Corrupt (XXX Vadim Book 2): Club XXX Book 5

by Lana Sky

  Small world.

  “May I help you?” he asks, smiling warmly. The politeness catches me off guard, and some of my unease dissipates a fraction.

  But before I can open my mouth, Magda steps forward. “I want to play,” she says. “Is Ainsley here, sir?”

  I gape at her even as my heart melts at her sweet tone. Like father like daughter. She knows when to turn on the charm. It doesn’t hurt that even in her more casual outfit, she still looks like a little princess with her braids adorned with green ribbon and Biphany tucked under her arm—I now suspect that leaving the less innocent-looking It at home was a calculated choice.

  One that turns out to be devastatingly effective. The man blinks at the overload of girlish energy. But in a testament to his professionalism, he doesn’t break completely.

  “I’m not sure if Ms. Ainsley will be able to play today,” he says carefully, cutting his gaze to me. “But I will ask.”

  He disappears inside the house, and not even a second later, the door flies open, and a tiny figure skips out.

  “You came!” Ainsley bounds down the path, sporting a pink equivalent to Magda’s casual sweater and jeans. Her loose hair flows over her shoulders as she bounds toward us. “Can we go play, Frankie? Huh?”

  She directs the question toward the slender figure who appears in the doorway behind her. Cautiously, the woman’s dark eyes meet mine, and I sigh in response.

  “Can we talk?” I ask her as the girls ignore us, already skipping off together, holding hands. Their innocent joy makes it painfully apparent just how foolish this is—the adults being nervous at the prospect of a budding friendship merely because of two men who hate each other. It’s laughable in theory. But not so trivial once I recall how the brothers react when in the same vicinity.

  I feel like a general, going behind her leader’s back to forge a truce behind enemy lines. Yes, on the one hand, every small ounce of peace is a victory within itself. On the other hand, treason is punishable by death, and even Ena didn’t care to sugar coat things.

  Mr. Vadim kill you.

  But the time for any doubt has sadly passed. Tentatively stepping forward, Francesca nods, and I suspect she’s of the same mind. In unison, we watch the girls giggle, muttering conspiratorially, and any lingering misgivings I may have held vanish.

  “Come on, Ainsley,” Francesca calls, her expression strained. “Let’s go into the back yard.”

  It is a strange thing to sip lemonade behind enemy lines for the sake of a playdate. I add the experience to the growing list of “things I thought I’d never do during my journey to sexual exploration.”

  Stoically, Francesca sits beside me on a wooden lounger while we both watch the girls play on a section of grass across from a spacious pool. Here, the similarities between Maxim and Vadim’s properties end. Maxim’s is lived in, for one—a landscape of toys and skateboards bustling with activity. I catch several other faces peering out from the windows at times.

  “I know this puts you in an awkward spot,” I say to break the ice as Magda and Ainsley chatter away. “But when you have a seven-year-old stuck in the house for a week, it gets hard to deny her request for human interaction. And she’s so darn cute.” I crack a smile.

  And so does my opponent. She really is beautiful in an understated way, with curling dark hair and brown eyes. Haunted eyes. A black dress with short sleeves reveals the bare skin of her arms—a sight I am desperately preventing myself from staring at.

  They’re covered in scars. Vicious, healed scars.

  “You live with Dima?” she asks, her tone surprisingly neutral, given the nature of this war.

  “Dima?” It takes me a second to remember Vadim’s nickname. “I, um… Yes. For now. It’s complicated.”

  Her lips form a wry frown. I sense her mulling over her next words carefully before she finally says, “He’s dangerous.”

  I swallow at her tone. My gaze cuts to Ainsley, who seems merrily undisturbed, though, according to Maxim, Vadim kidnapped her. It’s a horrible act for sure, and while I don’t claim to know Vadim fully just yet—I do know him enough to understand why he might have done it. To test himself. To convince himself that he could interact with Magda. He all but told me, and I don’t doubt that looking back at all he’s done since.

  “He’s…complicated,” I say in answer to Francesca’s statement. “I won’t pretend like he’s not.”

  And hell, after today I may not have to—he’ll kick me out. I try to feel more guilty, but as I watch Magda smile as she shows off Biphany, my heart swells up so big that there isn’t room for any other emotion but relief.

  “Complicated is one way to put it,” Francesca says, her eyes narrowed in a way that makes me suspect she hasn’t forgiven him. Not one damn bit.

  “I know what he did was awful,” I confess. “To Ainsley. I hope it didn’t traumatize her, I truly do. But maybe Maxim should take a page from his book the next time he breaks into our home and terrorizes a little girl.”

  Oops, I realize as her eyes go wide. It seems Maxim didn’t tell her that little detail.

  “Dima brings out the worst in him,” she says, her lips pursed. It’s not an explanation—I don’t think it’s meant to be one. Not really.

  It mirrors something Vadim told me once himself. These brothers, so hostile, and yet so damn similar. Will they ever be able to let go of whatever hatred is simmering between them?

  “I think it’s stupid that two little girls can’t play because their fathers are insane,” I blurt out loud.

  Francesca eyes me for a moment. Slowly her small smile returns. “Maxim isn’t her father,” she says. “She’s not even mine. She’s my sister.”

  “Ah.” I nod, and some of the uncomfortable tension between us eases. “Well, Magda’s not mine, either.”

  Though you seem to think she is, a part of me hisses. You’re making decisions for her after all, behind her father’s back.

  “But she’s Vadim’s, isn’t she?” Francesca says with a sureness that alludes to the fact she too can see the resemblance. “I’m sorry, but he doesn’t seem like the fatherly type.”

  “He’s trying,” I admit with a sigh. “He really is… I take it, you aren’t his biggest fan, though?”

  She bites her lip as if to stop herself from saying more. Then she shrugs. “I don’t like being the recipient of his little mind games, that’s for damn sure.”

  Yikes. I file away that assertion for later. Could Vadim be manipulative? Yes, case and point is my current predicament—despite all my insistence to the contrary, I’m watching his daughter while he gallivants off to only God knows where. But are said actions malicious? Francesca seems to think so.

  She stares off into the distance, frowning as if at an unpleasant memory.

  To change the subject, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Are you excited for your wedding?” It’s the wrong topic, one I’m woefully unable to be objective about. To my own horror, judgment leeches into my voice, far too potent to go unnoticed. “I got married young,” I confess apologetically. “It didn’t end well. I’m a bit jaded about it. Please allow me to live vicariously through you, though.”

  Francesca eyes me warily, an eyebrow raised. “We haven’t planned much,” she admits.

  From her tone, I suspect it’s not by choice. Could the delay have something to do with whatever drew Maxim to Moscow? Rather than pry, I shrug.

  “I remember my own wedding. I put so much effort into it, when I should have put more time and energy into planning my future, sans some self-centered asshole.”

  Ouch, Tiffy. This isn’t about you. Once again, Jim rears his ugly head, and I don’t know why. Why the hell would I bring up marriage at all? But my lips rebel against my brain, carrying on the conversation, “I was too young,” I add, eyeing the woman up and down. “Twenty, barely out of high school. I had no clue. Not that there’s anything wrong with getting married young, that is...”

  Judging from the fain
t pink coloring Francesca’s cheeks, she’s not too far from the twenty-year age mark. Damn. I could kick myself for insinuating something so rude. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be. I’m not ashamed of my relationship with Maxim,” she says with a maturity that puts past Tiffy’s mindset to shame. Her eyes take on that faraway look, betraying a difficult past I can only speculate on. “He’s not perfect. I’m not either. But I don’t have to justify that to anyone.”

  I tilt my glass, finding far more solidarity in her words than I care to admit to myself at the moment. “I’ll drink to that.”

  We finish off our glasses, still watching the girls. They chase each other, each one cackling madly as if in a competition to prove who is having more of a blast. If mirth could be graded on the decibel scale, then I’ll say this is one hell of a successful playdate.

  “Ains doesn’t really have anyone her age to play with outside of school,” Francesca says after a moment’s silence. Her voice is so soft, it’s almost as if she’s talking more to herself than to me. But that seemingly harmless statement opens the door to so much more.

  And for Magda’s sake, I step right on through. “We’re just next door,” I say carefully.

  But we both leave it at that without crossing over that unspoken boundary.

  Not yet.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Magda and I return to the house under the disapproving glare of Ena, who skulks off the second we’re safely inside. Vadim hasn’t returned yet, it seems. Sighing, I fix Magda a pre-prepared meal, and then we spar in another round of Monopoly.

  Much to my utter joy, I don’t get slaughtered minutes in. That little play date must have zapped Magda of her energy because I’m seconds away from beating her when the door opens. My body shivers in recognition of those slow, heavy footsteps before Vadim even appears in the doorway.

  I gasp, alarmed at his appearance. Any irritation for his disappearance vanishes, and I lurch to my feet, staggering toward him. He’s paler than ever, his features gaunt in a way that makes me suspect he might have gone both days without eating. His hair is mussed, his suit wrinkled, and those eyes wretchedly hollow. They flit over me with barely any recognition before latching onto Magda. He barrels past me, snatching her from her chair despite her shrieked protests. Sinking into a crouch, he holds her to his chest, smoothing his hands through her hair.

  No matter how she struggles or resists, he doesn’t let her go, his body trembling with tension. Eventually, she goes stiff with shock, enduring the contact.

  “Vadim?” Alarm runs through me when he doesn’t even react to the sound of my voice. I step forward, bracing my hand on his back—he’s practically vibrating. “Vadim, what’s wrong?”

  He says nothing, so intent on Magda that I doubt he even heard me. It’s only when she squirms against his grip that he finally lets her go. He stands as she darts across the kitchen and turns to me. Seconds later, I’m in his arms, his mouth capturing mine with a ferocity that leaves me breathless.

  I arch into the kiss before common sense makes me draw back. “Wait. Baby, wait—”

  He backs away, panting, swiping at his mouth. He blinks as if he’s only now realizing where he is. Then he turns and heads for the stairs.

  Shaken, all I can do is grasp at the pieces of the gameboard with trembling fingers. Magda watches me, her expression unguarded for once. She looks terrified.

  Forcing a smile, I grasp a handful of fake money. “Let’s clean up, shall we?”

  She nods, her eyes still wide. Together we pack up the pieces and put the game away in silence.

  “Why don’t you go brush Biphany’s hair, and I’ll come to get you ready for bed, huh?” I force another grin that Magda doesn’t return as she obediently heads upstairs.

  Alone, I attempt to gather up the nerve to follow after her and approach the master bedroom. Vadim sits on the bed, his jacket on the floor, his dress shirt partially unbuttoned. As I approach, he meets my gaze, seeming more exhausted than ever.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He glances away, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m fine. I’m sorry if I startled you.”

  “You are not fine.” I stalk toward him and finger his wrinkled collar. My nostrils flare with his scent—all male musk. I doubt he’s even showered since he left. “You look awful.” I run my fingers through his hair, forcing him to look at me. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  His throat works to swallow. “I—”

  “I’m ready for bed,” a small voice declares. Startled, I lurch away from Vadim and turn to find Magda in the doorway her arms crossed, wall firmly in place. “Are you coming, Tiffany?”

  “Yes… I’m coming, honey.”

  She nods and then pointedly glances at Vadim, her expression icy. Turning on her heel, she marches away, making her thoughts on his return abundantly clear.

  “Damn it,” he hisses, bracing both hands on his knees. He slumps forward, the picture of guilt, and some more of my irritation is chipped away. “The pony. I forgot…”

  “I’ll go put her to bed,” I say, heading down the hall. “But when I come back, we need to talk.”

  I find Magda waiting for me on the edge of her bed. As I enter her closet to pick out a set of pajamas, I sense the unlikely start of a routine. One in which I return with her clothing and arrange it on the bed while she takes her bath. When she emerges dripping wet and draped in a robe, I brush her hair and braid it. Finally, I let her crawl beneath the blankets and tuck her in, placing her toys on either side of her.

  “Night, sweetie.” I linger far too long, smoothing my fingers over her hair until she finally drifts off. When I return to Vadim, he’s pacing, still partially undressed, his expression even more constricted.

  “I’ve fucked up,” he declares the second I see his face. “She’s angry with me.”

  “Yes,” I say, choosing not to lie. “You disappointed her. And I’ll tell you now that you’ll have to work hard to make it up to her. No more just buying her things. Spend the day with her. That’s what she wants—no, that’s what she needs from you.”

  He sighs, his lips twisting into a frown. “And you are angry with me as well…”

  “Pissed off, actually.” I prance past him and lift my dress over my head, but I know my posture warns him from touching me. I am angry. I just didn’t realize how strongly until now.

  “I don’t know what misconceptions you have, but I am not your employee,” I tell him, my voice shaking. “You don’t get to disappear and leave me with your henchman and your kid without even asking me to stay. You don’t have that right, fake wife or otherwise.”

  “I know.” I sense him come up behind me. When his fingers brush my sides, I don’t pull away, leaning into him instead. Two days alone create an unfair disadvantage as far as maintaining a grudge is concerned. Luckily for me, I have one powerful bit of ammo in my holster. Best to get it out of the way now. “Before Ena spills the beans, I took Magda to play with Maxim’s little girl.”

  He sucks in a breath, backing away from me. “You what?”

  I swallow hard before facing him. Meeting his gaze, I square my chin—but it’s a hard-fought bravery to keep up. I sway as his eyes touch on a terrifying shade of black. Soulless and cold at the threat of betrayal.

  “You gamble her safety to punish me?”

  “No! Of course not!” I scoff, insulted by the accusation. “I gambled your stupid pride and let your lonely daughter have some fresh air and play with a girl her own age because her father broke her heart over some stupid pony!”

  He grunts as if struck, his gaze pained. I almost feel guilty for going there. Almost.

  But if he wants to play the self-righteous indignation game, I can be just as petty. “Why did you go running off anyway? After how you made Magda feel, you better have one damn good reason—”

  “I do.” He’s facing away from me, his tone hoarse. “I filed to adopt her the day she came here. The Robinsons had expressed no inte
rest, and as her only previous foster family, I was assured that no one else could lay claim. I did everything in my power to expedite it legally.”

  I bite my lip. Could that explain his disappearance the other day on that mysterious “business?”

  “So, what happened?” I ask. Something in his stance draws me to him. I place my hand on his forearm and gasp. He’s trembling. “Vadim, tell me.”

  “My petition stalled. Blocked, in fact, though the reasoning why was unclear. My lawyers assured me they could have the hold-up dealt with swiftly… But the other day, I learned the real obstacle barring me.”

  He turns around, his expression shaped by such pain... I step into him, caressing the stern line of his jaw. I give him time to speak, sensing that whatever he means to say is hard for him to put into words.

  “The person who blocked the adoption did so on the grounds of claiming to be Magda’s biological mother.”

  “What?” My eyes go wide as a million implications come crashing down all at once. Irina? Some other mysterious woman? Overwhelmed, I stagger to the bed and sit down. “Is it the truth? C-can they prove it?”

  “I don’t know.” He sits beside me and takes my hand, gripping it tightly. “I spent two days in the state of her birth, trying to learn the answers to those very questions. With all the fucking legal hurdles, I didn’t get anywhere. But unless the petitioner comes forward and files in person, they still have no claim.”

  “But it’s still a hurdle,” I croak, panic constricting my throat. God, it’s like what happened at my church all over again. An adoption ruined on a selfish whim—but not my own. Right? Wrong. Even after a few short days… “Could it be her?” I ask, my voice breaking. “Magda’s mother? …Irina?”

  He glances at me sharply, his eyes flashing with a million emotions ranging from suspicion to…resignation? I sense the bricks of his wall shifting, fighting to reform. At the last second, they fall, leaving his emotions accessible, as volatile as they are.