we walked along the coastline searching for a decent restaurant, we discovered today was apparently some local holiday. Those elegantly decorated upscale seafood restaurants and French establishments were either already reserved for private parties or had hung "Closed" signs early.
We walked for nearly half an hour in the warm sea breeze. My stilettos clicked on the cobblestones, my heels starting to ache.
"So this is your meticulous honeymoon plan?" I stopped under a dim streetlight and looked at him, voice tinged with mockery. "Starve your bride to death on Caribbean streets? I'm guessing this is the most incompetent murder in Chicago mob history."
Roman had his hands in his pants pockets.
That handsome face showed no embarrassment—instead, my complaint made him smile with casual ease.
"My men could have the best restaurant in the city reopen in five minutes and have their head chef kneel on the ground cooking for you. Need me to make that call?"
"Don't." I rolled my eyes. "I don't want to eat dinner being watched."
Just then, an intensely rich aroma drifted over on the sea breeze—charcoal smoke, cumin, and some special hot sauce.
I turned toward the smell and spotted an incredibly crude roadside stand at the edge of the beach.
A shelter made from wooden posts, strung with cheap colored lights.
A heavyset local woman stood at a massive greasy grill, flipping sizzling conch meat and grilled chicken.
A few weathered plastic tables and chairs were scattered in front of the stand, where several shirtless locals sat laughing loudly, drinking cheap beer.
That place and Roman in his bespoke clothes existed in completely parallel universes.
My mischievous side suddenly took over.
"Since all those white-gloved waiters have clocked out," I jerked my chin toward that smoke-filled roadside stand, lifting the corner of my mouth in challenge, "we could go there, Mr. Sokolov?
Of course, if your precious stomach goes on strike without sterling silver utensils and expensive champagne, forget I said anything. "
I swear I only mentioned it casually, trying to score a point against this control-obsessed man. I'd even rehearsed in my head how he'd refuse with disgust furrowing his brow.
But things developed completely opposite to my expectations.
Roman followed my gaze, his eyes resting on that shabby stand for less than a second before turning back naturally, dark brown eyes flashing with a smile that made my heart skip.
"Lead the way, sweetheart."
He made an utterly gentlemanly gesture of "after you."
I froze in place like an idiot who'd punched cotton. "You're serious? That table probably had a stray dog on it a second ago, and there's definitely none of those vintage wines you usually drink."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Roman raised an eyebrow and answered with action.
He strode without hesitation into that stretch of beach filled with smoke and noise.
I hurried after him in my heels.
When we reached the stand, the previously boisterous locals involuntarily lowered their voices. Roman's oppressive presence was innate—even without a gun, without bodyguards, that dangerous aura of someone born to command still inspired instinctive awe in those around him.
But what truly surprised me wasn't others' reactions—it was his own.
I picked the most isolated, cleanest-looking plastic table. I thought he'd pull out an expensive handkerchief to wipe the chair before sitting, or complain about the sanitary conditions.