Roulette (18 page)

“Alexei, what the hell is going on?”

“Pavel Durchenko—”

“What about him? I am at my best friend’s wedding, and I’ve had enough of this bullshit. We will get back to him in a week. Just tell him to back off—”

“He and Aziza Mahdi have been together for the past year . . . secretly.”

“What?” My voice is more like a high-pitched, strangled squeal.

“Shhh,” Alexei hisses into the phone. “No one knows. Well, I suspect Rome knows and that’s why they’re getting married, to help her get out of a terrible situation. And now Durchenko thinks you’re in on that or something. He is so livid, Miki, I honestly thought he was going to whip out his gun and shoot me just because we’re related—”

“He’s there in Paris?”

“Yes. And he has photos of you all at some church a few hours ago. He’s obsessed with spy photos. Well, that part was quite good, actually.”

“Alexei!”

“Sorry. I just mean he’s got all the latest gadgets and the best people working for him, so be careful—”

“Be careful?” I half whisper, half squeal again. “How the hell am I supposed to be careful?” I look down at myself. “I am at a wedding in the South of France in a skimpy silk dress and a pair of way-too-high heels—”

“I saw in the photos. You look very pretty.”

“Alexei. Seriously. I meant I am in no position to defend myself if Durchenko loses his temper about all this. I refuse to get dragged into some sordid love triangle. Does any of it have to do with Segezha?”

“Yes, I get the feeling it’s all somehow related. Apparently, Clairebeau’s been trying to make a side deal with Kriegsbeil, and now Durchenko is yelling about how Rome had better mind his own business. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Don’t worry—”

“I’m already worried! Do you want me to come back to Paris? I was going to stay a few extra days, but I can be on the train tomorrow.”

He hesitates. “Maybe I should come down there instead, and we can all work together. Is Rome staying in Provence, too?”

“How should I know?”

“Oh. I thought maybe—”

“Well, don’t think, all right? There’s nothing going on with Rome and me, and there never will be!”

And of course that’s the moment Rome happens to walk down the hall and turn to face me in the alcove, like I’m some interloper in his house, his beautiful house—because I
am
an interloper in his house. He shakes his head slowly and keeps walking, as if my words are just one more Judas kiss in an infinite receiving line of Judas kisses.

I curse myself and Alexei and tell him I’ll call him later. He tells me he’ll be back in touch about whether he’s coming down to Provence. When I go back out to the party, I try to put on my happy face for Margot’s sake. Other than avoiding Rome—which isn’t too hard, since I can tell he really wants nothing to do with me at this point—I end up having a pretty great time. Étienne’s cousins from London are tons of fun. Trevor’s brothers are really interesting—one of them is a horse breeder who splits his time between Ireland and Dubai and who’s going to buy some horses in Ojai later in the year. We exchange phone numbers and agree to meet up for dinner if we’re both in LA at the same time.

Unfortunately, Zoe, the reporter, is relentless. She asks me all sorts of inane questions about my mother, and I keep trying to steer the conversation back to Margot and Étienne. She keeps trying to fob me off.

“Oh, no one really cares about Étienne’s second marriage.” She moves in closer to let me in on her secret. “The real reason I came was to get a closer look at Jérôme de Villiers and Aziza Mahdi.” Zoe’s look is scheming as she takes a sip of wine and stares at Rome across the grassy area where he is talking to Margot’s father. I watch as he inhales on his cigarette, and I want to rip it out of his hand. I’ve noticed he’s been smoking a lot this weekend, the stress of everything probably getting to him. Just because he’s a dishonest bastard is no reason he should die of lung cancer.

“Really?” I try to act disinterested.

Her head swings around to face me. “Of course, really! He’s impossible to reach; he never gives interviews, even though I’m his cousin’s cousin!” She seems genuinely affronted. “It could really launch my career to get some sort of exclusive scoop about him and Aziza. I’m thinking maybe she’s not really going to marry him at all, right? That she’s just using him to get out of some old-fashioned arranged marriage back in Somalia or some other sticky situation. There are tons of rumors going around that she’s a real trollop—sleazy Russian-billionaire boyfriends and all that.”

I just won my second imaginary Oscar.

“I mean, sorry—I forgot you’re half Russian, aren’t you?”

“Just the sleazy half.”

She bursts out laughing. “Good one. You got me. Sorry—just a slip of the tongue. You know how it is.”

She laughs again, retelling the joke to herself, probably committing it to memory for future reuse. She keeps staring at Rome, then lets her attention slip over to the other side of the party, where Aziza and Lulu are laughing at something Trevor is saying. “They don’t look very in love for two people who just got engaged, do you think?”

I take another sip of wine and make some sort of grunting, noncommittal reply.

Zoe shrugs. “Oh well. You’re no help. And Étienne has already told me he’ll never speak to me again if I publish anything without his permission, but it’s my life, too, right?”

I don’t know why Zoe has latched onto me as her working-girl partner in crime, but I need to break off the conversation before I let something slip. “Sorry, Zoe. I just remembered something I need to tell Margot. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure, sure.” She is already distracted, watching Rome like a shark circling slowly until she smells blood in the water.

I know I am probably getting tipsy, because my visits to the bathroom are becoming more frequent. By eight o’clock, it is starting to get dark and people are getting ready to leave, so I go for one last time before the four of us—Jules, Trevor, Lulu, and I—make the drive home.

I am humming and wending my way up the narrow stone stairs at the back of the hall near the kitchen, when I feel the air shift. I swing around. Rome is standing right behind me. He looks over one shoulder, then shoves me up the rest of the stairs and into the tiny bathroom, until the two of us are enclosed in the small, private space.

I back away from him a pace, but he closes the distance between us in an instant and grabs the flesh of my inner thigh with one hand. I bite down on my lower lip to stop myself from groaning.

“This dress is too short,” he says in a low, menacing voice. His hand begins to knead its way up my thigh.

“What do you care?” I taunt him. I’ve had one too many glasses of champagne, and suddenly I don’t give a fig if he’s engaged or if I’m going to get mown down by some angry oligarch. I just want his hands on my body. Everyone else can deal with their own problems.

He puts his face right in front of mine, staring at me desperately, looking at my eyes, my lips, down the front of my dress, then back into my eyes. I think he is going to talk, but he just keeps staring at me like that. My breath is short; I just want to smell him all around me, to breathe him in. I shut my eyes and lean into him, shifting my thigh to force his hand even higher up my leg.

“Kiss me, Rome, please,” I beg.

“Miki,” he whispers in my ear, then licks the tender edge with the tip of his tongue. I moan and push my hips against his hand. He reaches his other hand up and grabs my loose hair into a rough hold. “Look at me . . .”

I open my eyes. He is so heated, his eyes snapping and firing, those tiny yellow spindles bright. His lips are barely opened, but the glistening skin just inside his mouth makes me weak. I lean in to taste him. He tugs on my hair to stop me from slipping back into that dreamy state.

“Miki.” Even though he whispers my name, it comes out with harsh finality. “Tell me . . .” He kisses me, and it’s almost a punishment. “Tell me this is real.” His hand fists more tightly in my hair. “Tell me you trust me.”

God, I want him. So badly. But nothing feels real. And trust is about the last thing I feel for anyone right now. I shake my head slowly, wanting him and doubting him all at once. “I have nothing to go on. You’re hiding things from me—”

“That is all bullshit, and you know it. Aziza has drawn me into a fucking viper pit with these stupid secrets, and I’m going to have to deal with it in my own way.”

“What about the Segezha deal?”

He falters, but only for a second. “What about it? None of that matters. I am not hiding anything when it comes to my feelings for you. I have never—”

“Never what? Never wanted something and not been able to have it in five minutes or less?” My anger is starting to bubble up. “You’re spoiled, Rome. You want me?” I lean in and kiss him, wet and messy and tipsy. “Want me to get on my knees again . . .” I start to bend down, and he whips me up so we are eye to eye.

“Miki, stop it.”

“Because you know I want it, isn’t that it? And you can’t figure out why I keep trying to get away from you. Well, I’ll tell you why: Because you are so bad for me, Rome, that’s why! You make me want to beg and be a liar and a cheat. You want to take things from me that I can never get back . . .”

I’m sort of crying like one of those crazy women on late-night Spanish television by this point. He loosens his hold in my hair and tries to soothe away my hurt, and the slow intimacy is far worse than the rough passion. His tenderness feels far too real.

“Please don’t,” I whisper, but I think he can tell his kindness is going to break me.

He leans in and kisses me, so soft and gentle, his tongue a sweet promise that merely glances against my lips. “I meant what I said in Saint Petersburg,” he whispers. “You deserve perfect.” He kisses me one more time, then turns and leaves the bathroom, and I’m standing there gasping and breathless, unsure of what just happened. Is he going to be the one to give me perfect, or is he going to leave me alone so I can forget about him and find some imaginary future perfect?

I turn to see myself in the mirror and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m a wreck. We’ve all been dancing for hours, so everyone at the party is a bit mussed, but the kissing and the crying have made me look just like the crazy Telemundo woman I imagined earlier. I take a few deep breaths, then clean myself up as best I can. I splash my face with cool water and pat it dry with a linen hand towel, then go back to the party.

Luckily, Rome and Aziza have gone off somewhere in the house or garden by the time I wander downstairs. Margot is sitting on Étienne’s lap, and Lulu and Trevor are slow-dancing to the acoustic guitarist from the band. The rest of the musicians are packing up.

Diana, Margot’s mother, is barefoot and swaying with her arms around her husband. Jules looks happy and tired. I go and sit down next to him.

“What did I miss?”

“Oh. Were you gone?”

That answers that. “No, not really, just to the loo for a few minutes. Looks like everything is winding down. Should we head back home?”

“Sure. Why don’t we ask Lulu and Trevor if we can make our way back once they’re done . . . you know . . .”

I look in the direction he is looking and see how Lulu is staring into Trevor’s eyes under a stray beam of moonlight. The guitarist is playing a few sweet chords from that old Oasis song, and, Jesus, they look so happy, it gives me chills. Jules watches them like a science experiment. I wonder if he is even capable of imagining that type of intimacy. Probably not.

I know I am. I can still feel Rome’s lips against mine. But even more devastating was the way he asked me to trust him, the way he looked at me like I was the first—and maybe the last—person he has ever asked that of. And I’m not sure I will ever be able to.

I am perfectly capable of imagining Rome’s hands at my lower back, and lower still, like Trevor’s are against Lulu. I can imagine looking into Rome’s eyes with that longing. My stomach goes into free fall. Again.

I suppose I need to get used to these moments of profound longing. I’m beginning to see why my mother just indulged herself.

The musician finally strums the last chords and smiles up at Lulu and Trevor. The three of them speak quietly to one another and then say good-bye. Aziza and Rome come out of the house holding hands, and I try not to stare. God damn him. I have to get out of here.

Margot stands up, and we all smile and hug and look around to make sure no one has left anything. Étienne and Rome are arguing about money—Rome insisting he always meant to pay for the entire wedding when he offered to host it, and Étienne sort of furious and grateful and buzzed all at once. Margot simply beams with happiness. She hugs Rome and thanks him again and tells him he’s
the worst
, but then I hear her tell him he’s the greatest. I know the feeling.

I turn before Rome has a chance to say good-bye to me, and I walk to the outer courtyard with oblivious Jules. Lulu and Trevor take Jules and me in their car again, and the Montespans go with Margot and Étienne. The newlyweds have decided to postpone their honeymoon until later in the summer, once Étienne’s current caseload is lighter. Meanwhile, Margot keeps saying she is thrilled to have an extended house party until then.

I hate to be so selfish, but after all that drama in the bathroom, all I keep thinking is that one day, one fine day, I will be driving home from my own wedding with a man holding my hand and looking at me the way Étienne was looking at Margot. Perfectly content, as if everything in the world in that moment is perfectly
enough
.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

S
unday morning I wake up to the sound of Zoe shoving all her stuff into her bag.

“What’s up?” I ask, opening one eye and then slipping deeper under the cool cotton sheets. The windows are open, and the morning air is chilly and gorgeous. I want to stay in bed for days.

“Rome and Aziza are going back to Paris earlier than expected, and he offered me a seat on his private plane. Can you stand it?”

I feel like groaning but smile instead. “Isn’t the TGV just as fast?”

Zoe turns to look at me like I’m some sort of imbecile. “Rome de Villiers’s private jet? Did you hear me? I’ll get to see the two of them up close and personal.”

I smile because she’s kind of adorable and I get what she’s saying. It’s her job and she’s excited. “Oh, fine. Have fun chasing your big story.”

I pretend to sleep until after I hear Rome’s car peel out of the driveway and I’m sure they’re all gone.

“You just missed Aziza and Rome and Zoe,” Margot says over the rim of her mug. “Nice timing.”

“Not too hard to figure their comings and goings when he drives a car that’s louder than the Indy 500.” I pour myself a cup of coffee and reach for the paper. “I can’t believe you still get an actual newspaper.”

“Trevor’s old-fashioned—and an early riser. He always goes into town first thing and brings back croissants and a few papers.”

“I’m not complaining.” I flip through the pages and pause and smile at a small black-and-white photo of my mother in Cairo. She looks daring and happy with a
Lawrence of Arabia
–type white scarf wrapped around her head. I don’t love how her daring personality affected my childhood, but at fifty-three, she kind of has it all going on.

Margot looks over my shoulder. “Is that your mom?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t she look great?”

Margot stares at me, then back at the paper. “Yeah. Crazy, but great.” Margot pats my shoulder and gets up from the table. “I’m going back to bed.” She winks at me and points upstairs. “First day of my honeymoon and all that. Ariel is off with her grandparents for the week.”

“Off you go, then. Can I borrow your car and do a little shopping? Maybe make some lunch?”

“Sure. That would be perfect. The shops are open for a couple of hours this morning, but then they close for the rest of the day. The keys are in the dish by the front door. Take my Peugeot. Lulu and Trev usually come back down around ten.”

“Okay.” I smile and go back to the paper. It is like a commune, for goodness’ sake, all these happy people living under one roof.

I drive into town, park in the central square, and walk up the narrow street to the small market for cheeses and fruit. I flirt with the handsome young man behind the counter, asking him how long he’s lived here (born here, of course) and his recommendations for the best bread and meats. I don’t know what it is about a man in an apron, but I love it.

Next I go to the
boucherie
and buy a beautiful rack of lamb that I watch the butcher trim and wrap while his wife makes fresh sausages. Everything about this place makes me miss California . . . not one bit. Well, I miss the waves, actually, but everything about how these people live their lives
right now
and not on some treadmill to save up for the weekend or vacation or some other far-off
goal
kind of makes me shiver with happiness.

Then I go back down the narrow, steep street to the
boulangerie
to get a few batons of bread and a glistening apricot tart for dessert. I drive back to Margot’s place, and when I walk into the kitchen, Lulu and Trevor are reading the paper and drinking coffee.

“Hey, did you find everything?” Lulu asks, looking up from the paper.

“Yes. Oh my gosh, it’s so beautiful here,” I say with a happy sigh as I begin to unpack all the things I bought for lunch. “You guys have landed in paradise.”

“It’s pretty great, right?” Trevor is smiling and looking at the paper at the same time. “Do you think you’ll stay for a while?”

I take out the food and set all the packages out on the counter, then start looking around for a few pans and platters. “I would love to, but I think things are about to explode at work. My uncle’s pretty much freaking out, so”—I pull my head out from under the counter and turn to face them—“probably not more than a couple of days, but once things settle down, I’m definitely coming back.”

“Good!” Lulu exclaims. “I’m so sorry again for all my gushing about Rome’s place yesterday.”

I begin making a rub for the lamb while I talk. “It’s okay. I don’t know if Margot told you, but I’ve actually had some business dealings with Rome, and it was kind of awkward. But it’s not a big deal. I just wasn’t expecting to see him, you know, socially. But I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry again.”

“Oh, gosh. It was totally my fault. And no, Margot hasn’t said anything. I can’t believe you’re, like, this big, important businessperson all of a sudden.”

I sort of laugh through my words. “Me neither. I’m trying to rely on my strengths—math and statistics and all that—but my uncle is pretty confident that I can handle the rest of it: negotiating with clients, all the other public stuff. It’s just going to be a really steep learning curve.”

“You should talk to Trevor,” Lulu says. I have my doubts about how this British layabout can assist with my internecine business dealings, so I simply smile and nod.

“Yes, let me know if you want any help,” Trevor offers, still reading the paper.

I’m rubbing the herbs into the lamb, when I decide to pry. “So, what do you do, exactly, Trevor?”

The paper goes down so I can see his face. “This and that. Like you, I’m interested in numbers.”

Lulu punches him in the shoulder. “He’s being stupid. He’s a total financial genius. He trades everything from metals I’ve never even heard of to boatloads of copper and whatnot. Why are you so secretive about it?”

I stare at this man in his ripped Glastonbury T-shirt and Vilebrequin swimming trunks and start to laugh. “You’re a commodities trader working out of a farm in the Luberon?”

He smiles and shrugs. “I guess you could say that.”

“Excellent.” I shake my head. Landon and that picket fence are starting to feel so faraway, so irrelevant. “I might have some questions for you after all. There’s a factory deal in Russia that’s been giving me some trouble—”

“Segezha?” he asks, with a partial smile.

“Yeah,” I half laugh. “Segezha. You’ve heard of it?” I shake my head again and smile.

“Yes, I’ve heard of it. It’s like a toy that all the kids on the playground suddenly want.”

“Something like that.”

I set some carrots and potatoes to roast in the oven and finish by making a big salad. “Shall we eat outside?”

“Definitely,” Lulu agrees. “I’ll set the table.”

About an hour later, Étienne and Margot are downstairs in all their honeymoon swooniness and the lamb is almost done and we’ve opened a crisp bottle of rosé and we’re sitting outside at the huge stone table, about to have lunch. I get up to check the lamb, which has been slow-roasting on the grill for about an hour and looks just about perfect.

And then I hear the roar of that godforsaken race car in the driveway.

“Oh! Is that Rome? What is he doing back?” Lulu perks up, then catches my eye and pretends to be disinterested.

Seriously. Is the man just going to torment me endlessly?

Étienne gets up and goes to the front door, and, sure enough, he returns a few minutes later with Rome, who is smiling and patting Étienne’s back.

“What the hell?” I mutter as I lift the hood of the grill and put the meat on the wooden platter to set for a few minutes. He comes right over to me, the idiot, and kisses me on both cheeks.

“Miki. How are you this afternoon? I missed you this morning when I came by to pick up Zoe.”

“I was asleep.”

He smiles. “Sorry I missed that,” he murmurs. And then turns to face Margot and Étienne. “I hope I’m not imposing.”

“Of course not,” Margot says cheerfully, then looks at me. “I mean . . . we have enough food, right, Miki?”

There’s enough food for an army. I was extremely enthusiastic at the market with the cute shopkeeper.
Everything’s already out on the table—the roasted vegetables, the huge salad, several cheeses and breads. I nod.

Rome rubs his hands together. “Great. It smells wonderful. I didn’t
know you could cook, Miki.” He’s standing too close to me again, near the stone grill, and I want to spear him with the long fork.

“I just follow recipes.”

He lifts his chin like he doesn’t really believe me, but maybe he’s done messing with me for a while.

“I thought you went back to Paris.” It comes out sounding like he’s a bad penny that keeps turning up, but that only makes him smile more.

“I just wanted to get rid of Zoe. And Azi had to get back for a work thing. So I figured it was only an hour or so to come on back and hang out with you all.” He turns from me to face Étienne. “I also brought some wine. Let me go get it out of the car.”

I take a deep breath when he’s gone back into the house and he’s out of earshot. I’m still holding the grilling fork and I’m using it like a conductor’s baton—or an épée, I think viciously. I gesture with it while I talk. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“I think he likes you,” says Lulu innocently.

“You think?” Margot razzes.

“But he’s engaged to Azi.” Lulu looks to Trevor as if he would know, because obviously the facts no longer make sense to her. She’s always trying to believe the best about people. “So that can’t be right . . .” Her voice trails off as she tries to figure out some way in which everyone can be a good person in this scenario.

I wave the fork. “Exactly! It is not right, Lulu. He just does whatever the hell he wants without—” I stop talking when I see him through the kitchen window, unloading the bottles of wine. He comes out a few minutes later with two unmarked bottles of red wine. I assume they’re from the co-op at the bottom of the hill, but I’m quickly reeducated.

Étienne sits up straighter when he sees the bottles. “Should I put on a tie?”

“Very funny. It’s just wine. A little wedding present.” Rome removes the corks from the two bottles as he talks, and then he pours some of the wine into the empty wineglasses on the table. I’m still standing by the grill, not wanting to be part of whatever it is that’s going on with this French wine foolishness.

Looking as if he’d dive into his glass if he could, Étienne takes a tentative sip and lets it rest in his mouth, then does a quick swish and swallows. When he opens his eyes, he turns to Margot and kisses her passionately, like he’s already drunk after one sip. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I need to have some of that,” Margot says with a laugh, then takes a sip from her own glass. “Oh, Lord,” she whispers.

“Good, right?” Rome says, still swishing and sniffing his around in his big glass.

Lulu and Trevor are the next willing victims, sipping the wine and swooning like fools. I think Lulu actually shudders.

“Miki?” Rome asks, holding his glass toward me.

“No, thank you. I’m fine with the rosé.”

“Oh, Miki, you have to.” Lulu is being Tigger again. My look silences her. “Or not. More for us—right, Trev?”

“Right, darling.” He kisses her cheek, then looks over his shoulder to make sure I’m okay. There’s something British and gentlemanly about Trevor that makes me feel safer than I would with all these seductive Frenchmen everywhere. “How’s the lamb doing?” Trevor asks.

“Done.” I pick up the platter and set it in the middle of the big table. “
Bon appétit
.” At least I hope they can all enjoy it. I’ve totally lost my appetite.

“Looks gorgeous. Thanks for letting me crash.” Rome slips one leg and then the other over the stone bench alongside the table and sits down. Of course, the only place left is between him and Étienne, and it would be immature and ridiculous for me to scurry off to my room and hide. Even though that’s exactly what I want to do.

I sigh and sit down next to him. He pours me a glass of the magical red wine and encourages me to have a sip with a nudge of his shoulder against mine. “Go on. It’s just wine. Take a sip.”