by Meghan March
His eyebrows shoot upward. “That’s something I didn’t expect to hear.” He tilts his head to one side. “When did that happen?”
“After Prague. It’s not important. I’ll take the money and get out of your way.”
His expression guarded, he steps back into the white stucco villa. “That’s not the Russian way. Come, I will teach you. If you want your cash, you will drink with me.”
I release an annoyed sigh and follow him inside. I’m not about to walk away without my five million this time.
Belevich’s villa is a wide-open floor plan with white stucco walls and red accents. He leads me across the tile floor out to the pool that’s in the center courtyard. He snaps out an order in Russian, and a woman in white slacks and a white blouse hurries off.
“If you would prefer the ocean view—”
“No,” I say, cutting him off. “This is fine. I don’t need to see anything but my money.”
He gestures to a seat at an ornate metal table. “So, who ended it? You, I presume.”
I grip the sun-warmed arms of the chair and pause in the act of lowering myself into it. “Drop it, or I leave.”
“You would leave five million dollars behind just because you don’t want to talk about it . . . Hmmm . . . I think my guess was wrong then. He ended it, and you were not ready to say good-bye.” Belevich sits across from me, smoothing his goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “I wonder why he would do such a thing. Then again, Forge is unpredictable.”
I push up from the chair, about to make my point and leave, but he waves me down as the woman returns with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. Not shocking. Then again, I’m not going to turn it down if he’s going to keep probing about Forge. Maybe it’ll help numb the pain.
“One drink, and I’m gone.”
“You could use more than one. You look like shit.”
With a fake smile pasted on my face, I bare my teeth at him. “We already covered this ground.”
“Just being honest.”
I glance up at him as he splashes booze into the glasses. “Don’t worry about trying to be charming or anything. I’m not in the market for ex-husband number two, and never will be.”
“Ah . . . Bitterness is hard to overcome.”
“Save it.”
He hands a glass to me, and instead of waiting for whatever he has to say next, I toss it back, relishing the smooth, cool flavor of the liquor.
“You need teaching. You didn’t even wait for me to make a toast.”
I hold my glass out to him. “I might be Russian by blood, but it’s not like I got an instruction manual.”
He pours me another shot and lifts his own. “I’m surprised your father did not urge you to go to Russia. He would want you protected at all costs.” When I shrug, Belevich tilts his head again. “He does not know about the divorce, does he?”
“I haven’t told him.”
“Not very smart,” he says before adding something in Russian that there’s no way in hell I can repeat back to him. Instead, I tap the rim of my glass against his and shoot the vodka.
“If your father knew you were without protection, he would have many things to say about it. I’m surprised Forge did not tell him so he could send his people to look after you. If you need help finding security, I know a reputable agency. Given what happened in Prague, I do not think it’s safe—”
I silence him with a raised hand. “Security is out front in a black sedan, blocked by your gates. I’ve got a babysitter from Forge whether I want one or not.”
“Then why . . .” Belevich’s eyes narrow. “I do not understand what Forge is thinking then.”
“I don’t have any answers for you, and I don’t care.” The second part is a lie, and we both know it.
Belevich leans back in his chair, balancing on two legs like he did in the vet’s office. “I would have sworn . . .”
“What?”
He purses his lips, and I consider pouring myself another shot as I wait for him to speak. “I would’ve sworn Forge had feelings for you. In Prague, he did not act like a man who wanted to divorce his wife.”
The ache in my jaw intensifies with every grind of my teeth. I’ll be lucky to have any left at this rate. There’s no avoiding this conversation. No matter what I do, Belevich isn’t going to drop it, and I want my money.
“I don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. He blindsided me the day after we got home.”
Belevich rubs his thumb over his lip. “Interesting . . .”
“To you, maybe.” I reach for the bottle, but he snatches it off the table before my fingers touch the glass.
“Don’t you think the timing is suspect? You were in danger, he was in danger, your father was there, and then you come home . . . and it’s over?”
“What’s your point?”
Belevich settles his chair back on four legs and pours himself another shot of vodka, neglecting to fill mine. Asshole. “Did your father speak to Forge?”
“Of course.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
Belevich lifts the glass to his lips and sips. “Don’t you want to know what he said?”
I look up to the clouds that float by overhead and then back to the man across from me. “Should I?”
“I would, if I were you. Maybe ask your father what he said to your husband to make him divorce you after he was falling in love with you.”
My fingers clench around the empty shot glass. “Don’t say that. Forge wasn’t—”
“Bullshit. I watched him with you in Prague. That was not an indifferent man. That was a proud man. A man who knew what he had.”
“And then he threw it all away like I was nothing,” I add, my voice dropping to a low rasp.
“Which makes no sense to me.” He drums the fingers of one hand on the edge of the metal table. “If I were you, I would be asking your father what he did. That is the key.” He shoves back his chair and rises. “Now, I am done with relationship advice for the day. I will get you your money.”
Ten minutes later, I lean down to the open window of the black sedan in front of Belevich’s house, a heavy duffel bag weighing down my right side.
“I need a ride. I’m not taking a taxi home.”
28
India
Superman and Spiderman make small talk all the way home, but I’m lost in my thoughts. Was Forge really falling in love with me? Could that even be possible?
Because goddammit, if he was, what the hell did my father say to make him push me away?
Belevich was right. Russian daddy dearest and I need to have a little discussion, because spending the last couple weeks curled up under my covers, or on my couch and unshowered, is not typical India Baptiste behavior. That was brokenhearted Indy behavior, and that shit ends now.
My mission is clear—figure out if my father torpedoed my relationship.
But what if Belevich is wrong? I don’t want to believe he could be. I saw how Jericho looked at me. He didn’t go above and beyond in Prague because I was just a means to an end. There was nothing in that for him. It was all about me. He was all about me.
As for his revenge with Bastien putting me in danger? Screw that. I’m not going to let that motherfucker take this from me too.
Watch out, world. I’m back.
Before I make it all the way home, I text Belevich.
* * *
Indy: What is Federov’s number?
* * *
I couldn’t type father. It didn’t feel right. Probably because it doesn’t feel like he really is. His story is crazy enough that no one could have made it up. Truth is always stranger than fiction. Plus, Russian oligarchs have more important things to do than spin stories about a missing daughter like she’s the long-lost princess Anastasia.
Regardless, having a father doesn’t change who I am as a person. How the hell did I forget that I’m street-smart, confident, and resourceful? When did I decide to t
ake life lying down? That’s not me. A little time getting used to the way the other half lives, and realizing I’m not an orphan, isn’t going to change me.
No one is holding my sister hostage, and I’m not afraid anymore. I want answers, and I’m going to get them.
We park in front of my building, and I open the door and shoulder the bag. “Thanks for the ride, boys. I’m going to need one later.”
Both men turn around and look at me like I’ve undergone a personality transplant. Nope, I just remembered who the hell I am.
Superman hops out of the car. “I’ll escort you up to your flat, Ms. Baptiste.”
“It’s Indy, and that’s not necessary. Do you two have an end date for your babysitting? Because my schedule’s about to get busy.”
They look at each other, and a silent conversation passes between them while I unstick my legs from the leather seat.
“Not at present, ma’am—Indy.”
“Good,” I say with my first genuine smile in weeks. “Pack your bags, and I hope you don’t mind flying commercial. I don’t have private-jet money just yet.”
They gape at me as I climb out of the back seat and high step it up to my building.
The sun is shining, I’ve got hard-earned cash in my bag, and I’m ready to prepare for phase two—find my father and get an explanation about what the hell happened between him and Forge.
And then I’ve got a few things to say to my soon-to-be ex-husband. I’m not letting the Kraken go so easily.
29
India
The soaring frescoed ceilings, marble columns, and gold-and-cream interior of the Casino de Monte Carlo is just as awe inspiring and palatial as the last time I stepped foot through these doors. I scan the sumptuous gaming floor, but there are no security guards heading my way to throw me out. Bonus.
A casual glance over my shoulder reassures me that Superman and Spiderman are tailing me with just enough distance not to be obviously noticeable. Then again, at a place like this, private security is as common as poker chips, so it’s not like they’ll attract much attention. If anything, they’ll probably add to my cachet.
Have they told Jericho I’m here? The question has been plaguing me since our flight out of Ibiza. Along with . . . Would he come here to find me if he knew? I’m not sure I’m ready for an answer to that one, though.
I push both questions out of my mind as best I can and focus on tonight. First up, a meeting on neutral ground, and then in an hour, a high-stakes game Summer reminded me I was invited to. My fingers flex as if anxious for the slide of the cards between them.
Play the man, not the game. I’m ready.
Earlier in my suite, I changed into a jade-green dress with a keyhole neckline and my Alexander McQueen peep-toe pumps, curled my hair into big beachy waves, and applied my makeup with a ruthless hand. If eyeshadow were a weapon of war, I’d be assured victory. Finally, I pulled out the big guns—my Alexander McQueen skull purse that looks like you’re wearing brass knuckles when you carry it.
Walking through the casino, I finally feel like my old self again. Actually, better than my old self, because I have a different kind of confidence wrapped around me. It’s not the brittle confidence-by-necessity I used to have. It’s something deeper, more innate. I have a purpose, and it goes far deeper than winning a simple poker game.
On the way to the bar, I catch a flash of auburn hair swinging over a shoulder as someone does a double take.
“No. Impossible. She is not here.”
The haughty British accent stops me in midstride. My instincts tell me to keep walking, but I can’t ignore that voice. Slowly, I turn to face Poppy de Vere . . . and Juliette Preston Priest.
Really? I send a glance toward the masterpiece of a ceiling, asking the man upstairs why he couldn’t leave Jericho’s former mistress out of this. I get no response.
Poppy’s perfectly applied nude lip curls as her brown gaze drags from my hair to my heels. I grip my newfound confidence even tighter as Superman and Spiderman retreat to a respectful distance.
“Poppy. Juliette.” I say their names politely. “What an interesting coincidence. I didn’t expect to see you here either. Especially together.” I bite my tongue before I can say anything else, if for no other reason than to save Summer’s job.
“What are you doing here?” Juliette asks in a haughty tone. “Trying to drum up your next rich ex-husband? I hear it’s a lot harder to do the second time around.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, holding my head high. These two women are insignificant, but still, they’ve clearly heard the news and have no qualms about stabbing at fresh wounds.
“I told you Jericho would never settle down. It wasn’t at all surprising to hear he filed for divorce.”
I keep my smile fixed in place even as her swipe threatens to shatter my composure. A small part of me has been holding out hope that he wouldn’t actually file the papers I signed, but I’ll never admit that to them.
“You know everything, don’t you, Juliette? Except how to hang on to a man yourself, it seems.”
Her features turn hawkish. “I wouldn’t be too smug if I were you. It won’t take him long to replace you. It never does after they go slumming for kicks.”
My teeth grind together, and only my best poker face can stop me from baring them at her.
Poppy saves me from having to reply. “I’m surprised you’re not sniffing after my brother again.”
My gaze cuts to the sharply contoured lines of her face. “Have you seen your brother lately? Or is he too busy kidnapping people and slinging drugs?”
Poppy’s face drains of color before she bolts forward. “How dare you!”
I sense Superman and Spiderman moving toward us, but I hold up a hand over my shoulder.
“I dare because it’s the truth. If you want to see him again, you should probably find him soon. I doubt he’ll be breathing much longer.”
Poppy’s face doesn’t look nearly as elegant when it’s contorted in rage. “You’re lying. My brother would never.”
“Might want to ask him a few questions, Poppy.” I flick open my clutch to peek at my phone for the time. “And now I’m late for my meeting. If you’ll excuse me.”
“You don’t know anything, you little—”
A gruff Russian-accented voice comes from behind me. “I doubt very much that you want to finish your sentence, madam.”
Ah. My father found me before I found him.
I turn to look at him, this time dressed in an elegant tuxedo, starched white shirt, and diamond studs. “Good evening. I apologize for running late.”
Juliette Preston Priest stares open-mouthed between me and my father. Does she know who he is? Or maybe she’s thinking that I’ve got daddy issues, which I undoubtedly do, but not like that.
“It is no problem. If you will excuse us, ladies.” His emphasis on the word ladies indicates he thinks they’re nothing of the sort, which I find endlessly amusing. “My daughter and I have much to discuss.”
Juliette’s mouth snaps shut and Poppy stares at her, clearly uncertain what is going on. I wink at them and turn to strut away as they hurl invisible daggers at my back.
“Ms. Baptiste,” Superman says, moving closer to my side.
“It’s fine. We’ll be at the bar. I’m perfectly safe.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll be close, though.”
My father holds out an arm. “After you.”
I lead the way to the bar, walking past the already crowded craps tables and the clicking roulette wheel as people hold their breath, waiting to see where the ball will land. When we stop in front of the antique wooden bar, my father signals to the bartender, and the service is immediate and efficient.
“Two Kauffmans,” he orders.
“Club soda with lime for me,” I say, because I’m not drinking vodka tonight.
He looks over at me, his steel-gray brows raised. “Ah, you do not drink when you play. That must be one of Queen Midas’s secr
ets.”
“It’s not much of a secret.”
Moments later, the bartender slides three drinks in front of us.
Federov wraps a massive paw around the delicate crystal of one and raises it. “To your victory tonight.”
“I’ll drink to that.” I lift my glass and tap the rim against his.
My father tips the vodka back as I sip the bubbly water. When he lowers his empty glass to the antique wooden bar, his blue eyes seem to catalog every aspect of my appearance. He told me I was the very image of my mother and confirmed it by showing me her picture, and I wonder if he’s thinking of her now. But if he is, he doesn’t speak of it.
With a glance toward the direction we came from, he asks, “Do you want to tell me what that was about on the floor? The brassy one looked like she wanted your head, and the other did not seem any friendlier.”
“It was nothing. They’re nothing.”
He lifts his chin. “Compared to you, I agree. But still, if there are threats to be aware of, I wish to know.”
I point over my shoulder at Spiderman and Superman. “As you can see, I still have protection against threats.”
“I noticed. But even then, you can never be too careful. I only just found you again, Illyana. I will not lose you now.”
“Indy. My name is Indy.”
His lips compress together as if he wants to contradict me, but he doesn’t. “Indy. You will have to be patient with me.”
With small talk out of the way, I get down to the reason I called and asked him to meet with me. “What did you say to my husband?”
“What do you mean?” His tone is curious, but he has to know to what I’m referring.
“Everything was fine until we got home, and then suddenly it wasn’t. If you said something to him, I need you to tell me what. Because there’s no way in hell he should’ve been sliding a petition for divorce across the desk to me after Prague. Something happened, and I want to know what.”
He narrows his eyes. “Why must it be me who said something? Forge is his own man. He doesn’t bow to anyone’s dictates. Not even mine.”
