Roulette (26 page)

“Miki, may I call you?” he asks in a low voice, but politely, as if he’s some country gentleman hoping to pay me a visit.

I look up at him as I turn to fit through the cramped door of the elevator, my hip skimming his. “Yes . . . please.” I’m frozen there for a second.

He exhales, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my neck. He turns quickly to see that Isabel and Vivian have gone toward the front door and are no longer visible, then kisses my lips with a fleeting tenderness. “
Jusque-là
,” he whispers in his sinful French.

Until then
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A
s soon as I’m out of his range, I start to breathe normally again.

Isabel is dozy and sweet, leaning into her mother as we walk to the bridge and cross back to our side of the canal. When we reach our place, Isabel looks up at me and says, “If anyone can help you get over your crush, I bet that man Rome can. I think he likes you.”

Vivian smiles at me over Isabel’s soft blond curls. “I agree.”

“Well, you are both exhausted,” I say. “So why don’t you go to sleep and we’ll see about crushes tomorrow?”

“Okay,” Isabel answers easily. We are up in our room by then, and Vivian is helping her out of her shorts and T-shirt and putting her into her pajamas. She’s asleep within seconds.

I’m sitting in one of the stone window seats, looking out at the city. Vivian comes over, and I stand up to give her a hug.

“I love you, Miki.”

“I love you, too, Viv.” I hold her close. “You’re the best.”

She pulls back and looks into my eyes, making sure I’m all right. “You okay with everything? With him?”

I nod. “More than okay. Whatever happens.”

“You want to talk about it?” she asks.

“No, I’m good. I’m going to stay up and read for a while.”

She hugs me one more time, then turns to go. “Sleep well.”

“You, too.”

A few seconds after she leaves, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket with a text alert. I pull it out and smile.

What are you wearing?

I smile at the screen, then type back.

The same thing I was wearing ten minutes ago when I saw you.

A few seconds pass with the cursor blinking, so I know he’s composing a reply. He texts:

Want to meet up for a late supper?

I look at Isabel asleep and then out the window at the magical city.

I’d love that.

His reply is there in a few seconds.

Casual?

I smile at the memory of our last “date” and think of my Lanvin gown. Why should I save it for the gala?

Formal. I’m in the mood to get *dolled* up.

Touché. Be ready in thirty minutes. I’ll be down in front of your place.

I smile at his familiar determination, then put the phone away. I try to be quiet as I rustle around in the bag, feeling like the teenager I never was—sneaking out to meet a boy. I find the dress in the white tissue and shake it out. After I hang it up, I stroke down the sensuous fabric for a few seconds, imagining the feel of Rome’s hands through the silk. I quit my reverie when I remember the real man is on his way over and I need to jump in the shower.

As I quietly get ready, I think back to that first night in Saint Petersburg and how willfully careless I tried to be. All this time, I thought I was protecting myself from Rome and the wildness of his passion, but the truth is so obvious now. I’ve been afraid of my own voracious appetites, tamping myself down, shying away from my own power.

After I put on some mascara and lip gloss, then pile my hair into a loose knot with a few clips, I do my usual
oh, well, that’s good enough
assessment of my appearance in the mirror. But this time I stop short. I realize that my good-enough life is very, very good. If Rome wants me as much as I want him—as much as his tender kiss by the elevator seemed to indicate—what the two of us have is so much more than enough.

I slip into the red dress, the sheer layers of long, diaphanous silk caressing my bare legs, and zip up the side. I go through my suitcase until I find my small silver clutch and silver heels. I carry the shoes in one hand so I don’t make a click-clacking racket as I go down the stairs, but my heart beats too fast for me to think about anything beyond getting to the ground floor without tripping.

Signor Moretti is there when I reach the front door. “Will you be returning late?” He gives me a quick, complimentary appraisal.

“Oh, I’m not sure, but most likely yes. May I take a key?” I slip on my heels as I speak to him.

“That’s not necessary; it’s on a code.” He gives me the four digits and then shows me how to make sure the door is double-locked when I return.

“Thank you.”

He smiles, obviously knowing I’m embarking on some romantic rendezvous. He opens the door for me, and when I step out, I see Rome walking toward me in the deep shadows of evening. It’s not quite full night, and the light makes his sleek hair look velvety and his skin take on a coppery hue.

When he has nearly reached me, he pauses a few feet away and puts his hand over his heart dramatically. “
Bellissima
,” he whispers.

I hold the dress fabric slightly away from me and do a half twirl. “I wanted to get your attention.”

“You’ve got it.” His voice is rough and strong.

I go still and stare into his eyes; he doesn’t look away. I close the distance between us and kiss him lightly at the edge of his mouth, that small spot that lifts up slightly when his smile is at its most devilish. He groans and pulls me up against him, both of his hands around my waist so our hips slam together, and I bend into him easily. Then I’m circling his neck with my eager hands and his lips are on mine and we are kissing in the shadows. I’m ravenous for him, as if I can finally enjoy a delicious meal that I’ve forbidden myself to try for my entire life, forbidden for reasons that I now realize were anchored in fear.

Still, kissing has never been our problem. I pull away slowly, caressing his smooth cheek with my fingertips. “What did you have in mind for dinner?”

He stares at me for a few more seconds, looking like he has plenty to say but knows we will get to it eventually. “This way.”

He holds my hand as we walk back toward the Grand Canal. When we turn off the narrow
via
, there is a glorious motorboat waiting for us at the edge of the canal. The polished teak gleams in the dusky light. Two of his guards are on board, one at the wheel and the other holding the line and waiting to help us get on.

“Your chariot,” Rome says. He has that sweet eagerness that I noticed earlier on the rooftop, like it really matters to him what I think.

“I love it,” I whisper as I slide past him and take the guard’s hand so I don’t slip on the edge of the boat. Rome’s eyes glitter with pleasure. Has it always been this easy to fill him with that bubbling joy?

Once he jumps aboard, the line is untied and the motor revs and we pull out into the canal at a smooth pace. There’s a built-in leather couch at the back, and Rome gestures for me to have a seat. “Do you mind taking your shoes off?” he asks. “The spiky heels are hell on the wood.”

“Oh, sure.” I bend down to undo the tiny buckle, but he reaches for my wrist.

“Allow me.” He kneels down, and when his fingers touch my bare ankle, I gasp. He smiles up at me. “You like that?” He traces his finger on the sensitive skin and smiles.

“You know I do. We’ve never disagreed about that.”

His face clouds slightly. “Yes.” He finishes taking off my shoes, and then he’s sitting next to me.

He reaches for my hand, and I feel like that teenager again, the one who never got the memo about making out in movie theaters or how to talk to boys. But then his thumb is gently rubbing the back of my hand and I simply give myself over to how good it feels to be with him, just to sit next to him. I let my head rest on his shoulder as the two of us look at the beautiful buildings drifting past, and he hums his pleasure at the contact.

“Rome?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve loved you since the first time you walked into my office in Saint Petersburg.”

His breathing stops while he waits for me to continue. “But?”

I look up at him and smile. “No buts.”

His eyes are gleaming with hope and tenderness. “Tell me you love me.”

Of course that’s the bastardy way he would tell me he loves me. “You’re impossible,” I say instead, but I’m kissing his neck and his jaw through the words.

“Tell me you love me,” he whispers again, sounding deliciously strained, as if he’s about to lose control of . . . everything.

He leans his forehead against mine and shuts his eyes. I can feel his heart pounding beneath the palm of my hand where it’s resting against his chest.

“Do we need to start over?” he asks. “I’m happy to court you and prove it all. I want to earn you, Mikhaila. Everything I did before was so”—he moves his forehead slightly, right and left, against mine—“impulsive. And I want everything from here on out to be filled with purpose. I want you to know it.” He touches my chest over my heart. “To feel it here.”

“I already feel it, Rome. You’ve been inside me since the first time I heard your voice, the first time I laid eyes on you.”

He’s kissing my neck and bare shoulder and I’m melting against him.

“Would you move to Saint Petersburg?” I ask, considering practicalities for a moment, before the spell of his kisses pulls me back under.

“Yes.”

I pull his face up so I can look into his eyes.

“Yes?”

“Of course. Turns out I have a bit of money and I can live wherever the hell I want.” His lips are swollen, and his turquoise eyes are gleaming with happiness. “I don’t care where I live, as long as we’re together.”

I can see the boy in those eyes, the child who was never told how wonderful he was, never praised for being himself. I get to tell him those things for the rest of my life. “I love you. I love your impetuous nature, your generosity, your thoughtfulness, your loyalty . . .” His eyes try to track away, as if it embarrasses him to be praised. To be loved. “Look at me, you beautiful man.” His gaze returns warily. “You are mine, damn it.”

“I’ve always been yours, Miki. Always.” He leans in and kisses me again, and I feel it like a vow, a touch that binds us to each other completely.

We spend the rest of the night floating around the city—holding hands, kissing under bridges, eating caviar, touching each other as we glide along ancient canals. He assures me that the public-indecency laws are far more lenient here than they are in the States, but we definitely come close to breaking a few.

As the sun starts to rise over the lagoon, my head rests in the crook of Rome’s shoulder while he reclines next to me. I pull a blanket over us as we stare up at the morning stars. The sound of the water against the side of the boat lulls me into a lovely half sleep.

I’m not sure how much longer we ride around, but the sun is definitely above the horizon when the boat pulls up in front of Vivian’s villa. “Time for Cinderella to go back to her evil stepsister,” Rome jokes. I look up into his eyes with obvious desire, but we’re both exhausted.

“Tonight,” I promise. “Will you come to the gala with us?”

“Yes, if you like. I was going to avoid it, thinking you wouldn’t want me there, but now . . .” He leans down and kisses me again, and, god, it feels so damn right. My body begins to heat up immediately. “You need sleep,” he finishes.

I groan at the truth of it, wanting him in my arms and wanting sleep. “I would love it if you came to the party. I even packed a special dress with a bare back just for you. But it might be wrinkly.” I look down at my happily disheveled self.

“I’ll send over a new gown this afternoon,” he offers easily. My little fixer.

“I can get my own dress.”

“I know you can,” he smiles, touching my jaw. “But will you let me?”

“I’m afraid it will be something totally over the top.”

“Of course it will be over the top. I don’t think I ever misrepresented myself with false promises of being run-of-the-mill, did I?”

I laugh and kiss him again. “Certainly not.” The two of us walk back to the front door of the villa, then make out in the narrow
via
for another twenty minutes. “Why am I not going up to your bed, again?” I ask.

“Because you’re tired . . . and on vacation with Isabel,” he answers between kisses. “Or something.”

“Right. Tired.” I kiss him one last time, then hold his face in my hands again. “Mine.”

“Yours,” he whispers.

“Forever.”

He nods solemnly. “Forever.” He kisses me one last time. “Sleep well, my paper doll.” He winks.