Albert’s gaze met mine in the rearview mirror, a spark of concern in his cold eyes.
I inhaled and glanced outside.
If what Kostya said was true, Ronan could have treated me like a useless whore a moment ago. I didn’t know if I had the strength to stop him even with Albert present. But he didn’t. He stopped and fixed my dress before things went too far.
After a silent and strained car ride, Ronan walked me up to my room. When we reached my door, I turned to him—breathless, waiting. His gaze settled like a heavy weight on my skin, heating me from the inside out. Transparency filled the gap between my white faux fur and his pressed black Armani suit. Longing, soft breaths, and cartoon hearts.
“Thank you . . . for lunch.”
His eyes lowered to my mouth, and I exhaled when his thumb skimmed across my bottom lip. “Klubnika.”
Strawberries?
My lip gloss. I tasted like strawberries.
His thumb pulled my bottom lip down slightly before it left me, the rough glide sending heat flaring inside. My gentle gaze met his, and, with a feeling of conviction, I knew I would let him do anything he wanted to me if he only came into my room.
I might as well have said that aloud because the sentiment blazed in the hall in a volatile wave.
Something lazy and hot flickered in his eyes, and then he took the key from my hand and unlocked the door. “Do svidaniya, kotyonok.”
He slipped the key into my coat pocket, and I watched his dark silhouette walk away.
nazlanmak
(v.) saying no and meaning yes
I didn’t see Ronan for two days. I spent my time thinking about him, being the worst private investigator to exist, and deleting my papa’s and Ivan’s voicemails.
Food—thoughtfully, vegan—was delivered like clockwork by the same teenage boy with poor customer service skills. This was a relief because, one, it fixed the issue of my limited funds, and two, it let me know Ronan hadn’t forgotten about me after that very intense and confusing kiss.
I went to the opera house twice during busier hours, but each time I questioned someone about my mother, they stared speechlessly at me, made the sign of the cross on their chest, or simply turned and walked away. It was frustrating, to say the least, but also . . . disconcerting.
My only relief was, I didn’t see the man with tattoos on his hands again, and I was much more vigilant while out and about.
I shut the door, having just returned from sightseeing. One could say the priority to find information about my mother had become jumbled with the beauty of the city and thoughts of a generous man. Or maybe I was just stalling due to an uneasy feeling in my gut that threatened to open a Pandora’s box I’d never be able to close again.
I’d just slipped off my boots and hung up my coat when a knock sounded on the door. I knew it was only dinner, but I was taken aback to find Ronan delivering it himself. Heat and anticipation rushed to the pit of my stomach, battling with uncertainty at how we left things two days ago.
“Hi,” I said on a shallow breath.
He smiled. “Kotyonok.”
When I opened the door for him, he stepped inside, his large body and presence sucking the air out of the space. He strolled into my room like he owned it—and maybe he did. Maybe he was a successful hotelier. Curiosity bloomed, but I kept it inside. I asked him about his occupation before, and I refused to admit I was so nervous about kissing him I didn’t hear a word.
He set the bag on the table by the window, and I told him, “I’ve never been as well-fed as I have in the last few days.”
“Not surprising, Ms. French Fries.” He glanced at me, then down at the flowy sunflower dress I wore. A little leg showed between the hem and my thigh-high socks, and the mere touch of his gaze on that sliver of skin sent my heartbeat off its tracks.
I leaned against the dresser while he moved around the room touching my stuff. The Vanity Fair on the nightstand, a tube of strawberry lip gloss. He lifted a headband with the tip of his finger. Apparently, I was an interesting creature.
“So this is where moy kotyonok sleeps,” he said, standing at the foot of my neatly made bed.