and interesting men she'd ever met. He was strong, rugged, and brave. She could imagine his powerful arms wrapping around her, the feel of his broad chest against her breasts, the taste of his mouth, the intensity of his very blue gaze.
She drew in a breath, overwhelmed by her desire. He was just a man, a bartender, a wannabe actor. But while he didn't add up that well on paper, he sure did add up in person.
Or did he?
He'd lied to her a few minutes ago. He'd pretended that he had to get a bottle from some room behind the bar, but then he'd had no one to serve that liquor to. She knew what had really happened. He'd seen her walk into the bar, and he'd bailed. For some reason, he hadn't wanted to talk to her.
Was it because Ryland Jagger had been sitting at the bar? Was he worried he'd get caught in some scene between them? He seemed to be very concerned about keeping his job. She supposed she couldn't blame him for that. She just wished he'd been honest about it.
"Miss Ashton?"
She started. She hadn't heard Sylvia come up behind her. "Hello. Is Mr. Dimitrov ready to meet with me?"
"He is. I'll take you to him."
Sylvia didn't look thrilled to be escorting her into the back room, but Maya didn't care what she thought. She was just happy to get the meeting.
She'd researched Constantine before coming to the club. He had been born in Russia and emigrated to the US with his parents when he was twelve. The seventy-eight-year-old had started working in bars as a bouncer and then a bartender and then a bouncer in his early twenties. He'd opened his first club when he was twenty-eight and had gone on to open two other clubs including the Russia House, before he was forty. He'd made a fortune as a club owner, had married once, to Louisa, when he was in his forties. They'd had no children, and Constantine had gone into retirement when the former Russia House had been destroyed in a fire. He'd sold the property to his nephew, Alexander, who had reopened the club six months ago.
Constantine had had a few brushes with the law in his younger days and had been painted as a bit of a thug in her grandmother's journals. A bruiser kind of man, quick to anger, fast with his fists, a bit paranoid, always looking over his shoulder, but beneath all that angry bluster, her grandmother had thought she'd seen the heart of a good man. Hopefully, Maya would be able to see that, too.
When they entered the private lounge, she saw Constantine seated in a wingback chair by the window, sipping a drink, a newspaper open on the table in front of him.
"Constantine," Sylvia said, drawing his gaze upward. "This is Maya Ashton."
As she stared into his weathered face, his dark gaze, she remembered her grandmother's words: Constantine is dark and sometimes a little terrifying, a product of his turbulent childhood, but I think once I get past that, I'll see his true heart.
She cleared her throat. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Dimitrov."
He stared up at her. "You look like her."
"I've been told that."
"Sit down." He waved her into the chair across from him.
As she took a seat, she said, "Will your wife be joining us?"
"No. Louisa is not interested in this conversation. In fact, she would have preferred that I say no to this meeting, but I felt I owed it to you." He paused. "You don't have a drink. Get her a drink," he told Sylvia, as if she were nothing more than a waitress.
Sylvia stiffened. "Of course. I should have asked you what you'd like to drink."
"A glass of cabernet sauvignon."
"I'll get that for you right away."
As Sylvia left, she gazed back at Constantine. "Thanks for agreeing to see me."
"It's been a long time since I spoke to anyone about Natasha." He gave a disbelieving shake of his head. "I can hardly believe you're her granddaughter. She was barely older than you are now when she died. Are you an actress as well?"
"No, I'm a filmmaker. I'm going to make a movie about my grandmother."
"I've often wondered why no one ever made a movie about her. Perhaps, because her ending was too sad. Most people want a happy ending, so they can pretend the world is a good place."
That was a cynical comment, but she didn't want to talk philosophically. She