by Holly Bargo
Cecily was his. He’d claimed her as much as Vitaly had claimed Giancarla. He admitted he had failed in not putting a ring around her finger earlier. Thinking of that ring, his hand aimed for the depths of his front pocket to finger the small, velveteen box that had taken up permanent residence. He’d put that ring on her finger. Before or after he filled her body with his was a detail to be worked out later.
He passed boutique shops and toyed with the idea of buying her something sparkly, but then remembered that she’d left behind the jewelry he’d already bought her. Gold and precious stones meant little to his pretty blonde. She appreciated other things. He smiled to himself remembering how she’d practically melted the day he brought home a bouquet of daisies. Simple daisies. The flowers had barely made it into a vase before they’d had some of the best sex ever.
He stepped into a floral shop and looked around.
“May I help you, sir?” called a flirty voice that matched a pair of flashing blue eyes and swaying hips. “Are you looking for roses?”
“Da. I am looking for daisies.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet. Are they for your mama?” the woman asked, tossing her head to the side so that her shiny blonde hair swung over her shoulders.
Pyotr’s eyes narrowed and he wondered how long he had before the hussy threw herself at him. He counted down from ten and before he finished she’d sashayed next to him and settled her long-nailed fingers on his arm and squeezed him lightly.
“Oh, my, aren’t you a strong one?” she purred.
“Daisies,” he reminded her.
“What’s the occasion?”
“A proposal.”
She laughed, a practiced titter that ran up down the musical scale. “Oh, you silly man! For a proposal, you want roses, not daisies. Roses are romantic, deep red ones.”
“She likes daisies.”
The saleswoman pouted her shiny, cherry red lips. “Well, if you insist.”
“I do.”
“You’ll be saying that soon enough,” she muttered, disgruntled. “What a waste.”
Disgusted, he said, “On second thought, I’ve reconsidered.”
The sales clerk’s jaw dropped as she watched her customer leave.
Pyotr resumed his casual stroll down the River Walk and walked into another boutique to purchase clothing more suited to the southern climate. The sales clerk in the upscale men’s clothing shop sighed as he watched his customer leave with full shopping bags. Pyotr returned to his hotel room, took a shower, and dressed in his new clothes: crisply pressed linen pants, a blue silk shirt, soft loafers, and lightweight jacket to match the trousers. He completed the look with a rakishly tilted Panama hat and felt very dashing, despite the bruises that yet bloomed on his body.
He’d endure more if that was needed to convince Cecily to come back to him.
The dinner shift was in full swing when returned to the restaurant after stopping at another floral shop and purchasing a small bouquet of daisies from a grandmotherly type who winked and smiled at him. Or maybe that was palsy. He took his place in line at the door, feeling a secondhand sort of pride knowing that it was Cecily’s fabulous cooking that made this dump so popular.
Eventually, he was seated by the restaurant owner who served as host. He slung his jacket over the back of the other chair to bask in the soft air of a warm evening. Two pimply faced young men raced from kitchen to dining room to patio, waiting tables. He looked over the menu and could not help but smile a little. Buried in the mostly Tex-Mex items were two of Cecily’s Cleveland specialties: blini and pelmeni. Both were served with Russian salad. Looking around the other tables, he noticed that several diners liked that deviation from the pervasive Tex-Mex food options in San Antonio.
In due time, he placed his order: asado de puerco. Tomorrow, he thought, he would sample the barbeque that San Antonio offered. Tonight, he dined with a Mexican flair. A brown-haired, pimply-faced waiter brought his meal and a cold beer with a wedge of lime. Pyotr thanked him and looked at his food. The presentation, he thought, wasn’t quite up to Cecily’s usual standard. He took knife and fork to the meat and found it tender enough not to need the knife. Putting a morsel in his mouth, he enjoyed the flavors that exploded on his tongue. Perhaps the presentation wasn’t up to Cecily’s usual standard, but the food itself most certainly soared over that high bar.
Replete, Pyotr watched the waiter clear away his dishes. “I wish to speak to the chef,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” the waiter responded and hurried away, narrow shoulders bowing beneath the weight of a tray laden with heavy plates and glasses.
A few minutes later, an old man bellied up to his table and asked, “I understand you wished to speak with me? Was your meal satisfactory?”
“The food was excellent. I asked to speak with the chef.”
“I am Javier de la Vieda. I am owner of this establishment.”
“But you are not the chef,” Pyotr said in a quiet voice. “I wish to speak with Cecily.”
The old man’s smile turned into a scowl. “If you are trying to steal my chef for your own restaurant, then leave now. She is my discovery.”
“Actually, I discovered her back in Cleveland,” the big blonde man with the icy blue eyes corrected.
Javier’s eyes narrowed. “Are you what she ran away from?”
Pyotr rested a scarred hand on the table and rolled up a sleeve. The movement was calculated to appear casual; however, the old man was not deceived. He recognized the tattoos for what they were and understood the implicit threat of violence in their reveal. Though his complexion had turned ashen, the old man held his ground.
“My chef is under my protection, señor.”
“I have no intention of hurting your chef,” Pyotr said as he rolled up the other sleeve, baring the colorful tattoos decorating that forearm. “I merely wish to speak with her.”
“You will coerce her to leave.”
“I will not coerce her to do anything.” He spread his big hands on the table, then clenched them. “But I may do some damage to this property if you do not allow me to speak to her.”
Javier’s shoulders sagged. “Promise me you will not hurt her.”
“I will not hurt her. You have my word on it.”
The old man nodded and trudged back to the kitchen where Cecily had set her new assistant to sautéing onions and peppers.
“Cecily, there is a customer who insists upon speaking with you.”
Cecily frowned. “Javier, I’m far too busy here to spend time making nice to a customer.”
“I’m afraid he insists.”
She huffed and wiped her hands on a towel. “Oh, all right. Let’s make this quick or the paella will burn.”
She followed Javier outside, blinking as her eyes adjusted from the bright kitchen to the dim dining area. She stumbled, recognizing the big, burly figure sitting at a table toward which her boss walked.
“No, oh, no,” she murmured and forced herself to continue walking. When she reached the diner’s table, she faced the man of her every fantasy and fantastic memory and force her mouth to speak: “Hello, Pyotr.”
“Cecily,” he said, jutting his chin at her boss. The old man moved away. “It took a while to find you.”
“I’m not going back,” she said, figuring that she might as well get it over with.
“I didn’t ask you,” he retorted, stung by her cold tone. He looked around and mustered another dose of patience. “Why are you cooking in a dump like this?”
“I’m doing what I need to do. Why are you here, Pyotr?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“I wish to speak with you in private. What time do you get off work?”
“The kitchen closes at ten.”
“That doesn’t tell me what time you get off work.”
“Pyotr, let’s not drag this out” Cecily noticed that they’d attracted the patrons’ attention, particularly those who wer
e waiting for their suppers. “I don’t want to have this conversation in public. Or at all, really.”
“Then I’ll get to the point,” Pyotr said, every syllable clipped. He pulled out the velveteen box from his pocket and dropped to his knee on the floor. “Cecily, will you marry me?”
“Say yes!” an eavesdropping patron shouted.
Soon other patrons were adding their encouragement. Cecily’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“Honey, if you don’t want that man in your bed, then I certainly do!” a woman’s brassy voice called above the general clamor.
“Yes,” Cecily finally said, telling herself it was just to shut everyone up and to avoid humiliating Pyotr.
He rose to his feet, took her hand, and slid the ring over her finger. Pulling her against him, he whispered into her ear, “Tonight I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.”
Cecily gasped even as the crude promise zinged through her body and made her blood sizzle. No, she told herself, it was anger that made her blood sizzle. She leaned her head back and opened her mouth to chide him, but he lowered his lips to hers before she could say anything. Hoots and applause accompanied the kiss.
“This isn’t over,” she muttered when the kiss ended.
“No, it’s not. The next time I kiss you, I’ll be tearing your clothes off. And then I’ll be buried so far inside you that you won’t know where I end and you begin.”
“Pig.”
“You love it and you love me.”
God help her, she did. Her cheeks burned as she finally admitted to herself that she did love him. But, feeling angry and embarrassed, she refused to admit it to him. Fuming, Cecily returned to her kitchen, ignoring the applause that followed her.
“What’s going on?” her assistant inquired as he deftly sautéed asparagus spears in butter and lemon.
“My ex-boyfriend is here. How far behind are you, Jimmy?” She quickly slipped off the lovely ring and dropped it into her pocket to keep it clean. She looked at an order ticket and grabbed two filets of flounder. She quickly dredged the delicate flesh in seasoned flour and set them in a hot skillet.
“Not too far.” He transferred the asparagus to a plate, wiped the edge of the plate clean, and carried the plate over to the counter for a waiter to deliver. “Service!” He looked at the ticket Cecily worked on and got started sautéing another two servings of asparagus.
“So why would your boyfriend’s arrival be cause for clapping?”
She huffed, disgruntled at the deliberate drop of the “ex” part, and mumbled, “He proposed to me.”
“He what?”
“He proposed to me. In front of everybody.” She shook her head and removed the fish from the skillet. She slid the plates toward Jimmy who was just about ready to plate the asparagus and finish the orders each with a dollop of pico de gallo. “I had to say yes, so as not to embarrass him.”
“Wow, that’s just...wow.”
“Yeah, I know.” She moved on to the next ticket, hand reaching automatically for the necessary ingredients and implements.
“What are you going to do?” Jimmy slid the plates to the counter and called, “Service!”
“I don’t know. I left him to come here. I don’t want to go back to Cleveland where he lives.”
“So, tell him that.”
She laughed, but the short-lived sound was bitter. “You don’t just tell Pyotr Idaklyka no.”
Jimmy looked at her, his expression alarmed. “He won’t hit you, will he?”
She had the grace to blush. Or maybe it was the heat radiating from the cooktop. “No, Pyotr won’t hit me. He’ll just...convince me that I want what he wants.”
Jimmy chuckled at the idea of the full-figured beauty who ran her kitchen like a military general being convinced by anyone. He felt his own body react and coughed self-consciously. But Cecily paid him no attention, her focus instead directed on the entrees she was preparing.
They settled back into the fast-paced rhythm of a commercial kitchen until the last order was carried out. Cecily switched off the gas burners and leaned against a countertop. She used a somewhat clean corner of her apron to wipe her sweating forehead.
“God, what a night.”
Jimmy grinned at her and wiped his forearm across his own perspiring brow. “It just keeps getting busier. We barely kept up with the orders.”
“Javier’s going to have to hire more kitchen help. I’m dead on my feet.”
“Yeah. And we still have to clean up.”
“Ugh.”
With weary dedication, they bent their energies to cleaning every surface, every plate, cup, and bowl, every fork, knife, and spoon, and every pot, pan, and spatula. Jimmy hauled a loaded trash bag out to the Dumpster in the alley. When he returned, he stumbled over his own feet.
A big man—a really big man—had Cecily crushed to him and was kissing her senseless. Who was this guy? Thor? He looked like he could star in a comic book.
The Nordic god made flesh apparently realized he and Cecily were no longer alone. He ended the kiss, keeping Cecily’s head tucked against him.
“Who are you, little man?”
Cecily’s hand smacked the big, big man on his broad, superhero chest as she turned her head to see who had entered the kitchen. “Stand down, Pyotr. It’s Jimmy, my assistant.”
Thor’s eyebrows lowered and the icy blue eyes glared at him. “He wants you,” he growled.
“Don’t be stupid, Pyotr. What he wants is to go home and get a good night’s rest.” She tilted her head back. “And I want the same thing. I’m exhausted.”
“Then I take you home.” His lips peeled back from his teeth in an expression that Jimmy did not misinterpret. “And I make sure you sleep.”
Jimmy understood that Pyotr-who-looked-like-comic-book-Thor wasn’t asking. He untied his apron and tossed it into the hamper where the waiters tossed soiled napkins and tablecloths. Javier had hired a laundry service to take care of cleaning and folding them.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Cecily,” he said and made his escape before her ex-boyfriend—who apparently didn’t grasp the concept of “ex”—decided that he was a threat to his woman. Jimmy readily acknowledged that he was no alpha male, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognize one. He also didn’t miss the tattoos that peeked from beneath the cuffs of his linen jacket.
“See you later, Jimmy,” she called after him.
Pyotr shifted his hold on her so that he could propel her forward. “Let’s go,” he said.
“Have you found out where I live?” she asked as she locked the door.
“Nyet.”
“Then quit pushing me, you big oaf. I know where I’m going; you don’t.”
The pressure of his hand against her lower back immediately decreased, but he did not move his hand. Cecily knew the presence of his hand was as much reassurance for her as it was a declaration of possession for him.
“Why did you leave me, Cecily?” he asked, his voice pitched low so as not to carry. “I love you, you know that.”
“I don’t want to discuss this in public.”
“You don’t want to discuss this at all.”
“No, I don’t,” she agreed and kept on walking, her feet protesting every step.
“You must be going in the wrong direction,” Pyotr said as the neighborhood rapidly deteriorated.
“No, I’m not.”
“I will not allow you to live in such a place.”
She looked around and snorted. “That’s good, because I don’t live in this neighborhood.”
“Khorosho.”
She snorted again. There was nothing “good” about where she lived. And she hadn’t had an opportunity to discuss raising her wages. The lapse annoyed her.
“This is unacceptable,” Pyotr murmured when they finally stopped in front of her apartment building.
“It’s all I can afford right now.”
“You will be my wife and live where it is safe.”
“Do not tell me you like living here.”
“Of course not. Like I said, I can’t afford anywhere else.”
“Where does that Jimmy live?”
“He lives with his mother and maintains the house and yard for her.”
The climbed the stairs, which creaked alarmingly beneath Pyotr’s feet. He wrinkled his nose at the revolting odors. Cecily didn’t blame him.
“Hey, blondie, you sellin’ it now?” the creepy neighbor next door asked as he emerged from his dilapidated doorway. He grabbed his crotch suggestively. “You want money or trade?”
Without saying a word, Pyotr swiveled on his heel and drove his fist into the man’s face. Cecily winced at the wet crunch of cartilage and man’s cry of pain. Pyotr followed that blow with a rapid second that sent the man to the filthy floor. He spat on his target, turned to Cecily, and growled, “Get your things. We’re leaving this der'mo otverstiye.”
She wasn’t sure what those last two words were, but from the way he spat them out, she knew they weren’t complimentary. Having never seen him so furious, she nodded and quickly unlocked her door. He followed her inside and took a defensive position. There’d be no sneaking out the door for her.
“I need a shower,” she said.
“Not here. Get your clothes.”
Her eyes widened at his rough tone and she wondered if he might use that formidable strength and brutality against her.
“Pyotr, I live here now.”
“No more. Is not safe.”
His accent thickened and he dropped words. If nothing else told her that his emotions ran high, that did. Yet, she did not comply.
“One minute or I take you out as you are.” His tone brooked no defiance.
