Sleight of Fantasy: Sasha Urban Series: Book 4

by Dima Zales

  And before I can express my thoughts on the matter, he hangs up.

  I sip my tea and ponder the reality of my situation.

  I am at Nero’s place.

  Which is a confusing situation, to say the least.

  As though in an effort to befuddle me further, Nero places a bowl of freshly made salad in front of me and goes back to the fridge.

  “I’m not hungry,” I say but examine the gorgeous-looking dish.

  “Just eat as much as you can,” Nero suggests, opening the fridge.

  I spear some salad with a fork and gingerly put it into my mouth.

  Wow.

  Either I’m hungrier than I realized, or this is the best salad I’ve ever tasted.

  I wolf down my bowl to the sound of something sizzling on the stove.

  “Potatoes with mushrooms,” Nero explains when he spots me glancing furtively in his direction.

  “Smells delicious,” I mumble, swallowing the last of my salad.

  Nero brings over the whole skillet, puts down two plates, and ladles a huge serving onto mine.

  Despite the salad, my stomach angrily growls at the sight.

  How unladylike.

  And he heard it.

  How else can I explain the smile that’s touching the corners of Nero’s eyes?

  Stabbing a few bits of potato and mushroom, I jam the forkful into my mouth.

  A moan of pleasure accidentally escapes my lips.

  The smile is gone from his eyes, but their limbal rings thicken. To his credit, Nero doesn’t say or do anything to indicate that he heard me.

  “You eat, I’ll be right back,” he says, and before I can argue, he walks out of the kitchen.

  By the time he’s back, I’ve finished half my plate.

  He plates some food for himself and attacks it with the gusto of a hungry street dog.

  “Some music?” He points at the smart speaker nearby.

  Since my mouth is full, I just nod.

  “Alexa,” Nero says in his deep voice. “Play ‘Gangnam Style.’”

  I’m so surprised by his choice that I nearly choke on a mushroom.

  The beats of the most-watched YouTube video ever made begin too loudly, so Nero asks the speaker to lower the volume.

  I swallow and say, “I thought you’d put on Johnny Cash or Leonard Cohen or something. Not—”

  “Because if my voice is deep, I must like singers with deep voices?” The smile is back in the corners of Nero’s eyes.

  “Well, no, but I didn’t exactly think you’d like K-Pop.” I pointedly spear more potatoes with my fork. “Unless you just like this one song?”

  “K-Pop seamlessly mixes some of my favorite genres,” Nero says and puts on another, less familiar-to-me song. “The lyrics for this are—”

  “Wait, you speak Korean?” I know I shouldn’t be surprised by anything when it comes to Nero, but the words of the current song are so incomprehensible that—

  “I work closely with Lee Kun-Hee,” Nero says. Then, perhaps mistaking why my eyes widen, he adds, “He’s the chairman of Samsung Group.”

  “I know that,” I say. “I’m just shocked you learned Korean to speak to a client, no matter how rich.”

  “I know the language of everyone I interact with.” He forks the last remnants of potato into his mouth. “When someone speaks to me with an interpreter, they can lie.”

  “Hmm. I didn’t know that.”

  The topic of lying to Nero is a sensitive one. It reminds me about his assertion that Baba Yaga isn’t trying to kill me. Allegedly, she didn’t trigger his lie detection alert when she made that claim, even though her goons came to kill me in the hotel bathroom.

  Then again, Koschei very pointedly left me alone after he—

  No. Better not go down that path; else I’ll start crying again.

  Though it now lacks any flavor, I finish the rest of the food on my plate.

  When I look up, I catch Nero staring at me with what can only be sympathy in his gaze.

  That’s a first. Is the Pope about to become a Buddhist?

  “It will get better one day.” Nero reassuringly places his palm on my wrist.

  I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

  “I promise you it will,” he murmurs. “You learn to live with it, over time.”

  I blink away the errant tears and stare at him.

  The way he said it makes it seem like he’s speaking from personal experience.

  Lucretia did mention something about Nero’s fear of losing someone he cares about. It must’ve happened to him in the past.

  But who?

  And when?

  I’m not suicidal enough to ask, so I just put my other palm on top of his.

  We sit like that for a few long seconds; then he pulls away and asks if I want dessert.

  “No, thank you,” I say, unsure what to do with my hands now that they’re not touching his. “I’m stuffed.”

  “In that case, follow me.” He gets up. “I set something up for you earlier. It should be ready now.”

  I stand up, and he leads me through a multitude of rooms until we enter a giant bathroom that looks like a showroom for extravagant spa equipment. Lit candles are everywhere, and an enormous tub stands in the middle of it all, with water cascading into it like a waterfall into a canyon.

  Nero eyes the water level and checks the temperature with his hand. “Perfect.” He turns to me. “This is for you.”

  My heartbeat speeds up.

  He presses a button, and the water bubbles up as the Jacuzzi jets come to life.

  Does Nero expect me to get naked and get into a hot tub in front of him? Is that what the romantic candlelight is about?

  A part of me wants to do exactly that for some reason. But another part knows I might not be in the best state of mind to make any choices right now—especially when those choices include getting naked in front of my boss, full-time Mentor, and part-time tormentor.

  Unsure what to do, I walk up to the water and let my fingers trail through it.

  The temperature is perfect, and nothing has looked so inviting in a long time.

  “There are fresh towels over there.” Nero points at a huge rack. “Enjoy.”

  With that, he solves all my dilemmas by striding out of the room and leaving me to stand there, confused by the disappointment I feel at his departure.

  Oh well.

  I strip and get into the tub.

  The jets hit me from every direction—producing a relaxing, massage-like effect.

  I sigh in pleasure.

  There must be warm water in Heaven.

  In fact, I feel so good that I’m starting to feel guilty. How can I be so relaxed after all that’s happened?

  The heavy pressure on my chest returns, but before long, the food coma conspires with the bubbling water to soothe me again.

  After a few minutes, I get so chilled-out I feel loopy.

  Who needs Xanax when there are carbs and hot tubs around?

  My eyelids get heavy, and I give in to the strong temptation to close my eyes.

  Chapter Thirty

  I wake up on the softest sheets I’ve ever felt.

  Did I splurge on a five-star hotel?

  Nope.

  I remember now.

  I’m at Nero’s penthouse.

  The last thing I recall was closing my eyes in a hot tub.

  Did I fall asleep in it? If so, how did I end up here?

  Rubbing my sleepy eyes, I look around.

  This must be Nero’s master bedroom. Or at least I hope so—it’s the size of my whole apartment.

  Nero himself is nowhere in sight.

  Am I relieved or disappointed? It’s always hard to think first thing in the morning.

  I look under the three-thousand-thread-count sheets.

  Yep.

  As I suspected, I’m as naked as a stripper at a nudist colony.

  Reluctantly, I get up.

  My clothes from yesterday
are on the nightstand next to my phone, as is an unfamiliar pair of lacy panties, brand-new yoga pants, and a sporty-looking T-shirt.

  Hmm. What’s worse: the idea of Nero stopping by La Perla first thing in the morning to get those panties, or that he might’ve kept them handy just in case I pop in for a sleepover?

  Or some other woman, come to think of it.

  I push the thought away, not liking it at all.

  Feeling too clean to put on yesterday’s clothes, I opt for the new stuff.

  Of course, it all fits and is as comfortable as those sheets.

  Must be for me after all.

  As I reach for my phone, I realize yesterday’s clothes smell freshly laundered as well.

  What the hell? Does Nero have invisible servants, or am I just hoping he does because it would sort of make me Beauty and him the Beast?

  According to my phone, it’s 9:30 a.m. On a Monday.

  Wow.

  Nero didn’t wake me up to go to work. Hopefully, it means I officially get the day off. Just in case, I look for any work-related emails or texts.

  Nope. Complete radio silence.

  Nice.

  And, given that it’s Monday and after sunrise, Nero must be at the office. His work ethic is a Wall Street urban legend.

  Which means I might be able to snoop around.

  I walk into the ginormous master bath and find a still-sealed toothbrush that’s an exact replica of mine. The toothpaste is also my favorite, as is every other toiletry on display.

  I guess staying with your lifelong stalker has its perks.

  I take care of all my bathroom needs and stroll out of the master bedroom—which is when the yummy smells reach my nostrils.

  Letting my nose lead me, I make my way to the kitchen.

  Nero is dressed in very flattering workout clothes and is cooking something on his futuristic-looking stove.

  He’s not at work?

  Is today some national holiday I forgot about?

  I sneak a glance at my phone.

  Nope. It’s not.

  “Morning,” he says without turning. “How did you sleep?”

  Do I confront him about waking up naked? I can almost picture him saying, “Would you rather have drowned in the hot tub?”

  “What’s cooking?” I say instead, and the add-on “good looking” is on my lips but fortunately doesn’t come out.

  He turns around and puts a plate in front of me with a flourish.

  It’s Eggs Benedict, one of my favorite foods, and I bet he knows that.

  The side is grilled asparagus—another favorite—with tomatoes, and mashed potatoes shaped like a mini sand castle.

  Fancy.

  He puts an identical meal in front of himself, then pours us some tea and splashes some orange juice into champagne glasses. Next, he opens a bottle of Cristal in one smooth movement and turns our juices into mimosas.

  Brunch à la Sex and the City.

  With my boss.

  Totally normal.

  Riiight.

  “You’re not at work.” I cut up the eggs and do my best to keep my drooling to a minimum. “Did someone finally go overboard with the air-conditioning in hell?”

  Nero smiles with his eyes again. “Even I can take a day off on a rare occasion.”

  I taste the eggs. They are divine. Nero is a much better cook than Felix. And maybe most chefs in Tribeca.

  “Of course. You can take a day off.” I sip the mimosa. “It’s just that you never do.” I chase the fizzy drink with some tea—it’s the same soothing combo of chamomile and lemon balm from last night. “When was the last time you just took a day off like this?”

  “The summer of 1825,” Nero says without a trace of levity.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I attack a spear of asparagus with my fork.

  “It was right before the world’s first public railway opened,” he says, still with no hint at a joke. “I knew I had some busy time ahead, so I took a day off.”

  “Well,” I say. “There’s being a workaholic, and then there’s taking a vacation every 192 years. For your sake, I hope you’re kidding.” I salute him with my drink.

  “And if I’m not?” Staring at me intently, he clinks his glass against mine.

  “Then I hope you enjoy your day off.” I nervously lick the remnants of Hollandaise sauce from my lips.

  “I’m beginning to.” He stares at my mouth with a hunger that doesn’t seem to be breakfast-related.

  My cheeks redden. I’m clearly a lightweight when it comes to alcohol, no matter how diluted. Feeling a sudden need to purify myself, I wipe my lips with a napkin.

  He’s still staring at my mouth, so I decide to change the topic. “Doesn’t it cost the fund a gazillion dollars when you’re off?”

  “About forty-nine million,” he says, again with a straight face. “But we had outstanding performance last week, thanks to your work.”

  Is he being sarcastic right now? It’s the second time he’s implied that my random stock picks have made him money—but that can’t be.

  “Let me guess.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “Despite your clever way with language, you didn’t actually use your visions to provide me with any of the stock tips last week, right?”

  Luckily, my mouth is currently stuffed with bacon, egg, and English muffin, so I mumble something unintelligible. I should’ve known better than to use all those funny stock names. He was bound to catch on.

  “I thought so,” he says. “But do you think your choices were actually random?”

  I swallow the food in my mouth. “They weren’t random.”

  “Another misleading true statement.” He looks impressed. “Let me rephrase. Do you think you only chose those stocks because they had mildly amusing abbreviations?”

  “Mildly amusing?” I take a gulp of my mimosa for bravery. “It’s not my fault if some people don’t have a sense of humor.”

  “Be that as it may, every choice you made was spot on.” He salutes me with his drink without a hint of mockery.

  “Seriously?” I mindlessly clink his glass.

  “Do you want me to send you our P&L?”

  “No, that’s okay.” I take another sip of my drink, though I probably shouldn’t. “I believe you.”

  “Good.” He leans toward me. “I never lie to you.”

  Instead of calling him out on that lie, I get a sudden urge to kiss him.

  As though in a vision, I can picture how the kiss would unfold, from the pressure of his firm yet soft lips to the—

  Wait, what?

  What is wrong with me?

  The alcohol has clearly hit me hard.

  Instead of following the insane urge, I push my mimosa away and say, “In that case, here are two more tips for free: Southwest Airlines and the National Beverage Company.”

  He lifts his bubbly drink and gives me a full-blown grin. “Your choices are LUV and FIZZ?”

  “I also contemplated giving you the parent company of KFC and Pizza Hut.” I smile back at him. “Their ticker is YUM, and so is your food.”

  “Thank you.” Nero takes out his phone and writes something on it.

  I stare at him incredulously. “Are you about to email someone to invest in LUV, FIZZ, and YUM?”

  “Just the first two.” He looks up from his message. “You said you only contemplated YUM. Are you saying you’ve upgraded it to a recommendation?”

  “Why not?” I say. “Invest in YUM while you’re at it. I have as much confidence in it as I have in all the others.”

  “Thanks,” he says, unfazed. “Just a second.”

  I cram the rest of the food into my mouth as he types.

  How could my random picks have made money? Am I that good at stock market prediction? If so, I’d much rather become that skilled at keeping myself and my loved ones safe—the stock market be damned.

  The tasty morsels turn to sand in my mouth as the image of Rose lying on the floor plays in front of my eyes.


  The ache in my chest returns with a vengeance, and the room starts to spin around me, the walls closing in.

  “Sasha.” A strong hand covers my palm, massaging it gently. “Don’t go there. Stay here with me.”

  I blink, startled out of the dark memories by his warm touch. Or maybe by the surge of hormones that said touch generates.

  I look up at him.

  His gaze is hypnotic, pulling me toward him, as though his powers can break the laws of gravity.

  He leans toward me. The preternatural gravity must be multidirectional.

  I feel his warm breath.

  Butterflies set up a sweatshop in my stomach as I recall what happened the last time our faces were this close.

  Time slows, and a perilous question swirls through my mind.

  Why can’t I kiss him again?

  He’s comforted me, cooked for me, has taken a day off for the first time in centuries to be there for me.

  But no.

  I’ve been over this before.

  He’s my boss and Mentor.

  Then again, I don’t really care about my job, and the Mentorship is a temporary situation. And it’s not like he’s teaching me much anyway. Perhaps if I kiss him, it can lead to more interesting lessons in—

  I stop that thought in its tracks. For all I know, all this unusual niceness might be a trick, a way to make sure his little pet seer behaves herself. Once my usefulness to Nero is over, he could easily find himself another seer and abandon me.

  Just like my biological parents and Rose did.

  Reluctantly, Nero pulls away. And though I was just about to pull away myself, knowing he decided not to kiss me stings.

  I jerk my hand away from his soothing touch.

  Something like hurt flashes in his gaze, and he jackknifes to his feet. Grabbing his dirty plate, he strides to the dishwasher.

  “Let me help you clean up.” I stand and pick up my own plate with treacherously shaky fingers.

  “I got it,” he says but moves out of my way when I put the plate next to his.

  Within moments, the table is spotless, and I stare at it uncomfortably, unsure what to do next.

  “I’m going to the gym,” Nero says with no hint of emotion in his voice.

  “Bully for you,” I say and hope I sound just as emotionless.

  “I think you should join me,” he says in a tone that’s a touch too bossy for my taste.