Born to be Bad (International Bad Boys Book 3) (2 page)

God, but he’d miss Ivor.

Ivor had saved both he and Isaak’s lives.

Literally.

Roman had been more than used to beatings by his father Boris. The last time though, a decade ago, an eighteen-year-old Roman had returned from a stint living on the streets of Moscow to check on his mother, who had begged him to return home. That night he had been hauled from sleep and met with fists and boots and beaten so badly that he had ended up in hospital. Bruised, fractured, he had lain there staring at the ceiling, his tongue feeling the gap where his front teeth had once been, every breath agony with seven fractured ribs. Roman had decided to return to the streets. He wanted to stay and protect his mother, but was quite sure that if he returned home the next beating would kill him. Isaak had contacted their uncle, Ivor, who had flown back to Russia from London and had come to visit Roman in hospital.

Ivor had repeatedly asked them to join him in London and start a new life.

This time the brothers had agreed.

Roman did everything he could to forget the brutality of his childhood, but he just couldn’t run from the memory of it tonight.

Milly headed to the kitchenette, more than aware of Clifford’s eyes upon her.

He made her skin crawl, not that she let it show.

She poured Clifford his cognac and then with a smile she poured Roman his requested drink.

“Apple juice?” Simon frowned. “For Roman?”

“Maybe he knows he’s had far too much.” Milly shrugged.

“I truly didn’t think that Roman had an off switch,” Simon said. “Well, at least now I can relax—it looks like he’s going to behave.” He glanced down at Milly’s legs. “You’ve snagged your stockings.”

“I know, but I don’t have a spare pair.”

“You’ll have to take them off,” Simon said. “Make sure you have a spare pair with you in future.”

“I shall.”

Milly served Clifford his drink first and she felt his eyes roam her bare legs. Then, he told her that he was feeling a little peckish.

“I’ll bring something nice over for you,” Milly offered.

“Bring yourself!” Clifford winked.

Milly went over to Roman and put down a small coaster and then placed his drink in front of him.

“What is this?” Roman asked.

“Apple juice.”

Their eyes met and she watched as Roman frowned.

“I wanted vodka.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Milly said, because in the Club Lounge the customer was always right. “My mistake. I’ll go and get you your vodka now . . . ”

She went to take up the glass but as she did, Roman’s hand went to it and Milly’s hand met his.

It was first contact and it was like placing her hands near a fire on a cold, cold day—it warmed, it made you want to move closer, so close that it might actually burn and Milly felt her breath still in her lungs as Roman spoke on.

“I
did
ask for apple juice,” Roman said in his delicious, rich accent. “That was a poor attempt at a joke . . . ”

“Oh.” Milly swallowed, her hand moving away from his. “I’m not very used to you making jokes.”

“Because I tend not to make them.” He picked up the glass and drained it in one and then pulled a face. “Revolting. Now that I have had my vitamins for the day, you can get me my usual.”

“Of course.” Milly went and fixed his regular drink and placed it in front of him. Then, came the part that she was rather more used to. Roman knocked back the shot of vodka and put the glass down.

She didn’t ask if she could get him another one, as she usually did, something had signalled to her tonight that he expected her to know his routine and that there would be no deviation.

Clifford called her again as she returned with Roman’s second drink. “Milly, I thought you were going to bring me something nice!”

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Milly said as she put Roman’s second drink down. “Here’s your drink, Mr. Mason.”

“Roman.” He looked up at her and Milly felt her heart constrict as he invited her to first-name terms and for the longest time held her gaze. “I think we both know that I am not Andrew Mason.”

Milly knew that she should simply smile and say, “
Enjoy your drink, Roman
,” and then walk away. That was what her training had taught her. That was what Simon would expect her to do in this instance.

It was contrary to her heart though.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Milly said.

“Which one?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said that you are sorry for my loss. I wondered which one you were referring to. My uncle . . . or my pregnant wife?”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” Milly shook her head, unable to fathom the depths of his grief.

“Don’t waste your sympathy on me Milly . . . ” He halted, he should not have said that, and yet who the hell was he covering up for anyhow? It was on the tip of his tongue, to expose Ava, to reveal her lies, but he hauled himself back from the edge, for Roman knew full well how much the press would love to get a hold of the truth and he met Milly’s eyes. “I’m not grieving.”

She should have walked off then, Milly knew. She should simply have left it at that, gone and got him another drink and stayed quiet, but she didn’t.

Instead, Milly looked back into his cold grey eyes and saw the pain at the bottom of the lake, she saw the churning anger and she told him what Milly was quite sure was the truth. “I don’t believe you.”

R
oman let out
a tense breath as Milly walked off.

He wanted to correct her, to tell her she was wrong, that, contrary to popular opinion, he wasn’t grieving his late-wife. Roman stopped himself though—what did it fucking matter what some waitress believed?

Roman cared for no-one’s opinion.

He got back to staring out of the window. It was raining as he looked out to the dark London night. The rain pelted silently against the windows and he hated that his uncle was out there—cold and in the ground. The gentle background music grated. His mind was on Ivor, his uncle, but his thoughts turned to his father, Boris, who was desperately ill in a nursing home in Russia.

Roman wondered if he should go and visit him. Though, why he should care about that brutal man, Roman didn’t know.

He just did.

Isaak and Roman’s mother, Annika, had died years ago. They now paid for their father to have the best care. As Isaak said, it was far more than the man deserved. It just pained Roman to think of him sitting in a home all alone.

Roman sat with his drink and dark thoughts. There was another couple at a nearby table. They were clearly here on their honeymoon and they were talking and laughing. They stood to go and then left The Club holding hands.

For a second he envied them, because they looked as if they were in love.

There was no such thing as love, Roman reminded himself.

He could well remember his own honeymoon.

It had been a very quick wedding, even though Roman wasn’t sure that was what he had wanted, but Ava had insisted that she didn’t want their child born out of wedlock. The honeymoon had been miserable—Roman, already feeling trapped, had spent half the time warning Ava that, given she was pregnant, she should not be drinking. Hell, he’d even gone off the vodka in an attempt to support her, but the way Ava had been knocking it back . . .

Roman closed his eyes at the deceit of his late wife.

Milly
was
wrong. He did not grieve Ava and he did not grieve their baby, for it turned out that there had never been one.

Ava had faked a pregnancy to trap him, and soon, when the coroner’s report was released, the news would be all over the press.

His life would become fodder for the masses again.

Roman wanted the pain to stop. He wanted to know how he could grieve a baby that had never even existed. He gestured to his glass, but Milly had her back to him and Simon, who was busy flirting with a pilot who had just checked in to the hotel, pretended that he hadn’t seen.

Roman wanted company.

Of a sexual kind.

He took out his phone and scrolled through it. There were many women he could call, yet, as he looked through the names, none appealed.

He put the phone down—he didn’t know what it was that he wanted tonight.

Or, rather, he did.

Affection, conversation, tenderness, these were the things Roman wanted tonight, which was so far removed from his usual style. God, any one of those women in his contact list would take it as a sign he was more serious about them, and Roman was never serious about anyone.

Milly got on with her evening—serving the guests, filling up their glasses and making sure that everybody was comfortable.

There was a small buffet area where guest could help themselves to hors d’oeuvres but for the regulars, such as Roman and Clifford, Milly would often take a selection over.

Milly arranged some food on plates for Clifford, and then Roman, and put them on a tray and headed first to Clifford.

“Oh, Milly.” He licked his lips. “You do know how to look after me, don’t you . . . ”

“It’s my pleasure,” Milly duly answered, but then Clifford’s face fell because he had looked at the selection when he came in. “No mini beef wellingtons?”

“Sorry,” Milly said. “We’ve run out.”

She headed over to Roman with a rather more carefully selected array of food for him. Roman conceded a smile when she took a plate from the tray and he saw that he had not one, but two mini beef wellingtons.

She knew they were his favourite.

“That’s called passive aggression, Milly.” Roman said in his low, deep voice.

“Is it?” Milly smiled.

“If you want him gone,” Roman offered, nodding in Clifford’s direction. “Just say.”

“If I need a guest removed, then I’ll call security,” Milly said and watched him squint as he took in the ring on her finger.

“You’re engaged?”

“Wrong hand.” Milly smiled. “An engagement ring is worn on the left.”

“Not in Russia. Well, in saying that, there we don’t really give engagement rings, or that was what I said to Ava when she complained she didn’t get one . . . ”

God, he must be pissed to be talking about his late wife, Milly thought.

“You’ve changed your scent back,” Roman said.

Milly nodded. Last night she had tried a new one, it had been a Christmas present from a friend. Tonight she had been about to spray her new perfume yet had remembered Roman’s comment last night. He hadn’t said that he’d liked the new one and, for reasons she couldn’t properly fathom, she had gone back to her old scent tonight.

“I prefer this one.” Roman said.

She was glad that she had changed back now. “I’ll leave you.”

“Sit!” Roman said, but Milly shook her head.

“I’m not allowed to.”

He looked over to Simon who was flirting outrageously with a pilot, and Roman watched as the pilot put down his swipe card on the table and, sure enough, as Simon cleared his plates and glass he pocketed it.

Nine pm came, and all the complementary drinks were locked away and the trays were collected to be taken down to the kitchen, though not before Milly and Simon took a ten minute supper break and Simon told her that he had the most terrible migraine coming on.

“Should you be drinking?” Milly checked. “If you’re getting a migraine?”

“It’s just one glass,” Simon said, rubbing his forehead and grimacing. “I thought it might take the edge off.”

“Why don’t you go home,” Milly offered. “I can set up for breakfast.”

“You don’t mind?” Simon checked. “If I can just take some painkillers and go straight to bed . . . ”

Milly did mind! She was a little bit tired of Simon’s all too frequent migraines, but she knew he would just hang around being miserable and not doing much if he didn’t go home.

“Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“Thanks so much, Milly. There’s only Clifford and Roman, watch out for . . . ”

“I can handle Roman,” Milly said.

“I know that you can, he really does seem to have a soft spot for you. I was actually going to say watch out for sleazy Clifford.”

“I’ll be fine.” Milly smiled and then she set to work, ringing the kitchen to say that the trays were ready to go down and then she started to set up for breakfast in the morning.

After ten pm, guests needed a swipe-card to get into the lounge, as it was unmanned overnight, but staff would be in in the morning and breakfast would be served there from six.

Roman saw that Clifford was watching Milly set up the tables for the morning. Her back was to him and Clifford was openly leering at her at her bare legs.

“Milly,” Clifford called out to her. “Is there any chance of another drink for a favourite guest?”

“I’m sorry, Clifford,” Milly turned and briefly smiled. “All the drinks are locked away now.”

“Oh, I’m sure . . . ” Clifford started, but Roman intervened.

“Hey,” Roman said and the elderly man turned and frowned as he realised that Roman was addressing him. “She said that the drinks are finished for the night—I think it might be time to retire.”

“It’s fine,” Milly said and shot Roman a look to tell him to back off. Yes, she was extremely uncomfortable around Clifford, but she certainly didn’t need a very drunk Roman coming to her rescue.