49. Isabel
During the tango I was at the mercy of Sergei’s Russian temper, which he somewhat successfully channeled into the tortured lover he was supposed to be in our dance.
I wanted to tell him I was sorry. Sorry that I was in love with another man. Sorry that it could never be him. There were so many things I was sorry about but Sergei was not in a forgiving mood, which again worked well for the tango.
When we were announced as the winners, people cheered for an encore. Usually, Sergei would discuss with me what to dance for an encore. Not this time. He requested the song, Fly Me To The Moon and dragged me onto the floor for a Slow Foxtrot.
It was my turn to be pissed. Not only was the Slow Foxtrot the most challenging ballroom dance, I was also not wearing the right shoes. I spit out curse words in French and hissed. “Are you insane? I could get hurt dancing the Foxtrot in these heels.”
“You won’t get hurt,” Sergei grinned. “Unlike the capitalist, I will always be there to catch you when you fall.”
But I didn’t fall and the Foxtrot ended to roaring applause.
The emcee invited everyone onto the dance floor, and before Sergei could twirl me into a waltz I took a few steps back. “Go ask Pauline for this dance, it’s her turn… She adores you Sergei, and if you let her, she’ll make you the happiest man in the world.”
Sergei studied my face, in no mood to be nice. “I don’t need you to tell me what will make me happy, malishka. But fine, go to your capitalist. I’ll still be here when things between the two of you eventually fall apart. And fall apart they will, trust me.”
Knowing Sergei, his emotion was doing the talking, and tomorrow he would think more clearly. I kissed him gently on the cheek. “Just remember this, we’ll always have the dance floor, Sergei. Always. No one can take that away from us.”
I strolled back to Meg and Roman, and my eyes landed on Steven where he stood near the doors of the hall. For a few long, tense seconds he held my gaze, the model of detachment.
And then he nodded.
He nodded as if acknowledging that I’d passed some kind of test. And as if he hadn’t put the effort of the century into destroying my life. Twice.
I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Was I just supposed to be grateful for this morsel of acknowledgment? I think not. For all I cared, he could go straight to hell.
Then Roman was behind me, hand possessively on the small of my back, his mouth grazing my ear. “Don’t worry about him. Let’s go home, my sweet. This night is ours. And tonight you’re mine.”
* * *
As the threeof us drove home, I watched Roman’s profile etched by the scant light of the pale moon. Even with all that power entrenched in him, he wasn’t the elusive blueblood billionaire tonight. For now Roman was just a guy on a date, and the whole world be damned.
It was like he could read my mind. He reached for my hand and put my fingers to his lips, his eyes never leaving the road. “I’m going to turn one of the ballrooms at Belmont Manor into a studio, and you’re going to teach me how to tango.” He glanced at me. “Will you do that?”
The affection that slipped into his features didn’t do my composure any good. I willed myself not to melt under his adoring stare. “It’s as if you have completely forgotten you have an empire to run. Imagine the hate I’m going, to get luring you away from the business to teach you some Latin moves.”
He turned the charm tap wide open and smiled. “That’s why you living at Belmont Manor would make all of it so much easier to do.”
“Wow, that was smooth, sliding that in there. Well done.”
Meg groaned from the back. “My dad is giving me shit about another pizza delivery. He wants to know who the punk is he’s making free pizza for.”
Roman laughed. “I take it I’m the punk. I’ve been called a few things, but punk is new.”
He leaned over me, removed a sterling silver credit card holder from the glovebox and handed it to Meg. “Tell your dad this punk doesn’t expect free pizza. Put it on the card. Leave a 200% tip to show our appreciation.”
I didn’t have to look to know Meg was salivating at the prospect of spending Roman’s money. “Cool, thanks,” she said. “And by the way I refuse to feel bad that you have to pay for dinner and booze, because if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be sitting next to your wet dream.”
“Jesus, Meg,” I protested with a chuckle. “And also, what booze are you talking about?”
“Roman told me my vodka cocktail wasn’t fit for human consumption, and I told him then next time he can foot the bill for good shit that his delicate insides can take. So he texted Steven a list of hoity-toity alcoholic beverages for us, and to have it delivered by the time we got home.”
It was hard not to smile at the fact that the viper was forced to supply us with alcohol. And in a timely manner no less. Call me petty, but satisfaction blossomed in my smile.
Meg of course had ordered an obscene amount of booze, as if we were counting down the hours to the apocalypse. I thanked the goddesses that nobody could see the boxes of booze stacked up at our front door.
I glanced at Roman, shaking my head at him for encouraging Meg. He winked at me. “You have to admit, she has a point. Without her we might still be pining away in our separate corners of the world.”
“Damn straight,” Meg added, and shoved the boxes away to unlock the front door. “And look at you two lovebirds now.”
There also happened to be a slick black bag with the Belmont crest gracing the front, discreetly tucked behind one of the boxes. Presumably Roman’s overnight bag.
So, not only did Steven have to buy alcohol but he also had to pack a bag for Roman’s night at my place. That had to hurt. And it only made me smile more.