59. Made You Look
MADE YOU LOOK
“Do you want kids?”
I roll my head to the left slowly. Lev is, ostensibly, as much on vacation as I am.
But while I’m reclined on my back, wearing a floppy hat and a bikini, enjoying the sunshine, he’s seated in the shade, clad in his typical black uniform of a button-down and slacks.
He might have undone an extra button of his shirt, but that’s it.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Would you want kids with someone else?”
I wish he weren’t wearing sunglasses. It makes it even harder to read his impassive expression.
“No.” I readjust my position on the yellow cushion covering the metal chair so I can resume staring at the dazzling view. “No, I wouldn’t want kids with anyone else.”
A sparrow flits between branches on a lemon tree, then lands on the terrace railing, right next to the opening that marks the start of hand-carved stairs leading down to a private beach I’ve yet to explore.
Italy was the last place I expected Lev to bring me for what he unexpectedly referred to as our “honeymoon.” I’d assumed that, like Chicago, this was a part of the world closed off to me forever.
Yet Lev appears unconcerned. Men accompanied us on the plane and during the drive to this villa, but we’re entirely alone here.
Here, where it’s picturesque and warm and the air smells sweet and salty.
There’s a pool, which the loungers are arranged around, behind it a dazzling backdrop of blue—turquoise water and cerulean sky.
The villa is perched cliffside, and we’re so close to the Mediterranean that I can hear the sea crashing against shore and rock below.
There isn’t a single cloud visible, unless you count the brooding man to my left.
I didn’t ask for this trip; he offered it.
Lev has been in a strange mood since he returned from Chicago four days ago.
I don’t know if something happened while he was there or if the time apart was a reminder of his former, less complicated life, but I’m tired of existing on eggshells.
Of constantly worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing, of not displaying my gratitude properly by being as unobtrusive of a presence as possible.
I could have made different choices. So could he.
No one made Lev offer to marry me. Had anyone else but me known that was the plan, they would have tried to talk him out of it. I might have made small progress with Maksim and Elena, but I’m under no delusions that they think I belong.
I glance at Lev out of the corner of my eye.
He hasn’t moved, remaining in that still yet vigilant position he’s mastered, seeming content to sit in silence now that we’ve covered the topic of procreation.
I wonder if he’s working through a list of appropriate honeymoon subjects, although I suppose kids are a decision you’re supposed to discuss before getting married.
“What’s that?” I vault upright, standing and walking over to the edge of the pool.
“What?” Lev is beside me in an instant, immediately on alert. He raises his sunglasses to the top of his head, squinting at the surface of the water.
I have approximately five seconds until he realizes this is a ruse—probably less.
I step back and shove—gravity, momentum, and mostly surprise the only reasons I manage to move him at all.
He nearly recovers his equilibrium, teetering for what feels like minutes but is likely milliseconds before falling with a loud splash that soaks my feet.
Lev’s expression when he emerges is the most comical sight I’ve ever seen. Some mix of incredulity and judgment at my immaturity. At least it finally fractured that fucking mask he’d been wearing.
“You think that was funny?”
I can’t reply; I’m laughing too hard to speak. Which is an answer in itself.
A smile appears as he listens to my laugh. “Come here.”
I shake my head, backing away from the ledge. “No.”
I was planning on swimming. But later. I styled my hair and applied makeup earlier.
I feel pretty, and I’m vain enough to care about staying that way.
Especially since recent days revealed details about the faceless women I’d always assumed wanted him.
Victoria’s personality might be chilly, but most men would consider her hot. The maid was beautiful too.
“Carina.” He says my name, dark and low and threatening, and it’s thrilling.
Parts of Lev’s world scare me, but others are equally enticing. There’s a rush to danger that I was oblivious to before I met him. It’s addictive, associated with Lev because I know he’s fully capable of that brutality. I also have complete faith he would never hurt me.
He doesn’t treat me like I’m breakable or incapable, the way Salvatore always did. There’s new definition to my muscles that I didn’t really notice until I put this bikini on earlier. And a few fading bruises from colliding with the mat.
A gust of citronella and lemon-scented air tugs at the brim of my hat. I pull it down more securely.
Lev swipes dripping hair out of his eyes, which never leave me. His sunglasses are visible through the clear water, resting on the tiled floor, but he makes no attempt to retrieve them before taking a step forward.
Automatically, I take another step back, left calf colliding with another lounger.
There’s at least a dozen arranged on the patio.
I gave up on trying to count the number of rooms indoors, but this villa is obviously intended to house more than two people.
Crowds swarmed the sides of the streets during the drive here, but this seaside oasis feels entirely isolated.
“I don’t feel like swimming.”
Lev’s gaze glints with mirth. “Neither did I.”
“You needed to lighten up. All you’ve done today is scowl and basically wear a suit. At least I”—I gesture to myself—“look like I’m on a vacation.”
I feel his appraisal like a physical touch, brushing along my breasts and down my stomach, settling low in my pelvis. I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry, as I struggle to recall why I’m resisting. As his predatory expression turns downright feral.
Lev’s fingers work down the row of buttons, opening his shirt far faster than I could have. He balls up the black fabric and tosses it where he was sitting earlier. “Better?”
And worse.
Water continues to drip from his hair, pooling in the shallow hollow of his collarbone, sluicing down his defined chest and over his ridged abdomen.
His assortment of scars is all visible, the healed tissue a shade paler than his natural skin tone.
The one nearest to his shoulder is pink, the savage slice I bandaged years ago still the longest.
I scan the scars as though they’re not a map I have memorized, trying to recall the questions I resolved to ask during this trip to clarify what our future will look like.
I should wait to voice those, right? He told me to pack for two weeks.
Thirteen days is a lot of awkward silence to sit through.
“You should put on some sunscreen,” I advise. “Unless you want to look like a lobster later.”
I expect him to act dismissive, the way he does when I suggest he drink less or smoke never, but Lev nods, wading over to the edge.
“Bring it to me?”
“It won’t stay on when you’re already wet.”
Lev waits expectantly, arms resting on the blue porcelain tiles that border the pool.
I sigh before retrieving the sunscreen from the shade, approaching slowly.
I set the bottle down about three feet from where Lev is standing, very aware why he’s trying to coax me closer.
He’ll easily be able to reach the sunscreen once he hauls himself out of the water, which is what he’ll need to do to apply it anyway.
He grins, noticing my caution. “You’re braver than that, baby.”
The husky endearment makes me shiver despite the heat. Lev has never called me that before. I wouldn’t have guessed the word was even part of his English vocabulary.
I pick up the bottle of sunscreen again, moving it all the way to the edge.
I’m anticipating it, but his speed manages to catch me off guard anyway. So does suddenly being surrounded by water, the temperature cooler than I was expecting since I spent the past hour watching sunlight reflect off the surface.
I surface with a gasp, grabbing my hat and flinging it on the patio before it can float too far away. Once both hands are free, I send a wave of water Lev’s way. “You asshole.”
He’s laughing, an infrequent sound that has me fighting a smile. But I do battle it, flicking black tears off my cheeks. My messed-up makeup probably has me resembling a melted wax doll. I splash more water on my face, hoping it’ll clear the remaining residue.
“Be brave, baby,” I mock in my best attempt at a Russian accent. “See if calling me that ever works again, mudak.”
Lev’s eyebrows lift, his expression almost impressed. I’m positive it’s because I swore in Russian, not that he’s intimidated by the threat. “You started it.”
I have no retort to that. Because, yes, I did.
I roll my eyes, then twist so I’m floating on my back. I’m in the water now, might as well enjoy it. Closer to the surface, I can feel the sun’s warmth soaking my damp skin. It’s like lying on the lounger, except even more relaxing, not that I’ll tell Lev that.
The tranquility is interrupted by a wet slap. I follow the sound to where Lev’s pants now lie on the tiles. Lev’s pants and boxers, rather, since I can see the elastic band. Black, of course.
He picks up the sunscreen and holds it toward me. “I can’t reach.”
Déjà vu as I recall the many times I said that to him. I’d buy dresses that were difficult to fasten for that exact reason, wanting the excuse of asking him to assist. Reveling in the sensual way he’d slide the zipper down, fingers grazing my spine, until the anticipation became unbearable.
I flip around and swim over. His eyes lower to watch droplets slide into my cleavage when I stand. Tension hums between us, thickening the humid air even more, as I squirt coconut-scented liquid onto my palm.