Gold Digger (6 page)

But, to his amazement, she answered. “Krasnorada.”

“Here, too. Hi Anya, how are you doing?”

“Nikolai? About time you called. Where are you?”

“Canada. On business.”

“Right. Fine. I was just catching a nap. I’m on a nasty shift here in the hospital. Just a moment. I’m grabbing a fresh coffee.”

“We can make it short if you should be sleeping.”

“I can’t really sleep. Been tossing and turning. Next asshole who disturbs me gets a scalpel between the teeth.” She meant it, too, he could tell from her voice. Anya was as fierce as their father had been in his youth, and downright scary. Luckily she was on the “good side,” as she called it. She only made people bleed to save their lives.

Nikolai cleared his throat. “So, Mother asked me to call you. What’s up?”

“I need you to call Lizabeta.”

He sat up straighter. “What happened?”

“She walked out on me. With our son.”

Oh, this was bad. This wasn’t just family stuff, this was a family meltdown, core and all. “She walked out on you?” Sounded a bit like the dove wrestling free from the hawk, but he wouldn’t tell her that. Liz had always appeared pale and meek and utterly gorgeous, and it was pretty clear that Anya was the guy in the relationship, though she’d elbow him and tell him there was no such thing as a guy in a lesbian partnership. Emphasis on
thing
.

“Why did she walk?”

“She thought I had an affair with a colleague.”

“Did you?”

“That’s beside the fucking point.” Okay, so she had. At which point Lizabeta walking was perfectly understandable. She liked being bossed around and being the wife behind the red-hot trauma surgeon, but even she didn’t like being cheated on. He was tempted to call her to congratulate her on having found her spine and her pride on the same day.

“What
is
the fucking point, then?”

“Don’t mock me,” Anya snarled. Good for her patients that they usually had bigger problems than the temper of the surgeon saving their lives. Trauma medicine was probably the only place where somebody like Anya could be tolerated.

“Okay, sorry. I’m having a tense situation here. If there’s anything I can do . . .”

“Talk to her.”

“I barely know her. I don’t think we’re close enough that she’d listen to me—” His sister responded with a snort of icy disdain. “Okay,” he tried again. “What do you want from her?”

“Joint custody. If I can have Szandor to myself, even better.”

“I’m not convinced you have enough leverage there. I mean, Szandor is biologically not yours, and I’m not sure Hungary or Poland recognizes same-sex marriage.”

“That’s where you come in,” she informed him coolly.

“Oh no. No, no, no. No.”

“Oh yes,” she countered. If they’d been fencing, this would be a series of attacks driving him along the piste with willpower and impeccable, merciless technique alone. He’d never told his father (or mother) why he’d given up fencing. Well, getting bruised and scared and constantly beaten on the piste by his much more talented older sister definitely had something to do with it. “Do I have to remind you of your involvement?”

“And we all signed a contract beforehand that says I have no responsibilities and am not liable. I still have my copy, and I’m holding you to it. It was weird enough to act as the donor and impregnate your wife, Anya; I’m not going to fight for custody over a child I barely know and have no space in my life for anyway. And you don’t have time for him either, so do the decent thing and let her go, and ask nicely, and maybe you’ll get a few weekends and a holiday. Why on earth can’t you let her move on when you’ve clearly already found somebody else?”

“You mean that?” Her voice was so cold he could have been sitting right underneath an A/C vent.

“Anya, it’s . . . listen. I know you hate losing, and I imagine it’s a blow, but just get over it. It’s basically
your
fault.”

“Nikolai.”

“Um, yes?”

“I fucking hate you.” She severed the call, and he sat there, stunned. So much for trying to get any kind of sanity from his sister. He tried to dial her number again, but nobody responded. Typical. She had her head so deep in denial only her toenails were sticking out. If he had the vaguest idea about Lizabeta, the mild-mannered woman had reached the end of her tether, in more senses than one, and sending him to put pressure on her wasn’t nice. Nor would it work.

With a frustrated sigh, he closed his laptop, paid his bill, and left the café, suddenly too restless to stay around and talk to family members who were all in different time zones. He’d mull this over, and by the time he met his father, he’d be all right with it, or at least have calmed down.

He ended up wandering the city, looking at buildings and people, soaking up the atmosphere of a bright blue day that could have been either spring or fall. But try as he might, he couldn’t get into the holiday feeling of being in a foreign city with nowhere to urgently be. He went to the Royal Ontario Museum, browsed the shop for something to bring Vadim, and pushed the thought of Anya’s kid out of his mind. With Lizabeta gone, it was entirely possible he’d never see the boy again. And it wouldn’t be fair to Lizabeta to impose on her. At the end of the day, it was absolutely her child. She’d borne him. Was raising him.

Still, he was restless, even with things to look at and even though he struck up short conversations easily—at the ticket counter, or with an elderly couple who mistook him for somebody working in the museum, which led to apologies and then a lovely little chat about where they were from and when he’d arrived. He tended to like people. It was family he struggled with. And, come to think of it, business meetings with multi-millions and more at stake.

He returned to the hotel in the afternoon, plugged his laptop in, and was trying to decide where and what to eat (and whether he should bother Tamás) when his phone rang. Unknown caller. So probably not his sister eager for revenge.

“Krasnorada?”

“LeBeau, the harmless one.”

Nikolai laughed. “Not really, but go on, Henri, what can I do for you?”
If you can’t beat them, join them.
He could be smooth.

Henri paused, quite possibly surprised. “I was more thinking what I can do for you.”

And you thought
you
were smooth, Nikolai?
Blood rushed south at the timbre of Henri’s voice. Not quite a purr, but with plenty of promise. “Ungh. Damn.”

Now it was Henri’s turn to laugh. “That was easy. I was all concerned about how I should bring up the topic, what excuse to use, but the fact of the matter is that I’d like to see you again, under non-business circumstances.”

Deal.
Nikolai sat down. “Dinner?”

“There’s a fantastic Greek place not far from where you are, and it’s casual. The
mezze
are to die for, and light enough to leave some potential for a little exercise later.” Henri was definitely cranking it up now. This had to count as an audio-based striptease. “Maybe I’d let you fuck me.”

Nikolai swallowed hard, shuddered before he could consider whether he wanted to, in fact, fuck Henry. A repeat of the blow- and handjob had sounded just fine until about two seconds ago. “That’s something I haven’t done.”

“What,
mezze
?” Henri laughed again, softly, sensuously. “Or a guy?”

“I haven’t done a guy.” Over the phone that was easier to confess. Thought it probably felt good, doing a guy. After all, plenty of men enjoyed that a great deal, among them his father and husband and their best friends and occasional lovers who, oddly enough, somehow fitted into and around their marriage. “I’ve hung out with friends in Melbourne. That’s firmly in Greek and Italian hands.” Maybe he could drag the topic back to something harmless.

“You could trust my hands with that.”

“Funny thing is, I do,” Nikolai admitted.

Another odd pause. Seemed Henri was thrown totally off his game when Nikolai ran out of banter and just admitted the truth. He was probably a boring game to Henri, who clearly enjoyed his verbal sparring.

“I could pick you up in thirty minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll be outside.” Nikolai glanced at the emails piling up in his inbox. “I do think I need a break.”

“You could bring a fresh shirt and pajamas and stay the night. I fully expect to exhaust you. You might not make it home.”

That was getting more intimate than he was ready for. He wouldn’t have minded Henri coming to his hotel; they’d blow off steam, go for some Greek food, part ways, almost like very casual friends plus sex, but actually staying the night—that was intimate. He liked Henri’s condo and the bed (and the mirrors), but wow, he liked it
too
much. “Not . . . I think that’s not a good idea.”

“Okay. You call the shots. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I know I can be too direct. I’m frankly amazed you’re humoring me this far.”

“I’m . . . I’m just not sure how far this should go, that’s all. I don’t want you to . . . I don’t know.”
I don’t want to hurt you.
Though the idea of hurting Henri was preposterous. The guy was a hell of a lot more experienced than he was, and the way he pursued a man, he had to score a great deal, and often. Yet, that penthouse was very much a bachelor pad—no traces of any previous lovers, as though none had left a mark.

“Get my hopes up?”

“Yeah. I’m not gay. I don’t want to build a habit here.”

“Habits take at least two months to establish. You can’t change over a weekend.”

Thank you, self-improvement library.
“Well, then I should be safe.”

“Definitely. I’ll pick you up in thirty.”

“Okay, great, I’ll be there.”

He mentally backtracked to
Well, then I should be safe.
Had that sounded too worried? He enjoyed spending time with Henri. Nothing to be concerned about.

An email from his mother popped up on his screen. No doubt the chastising he’d been expecting for cutting off Anya’s ambitions.

He opened it with dread tightening his throat, but it was just a pleasant, almost chatty email about her plans to extend a house (she was by now running a veritable real estate empire) and an offer to stay in Budapest for a few days with her.

Had she caught wind of him visiting Vadim? Or maybe he was just completely paranoid by now. There was no reason or need to play the “who do you love more, Mommy or Daddy?” game of other divorced couples. Though he could never really be sure. Katya could be a manipulative matriarch in the best tradition of Catherine de Medici. Or she was really only asking about good real estate opportunities in Armenia, or maybe Georgia?

If he did take the invitation, she’d still use the opportunity to twist him around and make him feel sorry for denying his sister’s request for help.

You’d be quite sane and well-adjusted if your family had happened to somebody else,
his last ex had told him. He normally didn’t run around telling people about them (if he’d wanted to, he’d handle it like an American and get a therapist), but things had progressed so far with her that he’d almost taken her along to family gatherings, and felt he needed to brief her on what she’d encounter there.

But before that worst-case scenario had happened, she’d met a nice guy who had a boring nine-to-five and wanted family and was reliable and sweet and could actually share one of her five-year plans. He’d told her that as a Russian old enough to remember five-year planning and what it meant for people in reality, he wasn’t very well-suited for the “first career to mid-level, then a house and pension plan, then marry, then two children and a second car” spiel. And he couldn’t decide whether that was a fault or a strength.

No such thing with Henri, though. No plans, no power games, nothing but an invitation to have some fun.

Greek and casual, Henri had said, so he didn’t actually have to change, but he put on a tighter T-shirt, remembering Henri staring at his chest. Funny, he couldn’t decide how he felt about that, either. He just figured Henri’d like it; it wasn’t meant as a bastard move to show off or let the guy drool over him. Something would definitely happen, and he caught himself grinning, anticipation tightening his balls. As long as he was playing fair (and not raising expectations he couldn’t fulfill), there was no reason not to improvise as he went along.

He grabbed a light windbreaker and headed downstairs without dwelling on those thoughts any further. Though he would have to talk to Ruslan at some point and tell him what they were most likely up against.

When he came downstairs, Henri was already waiting. Ten minutes early.

“Hey.” Henri smiled at him. He was dressed in a suit, which he likely believed flattered him the most, and Nikolai agreed. He moved in it as if he’d never worn anything else. Much more comfortable than Nikolai would ever feel.

“Henri. You’re early.”

“Well, traffic wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.” Henri touched him on the shoulder and Nikolai allowed it, the friendly contact of buddies totally unaware of any possibility they might look gay. Not that it mattered much in urban Canada.

The silver rocket stood outside, and Nikolai folded himself into it, then relaxed in the leather seats. “This is comfortable in an entirely ungodly way.”

“It’s not when you try to go for a blowjob,” Henri said and patted the console. “Despite my best attempts, I’ve never managed in this car.”

Nikolai regarded the molded legroom and the high console, and since the car had no backseats, there was really only one place to have sex anywhere around the car. “Leaves the hood.”

Henri made a funny little sound close to a breathless stutter minus words.

Nikolai glanced at him, eyebrow arched. “Hadn’t occurred to you?”

Henri laughed, but it was a little strangled. “For a straight guy, you’re playing this very well.” He started the car and weaved into traffic.

With my family, it takes a great deal more than my First—okay, Second—Gay Experience to catch me out.
Nikolai smiled. “Though I’ve found they are uncomfortable as hell.”

Henri shot him a warning glance. “Try not to get me to crash the car.”