by Jasmin Quinn
“White wine, Marisol?” Rusya asked and Mari nodded absently, her eyes still glued to Esma.
Anto did what Anto always did. He dropped into a chair, took his vodka from Rusya and grinned. Mari sat in a second chair and Esma and Rusya on the couch, Esma drinking orange juice.
Anto said, “Did you decide to go on a honeymoon?”
Esma narrowed her eyes at Anto. “No. One can fuck as easily at home as on a honeymoon.”
Rusya sucked in a breath and sent her a warning glance. “Esma!”
A few weeks ago, Mari might have blushed, but she laughed now. Maybe the little Turk still had some mischief in her.
Rusya turned to Anto. “Esma thinks we should not be discussing our wives with each other.”
“You’ve been talking to Rusya about me?” Mari’s amusement turned to embarrassment.
Anto shook his head. “Only the honeymoon. I was saying it was a good idea.”
Mari knew she was blushing, the heat in her face turning her into a beacon. She took a gulp of her wine. Then another. “Change the subject.” She so badly wanted to say fucking, like Esma had. But she wasn’t there yet, couldn’t say the words in front of Rusya.
Esma stood. “Marisol, let’s go for a walk. I’ll show you the room where the nursery will be.”
They slipped out the door and Mari breathed a sigh of relief at the solid thud as the door closed behind them. She turned to Esma. “I’m so glad to see you. So happy you’re safe.”
Esma brought a finger to her lips as Eduard, Rusya’s houseman stepped into view.
“Ladies.” His dark eyes were flat and intimidating as he gave a small bow in their direction.
Mari was confused by the hostility rolling off the man. “Eduard, nice to see you. It’s been awhile.”
“You too, Marisol. Always nice to see you.”
He turned to Esma, his face lined with a scowl. “Excuse me. I’m on my way out.” And he left.
Mari turned back to Esma. “He doesn’t like you.”
Esma shrugged. “It’s mutual. Let’s go upstairs where it’s private.” She led the way to a wing of the house Mari had never seen, opened a door and ushered Mari through. A large, well-appointed suite. “Our room, mine and Rusya’s.”
Mari turned, then wrapped her arms around Esma and hugged her. “I owe you so much, Esma. I’m so thankful you’re okay.”
Esma untangled herself. “We have to forget we knew each other before. Rusya doesn’t know and I don’t want him to.”
“Why?” Mari sat down in an armchair as Esma seated herself close on the sofa. She and Anto so afraid of telling Rusya the last of the truths.
Esma shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to tell him and I don’t want to drag you and Anto further into my mess of a life. That’s what’ll happen because then he’ll know Anto knew about me last summer and didn’t tell him when he found out I was here.”
Mari nodded. “Maybe. Or maybe we tell him everything, all of us, so there’s no more secrets.”
Janice rapped at the door and slid it open. “Dinner, girls. Your husbands are waiting.”
Chapter 67
Rusya and Esma bid goodnight to Anto and Marisol, then Rusya turned to Esma. “Anto told me about last summer.” Rusya needed to get this out of the way, out in the open.
Esma shook, her face paled. “What did he tell you?”
“Let’s go sit down – I want to hear it from you.”
He led the way to the study, opened the door and ushered her in, then followed her to the sitting area. She tried to sit in her usual chair, but he took her arm, guided her to the couch next to him. Then he waited for her words.
“I didn’t know Anto before last summer.” Her voice was low, hushed, unhappy. “I was in Mexico on leave when Jackman assigned me to go find him, track him down. That was all. Find him and let Dean Copeland know. But I got drunk.” She stopped, chewed at her bottom lip as she stared into the shadows the glowing lamps were casting. “I found his place in Whistler. Did not expect him and Marisol to show up. But they did and so did Dean. Anto was so angry, I think he might have killed both of us, but Dean is… was… his friend.”
Esma glanced at Rusya, her lips tugged down, her eyes cloudy. Afraid of reprisal from him. “The next morning, someone firebombed the house. We escaped but were chased through trees.” She stopped again, a little catch of her breath. “I killed two men that day. One who was choking Marisol to death. I stabbed him in the back, straight through to his heart.” Her eyes looked haunted and Rusya wondered what she was thinking. She’d been a drunk, still was, just a sober one now. And a killer. How many he wondered – three that he knew of. And about to be a mother. Not really the best qualities to nurture a child, but then, who was he to talk?
She pressed her eyes with the heels of her hands. “That’s it other than Dean accused Anto of betraying Jackman and then he and I went to the cabin that Anto and Mari hid out at and burned it to the ground. Dean made me go back to Russia with him and…” she choked, then whispered, “You know the rest.”
Rusya felt the anger, always the anger at this woman. “Why would you hold this information from me?”
“Because… I…” She stopped, touched her fingers to her hair, rubbed her face. “Because Anto… last summer… he knew. And Mari too.”
Fuck, the familiar use of Marisol’s name, her worry for them. He felt the fool, his trust given too easily, blinded by his love for her and for Anto. He wanted to slap her, throw her, beat her until she promised she would never betray him again. He stood, took a few paces away from her to gain some distance. “I’m your husband. Your first loyalty is to me. Not Anto, not Jackman, not any other fucking man.” He heard the volume of his voice increasing, the tempo pacing the thudding of his heart, but he couldn’t find a way to rein it back in. It was so fucking hard to hear her putting someone else’s well-being over his. Another man, even if it was Anto. Especially because it was Anto.
And stupid woman, reacting to his anger instead of shutting the fuck up, instead of staying seated, saying sorry. Making promises to him to be good. He watched as she jumped to her feet, saw her anger, like his. Opened her mouth, with words she’d live to regret. “I know.” Her hands on her hips, staring with hard eyes into his face as if she was the injured party. “I know the fucking rules, Rusya. But you’re wrong if you think that an exchange of wedding vows will force my loyalty.”
Rusya took a step back, then another, adrenaline flooding his body. But his voice was low now, deadly. “I offer you protection, my home, my… my… everything.” Not like him to grope for words, but it was a different kind of anger this time. His anger at Esma, Anto, even Marisol. Besides Janice, these were the people he’d trusted most. Their betrayal was suffocating him.
“You don’t get loyalty because you expect it,” Esma seethed.
Why the fuck wouldn’t she stop talking? Stupid words because, yes, that’s exactly how he got loyalty. His expectation in exchange for being part of his world. But he didn’t think that merited saying out loud. He was not about to fucking defend himself. “What else, Esma? What else haven’t you told me?”
“Not a fucking goddamn thing. You know everything there is to know about me now. I’m an open book.”
A brittle bark of a laugh escaped him. “Nothing? We haven’t talked yet about Jackman and his band of merry men. Their names, their roles. The compound, the set-up. No, you seem to be good at dodging that topic, don’t you?” He paused for a breath as his mind groped around for his next words. “Let’s start with fucking Dean Copeland. He seems to be everywhere. Another of Jackman’s plants, did you know? The fucker in my house, pretending to be loyal to me.”
Then he saw it, a flush creeping into her cheeks, not anger, but something different. A relationship? He brought his hands to his face, rubbed at it. Dean Copeland, maybe a man he hated as much as Jackman. And Jackman, the prick. He felt the chill of a wind blow through him at the thought of Esma and
Jackman together. What she said she’d been doing there, what he’d accepted as her word. And the baby, that first night they were together. How did he know she wasn’t out with him or Dean? He had only her word.
He banded his hand around her arm and pulled her out of the office. Eduard was standing in the hall, by the front door. Leaning against it, listening to their fight. Rusya narrowed his eyes at him, but said nothing as he stomped to the stairs, up to their suite. Dragging her along, no resistance. Inside, he locked the door, pushed Esma onto the couch, sat next to her, faced her, a hand tangled in her hair, pulling her face to his. “Everything. I want everything now!”
And Esma, stupid wife, stupid woman leaning back from him as if that would make her safe. “What will you do with the information?”
He lost it on her, roared, “Anything I fucking want! Start with Dean. Ex-lover.”
Esma quailed. “I’m 28 fucking years old –”
She shrieked when he grabbed her chin, his fingers meant to bruise as he brought her face back to his. “Use that word again, Esma. Come on, I dare you.”
She stared into his eyes, her gaze flickering and for a split second he thought she might back down, but then she said it, whispered it, threw down the gauntlet. “Fucking.”
He closed his eyes, squeezed them for a few seconds. His mind told him she did it deliberately, to shift him away from his purpose. And it worked. Because now he was going to kill her, beat her to death, here in their suite, in his house where no one had ever died. He was going to destroy her and the baby. His baby, maybe his baby. But it had to stop. He had to make it all stop.
Then he stood, dragging her with him, a hand in her hair, another banded around her arm, out of the room, down the stairs, through the house, to the basement door. She was fighting him, screaming obscenities, throwing every ounce of strength she had behind her words and her fists. Hammering at him, trying to break his hold, escape him. But each time she moved, he blocked her, each time she lashed out at him, he tightened his grip, got a little rougher.
By the time he was in the basement, he was winded. She was a clawing, screaming ball of fury, and he responded in kind, dragging her through the gloom of the basement, wrenching her arms behind her and picking her up by the waist as she kicked out at him, fought him. Down a long hall to the end. To the cells. He shoved her into one , pushed her from him, and she stumbled, fell to her knees, but twisted and reared up on her feet, hands clenched, face snarling. He slammed the door and the lock slipped into place. She was there for the night because he didn’t fucking know how to open the door.
She threw herself against the bars, screaming at him, “You fucking prick! Let me out of here right fucking now!” Her fingers were wrapped around the bars and he could so easily slide his hands through, so quickly grab her hair with his fingers and so effortlessly slam her face against the bars, until it was bloody, until the bones shattered, until there was nothing left.
He stepped back, his breath leaking from him in short gasps, his heart pounding. He turned, stumbled away, almost running through the basement, up the stairs. The door banged behind him as he entered the main floor and he leaned on it. He couldn’t hear her anymore. A good thing. He slammed his way into his office, his hands shaking as he grabbed a bottle of vodka and a glass and carried both to his desk. He drank, glass after glass, until the bottle was empty, until he was bleary-eyed, until he was too fucking drunk to be angry anymore. Then he dropped his arms to the desk and passed out.
He woke when Janice came into the room. She was carrying a carafe and clean cups, so it was morning, he thought as he cracked his eyes open. Janice didn’t see him immediately, didn’t expect him to be there, but as she turned, she let out a small shriek, jumped, then stopped dead, her eyes wide and her lips forming an ‘O’. He understood. He must look like hell and in the decade they’d know each other, he doubted she’d ever seen him in his current state.
“What happened to you?” She walked back to the bar, poured him a coffee and brought it to him.
His stomach lurched at the smell, but he pulled it to him anyway, took a small cautious sip. “Esma and I had a fight. I slept down here last night.”
She eyed the empty vodka bottle, swept her eyes around the office. “Where’s Esma? She’s not in bed either. Astrid said that she wasn’t in the suite when she brought breakfast by.”
Rusya’s mind was fogged. Who the fuck was Astrid? He had a blurry image of a little round Swedish face with a big smile. Oh yeah, Astrid. Kitchen staff or something. “She’s downstairs.”
Janice narrowed her eyes at him as she tilted her head. “Downstairs?”
Rusya nodded, rubbing his temples. “Yes. In a cell.”
Janice exploded. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Her shout reverberated through Rusya’s head, bouncing around his skull, hitting all the pain points. Jesus fucking Christ! He was losing control of all the women. And now he was about to defend his actions to one of them. “She was out of control. We both were. She kept pushing me to hit her. And fuck, I was close, Janice. I had to put her somewhere away from me.”
Janice didn’t seem mollified. Her voice was still loud. “You put her in one of the cells, Rusya? There’s nothing in those cells. Not a toilet, not a bed, not even a blanket. Did you forget she’s pregnant?”
“What the fuck should have I done?” Rusya roared, standing up. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he slumped back into his chair. Goddamn fucking hangovers!
Janice lowered her voice but was no less angry. “Not that! What is wrong with the two of you?” She paced to the door and opened it, then stopped. Turned to Rusya. “You two need help.” Then she was gone.
Thirty minutes later she was back but wasn’t alone. Rusya had moved from the desk to the sofa and was resting his head on the back of it, eyes closed to the constant drumbeat of pain.
The man with Janice looked to be about 45, wore glasses, short hair, grey teasing the temples. She led him to Rusya. “Rusya, this is Dr. Richard McClean. A friend of mine. His specialty is marriage counselling.”
Rusya narrowed his eyes at Janice as he stood and shook the doctor’s hand. “You’re overstepping.”
Janice frowned at him but didn’t back down. “Maybe I am. Richard is discreet and you and Esma need some help before you kill each other. Rusya, this house used to be quiet, calm.”
“It’s Esma,” Rusya said.
“It’s both of you!”
Rusya’s eyes flicked to Richard, who had yet to utter a word. “This is in confidence?”
Richard nodded. “Of course, that goes without saying. Client-doctor confidentiality is part of the code of ethics that licenced psychologists operate under.” He stopped, perhaps reacting to the snarl on Rusya’s lips, then added. “And also, I won’t discuss anything said in this room with anyone under any circumstances.”
Janice added her support. “You can trust him, Rusya. At least talk this once. Give it a chance.”
Rusya closed his eyes for a few seconds as he tried to formulate thoughts in his hungover head. Maybe Janice was right. Esma was bringing out his beast and so easily. Years of honing his restraint, keeping himself on a short leash and yet, for some reason, he so quickly reacted to her. He either wanted to fuck her or kill her. It was impossible to be with her without those extreme emotions. He nodded, a small wave of his hand toward a chair. Esma’s chair. “Sit down, Richard.” He turned to Janice as he slumped down on the sofa. “I need some water and something for a headache.”
Janice nodded. “I’ve sent Eduard down to fetch Esma. I doubt very much that she’s going to feel kinder and gentler towards you after what you did.”
For a moment he forgot that they weren’t alone as his temper frayed. “What the fuck did you want me to do? Beat her into compliance?”
Janice narrowed her eyes. “For god’s sake, Rusya, stop thinking like a thug and start thinking like a husband. You could have left the room, come and got me. I would have settled h
er down, taken her to my room. You could have left the house, gone to a hotel, out to the country. Beat a punching bag.”
Richard cleared his throat and drew attention to him. To Janice, he said, “I could really use a coffee and I think Mr. Savisin needs those painkillers.”
Janice’s frown settled on Richard, who cocked his head and raised his eyebrows slightly. They knew each other well, Rusya thought. He wondered how well? But Richard got Janice to back down where he could not. Maybe he could learn something after all. As Janice left, he sagged into the cushions on the sofa, turned to Richard and said, “Call me Rusya, please.”
Chapter 68
After Rusya slammed the cell door and left, Esma shouted until she was hoarse. Every fucking thing she could think of, all the names, each one of them, and then again, waiting for the asshole to come back and hit her. Beat her like he promised he would. He was a man of his word so what the fuck was wrong with him, letting her challenge him like that and then walking away? Asshole! Prick! Motherfucking bastard! She slammed the bars one more time with her hands, felt a jolt of pain hammer through her and turned to survey the cell. It was fucking empty. Not a bed, not a blanket, not even a bucket if she had to pee.
She stalked to the wall, furthest from the door but with a good line of sight and slid down it, settling her ass on the floor, drawing her knees up, her hands around them. She lightly thumped her head on the wall a few times. She wanted a drink. Guilt skimmed through her as she thought it. A drink was not going to solve her problem. And she had more than herself to think about. She was married to a madman. And Anto was no friend of hers. She understood that now. His loyalty was to Rusya, because he fucking told Rusya without warning her, not even a little head’s up of what she could expect.
Fucking Russian prick!
But then a nagging thought tapped at her. The one thing that Rusya said, the one thing about loyalty. It fucked with her anger and she didn’t want to be anything but pissed at Rusya, so she tried to exorcise it. But still the thought came back. Anto, Janice, Marisol understood something she had not. Her loyalty should be to Rusya.
