You Don't Know Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (11 page)

Tasha Evanoff

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LXHzZBr_zuU

The Last Unicorn

W
e have lunch by the beach. Salad Nicoise, fresh pasta with pesto, and hollowed out fruit and vegetables stuffed with meat. We are both ravenous after the parasailing, and we polish our plates off in quick time.

‘What’s next on the itinerary?’ I ask, putting my fork and knife down.

‘You choose. Henri Matisse or Marc Chagall museum,’ he says, wiping his mouth.

‘Marc Chagall,’ I say immediately, beaming at him. ‘He’s actually my favorite artist.’

‘How patriotic of you.’

I shake my head earnestly. ‘The fact that he was Russian has got nothing to do with it. He was a genius. I totally agree with Picasso who said, “The man must have an angel in his head.”’

He smiles at my enthusiasm.

‘Don’t you like him?’ I ask curiously.

One of his shoulders lifts and falls. ‘I’ve never really studied fine art appreciation, or had a chance to know much about it. My life took me on a different path. Tattoos are the closest I’ve come to art.’

‘You introduced me to parasailing. I’ll introduce you to Chagall,’ I say excitedly. ‘Looking at his paintings is like gazing into a magical world. He makes you want to believe in unicorns.’

‘Well then, to Chagall’s world we go.’ A masculine grin that I usually associate with tanned, devil-may-care cowboys plays on his lips.

I lean my chin on my hand. ‘Noah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Thank you for bringing me on this trip. I’ve really enjoyed it. I can’t think of a time I’ve been happier in my life.’

Something flashes in his eyes, then it is gone. It is so quick I can’t tell whether he is embarrassed, amused, or something else completely different.

The museum is on a hill in a very quiet area compared to the hustle and bustle of the city we have come from. We pay our ten euros and enter. The walls of the hexagon shaped spaces are stark white, making the large paintings pop.

While we sit on the wooden benches and gaze at Chagall’s masterpieces, all at once generous, naive, shrewd, secretive, sad, vulnerable and full of love and joy, I tell Noah little interesting tit bits I have gleaned about the painter over the years.

‘Do you know he was so poor he used to eat the head of a mackerel one day and save the tail for another? Then when he met the woman he would marry she would knock on his window to bring him cakes and milk. Later he said of her, “I only had to open the window of my room and blue air, love and flowers entered with her.”’ I pause to look at Noah. ‘Isn’t that the most romantic thing you ever heard?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘The most romantic thing I ever heard of was when a beautiful blonde came into my office for a night of lust wearing a pink cardigan.’

I giggle softly. ‘It was that or the see-through dress with the plunging neckline.’

‘I’m glad the pink cardigan won the day.’

‘Why? Wouldn’t you have preferred me in the see-through?’

‘No. I wouldn’t change a thing from that night.’

When we stand in front of a photograph of Chagall with his mischievous faun-like face and strange, almond-shaped eyes, I turn to Noah and ask, ‘Do you know he prepared his charcoal pencils, holding them in his hand like a little bouquet?’

Noah gazes at me as if he is looking at something he has always wanted, but never thought he could have.

‘Holding them so he would sit in front of a blank canvas and wait for an idea to come. When it came, he raised the charcoal and very quickly started tracing straight lines, ovals, lozenges. Out of those shapes, as if by magic, a clown would appear, then a unicorn, a violinist, a pilgrim, an angel. Once the outline was done he would step back and sit down again, as exhausted as a boxer after a round. Imagine how his mind must have been. The whole picture was clear to him in one flash of inspiration.’

‘That’s an amazing talent to have,’ Noah says slowly.

‘Yes, it must be wonderful to have such a unique ability. He once confessed that all he wanted to do was to stay wild and untamed … to shout, weep, pray.’

Tasha Evanoff

O
ur next stop is Cap de Nice, where Noah’s house is. It is set high on the hill. He opens the tall door and we enter an elegant art deco villa full of natural light. We go through the living room with its impressive chandelier made of capiz shells. When he opens the sliding doors, the mother-of-pearl discs twinkle in the strong wind that rushes in. 

I move closer to the doors and see that the house is built on rocky ground. It has a hundred-and-eighty-degree view of the sea front and boasts several terraces and balconies.

‘Wow, this is amazing,’ I say.

‘I know,’ he says softly. ‘It’s the reason I bought this house.’

I step out onto the terrace and see the steps cut into the jagged white rocks. One set diverts off towards a white stone platform where you can stand and look out at the breathtaking view of the ocean, and the other offshoot leads down to a small private beach.

He takes my hand and leads me out of the shade of the terrace towards the steps. The sun is beating down on them making them glare with heat and light.

I shade my eyes with my hand. ‘I can’t stay long in the sun. I don’t want to get a tan. It will be a dead giveaway that I’ve been out of the country.’

‘Don’t worry. I won’t keep you out here for long,’ he says, stripping off. Naked and staring into my eyes, he unzips my dress and lets it drop to the ground. Underneath I am wearing my green and blue bikini. He pulls me onto the burning tiles of the terrace.

‘Are we going to have sex on the beach?’ I ask with a grin.

‘Not on the beach. Think of all that sand in all the wrong places.’

‘Ouch.’

‘I want to take you at the water’s edge.’

I look around. We are not actually alone. In the distance there are figures. ‘People can see us,’ I protest.

‘I don’t care,’ he says, leading me to the water’s edge. ‘I want you right now.’ He pushes me so that I overbalance and we topple onto the damp sand. It feels lovely and cool against my bare skin. His stomach and legs are hot and smooth on my belly and thighs. The sand gives as I wriggle underneath him. He pins my wrists above my head.

‘Trapped,’ he growls.

‘And loving it,’ I whisper.

He unclasps my bikini top and flings it away. The sun beats down on my exposed breasts. The sensation is just delicious. My nipples harden with the look in his eyes. A wave comes up high enough to tickle my toes.

‘Surely there must be some law that makes this indecent exposure or illegal,’ I gasp. 

‘We’re in Europe. On a private beach. No one gives a shit,’ he mutters, his eyes hot and dark with lust. He kisses my breasts and I close my eyes and enjoy the pleasurable sensation. He sucks my nipples until they harden almost painfully.

Another wave teaming with bubbles hits us, I barely feel it. All my attention is focused on him pushing aside my bikini bottom. Then he is suddenly inside me, big, hard and strong. He swallows the small startled cry that races out of my mouth in a fierce kiss, and only breaks it to stare deeply into my eyes. His black eyes are pits of shifting emotion as he moves steadily inside me.

The waves lap between and around our bodies, coming right up to my waist. He pulls out of me.

‘Turn around and show me your pussy,’ he orders.

‘What, here?’

‘Uh-huh.’

I turn my head. The figures are still on the beach, but they’re too far away to see my face and they probably can’t see what we’re up to, and if they can, so what, I’ll never see them again in my life.

I turn onto my elbows and knees, my breasts dangling and dragging in the wet sand. He pulls my bikini bottom down my thighs to expose my sex. Bracing his hands on my hips, he shoves his cock into me. My whole body spasms, my toes curl into the sand, my back arches, and a soft scream exits my mouth. A wave breaks and runs under me, washing my nipples with silky warm water. Sand slips underneath me. The surf swells up over my calves as he plunges again and again.

I look up and see the bright blue sky. What if one of the figures comes down the beach? Discovery is a thrilling thought. A bigger wave sweeps over my body, belly and breasts. I look down between my knees and at Noah’s sturdy masculine legs as he pumps steadily into me. 

He reaches with his hand and circles my clit. My breathing becomes uneven. Soon my climax will be upon me. He thrusts harder and faster, pushing me deeper into the sand. I lift my head towards the sky and wait for it. It rushes in as a large wave crashes into me, soaking my body, soaking my sex, submerging my hands. I feel the suction of the water as the wave returns to the ocean. I feel my body float like a piece of driftwood, if not for Noah’s firm grip. I begin to tense, my whole body stiffening. I shiver. With a roar he withdraws, and I feel his hot cum shooting onto my back as I go over the edge.

He pulls my bikini bottom back up and splashes my back with seawater. Then we scramble further up the shore and collapse on the dry, hot sand. We watch the sunset filling the sky with russets and pinks, and when I turn to look at his face it is lit with the same colors. My heart trembles with love. I touch his cheek with my fingertips and he smiles.

‘You look beautiful in this light,’ he purrs.

‘Funny, I was thinking the same thing,’ I say, and his lips crash down on mine. I hear a soft moan escape my lips.

For dinner he takes me to
La Merenda
. It’s a quirky, tiny, crowded place where everybody sits on stools with their shoulders and elbows practically rubbing. Wine is effectively red or white out of juice glasses. Don’t even mention the word Coke! They don’t take credit cards and you can’t even call to reserve a table. Noah sent someone to go there physically the day before to book us a table.

You sit at the table and watch Dominic La Stanc, a world renowned chef, who used to work for the most expensive restaurant in Nice, perform a smooth ballet with his sous chef and the
one
waiter tasked with serving all twenty-four tables in the restaurant. They have a small, traditional menu written in chalk on a blackboard, but when the food arrives it is clear why people are willing to put up with the inconveniences and discomfort.

I have the
fleur de courgette
, (the yellow zucchini blossom) battered and deep-fried to make a sort of flower fritter. It is a dream of a dish. For my second course I have the beef with orange and it absolutely sings. After a lemon tart baked to perfection, it is time to go back to London.

I must admit I left a part of my heart in France.

Tasha Evanoff

O
ne day before Papa comes home I arrange a meeting with Mama. We meet in our usual place — the ladies toilet in Harrods. A long time ago we decided that it was perfect for us. It is very clean and beautiful. It’s more like the fine dressing room of a rich Russian or Arab woman. The staff never bother us, leaving us alone to chat quietly. When it is time for us to leave, usually thirty or forty minutes later, I slip a fifty pound note into their tip saucer. I don’t know what Vadim must be thinking about my time in the toilet, but so far he has pretended it is normal for me to disappear into the toilet and come out nearly an hour later.

To avoid Vadim ever seeing my mother, she is already waiting in the toilet. I hug and kiss her and we sit down.

‘You look wonderful. Have you been on the sunbed?’ she asks.

‘I’ve been to Nice,’ I tell her.

She shakes her head. ‘You didn’t tell me you were going on holiday.’

‘It was a surprise visit,’ I tell her, smiling broadly.

Her face changes. ‘What’s going on, Tasha?’

I tell her about Noah. The whole time she frowns and looks more and more disturbed.

‘Where is all of this going, Tasha?’ she asks when I have told her everything.

‘I love him, and I’m going to tell Papa when he gets back that I’m not going to marry Oliver.’

Her whole face contorts with fear. ‘What?’

‘I plan to tell Papa that I don’t want to marry Oliver. I found out that Oliver is not what he has been pretending to be.’

‘Oh, darling. That’s not going to work with your father.’

‘Why not?’

She shakes her head, her brow creased with anxiety. ‘You don’t know him like I do. He will not agree. His pride is at stake.’

‘He will, Mama. I know he wants me to be happy. He thought I could be happy with Oliver, but once I tell him that I could never be happy he won’t force me. Papa has never hurt me before.’

She looks at me pityingly. ‘Oh, darling. You can never know your father. Until now you’ve never disobeyed him so you haven’t seen anything but the face of a man who has everything going exactly the way he wants it. Have you ever wondered why he let you watch me being thrown out? Why should a child witness such a cruel and ugly scene?’

Yes, it bothered me for many years. I could never understand why he let me see it. To punish my mother? To show he was boss? ‘Why?’ I whisper.

‘It was a warning to you. Disobey me and this is what I’m capable of.’

I feel her words like a chill on my skin, but I don’t allow myself to absorb that idea. It is too frightening. I don’t want to be dissuaded from my purpose.

‘It’ll be fine, Mama, you’ll see. I’ll convince Papa.’

Mama bows her head for a few seconds. When she raises her head, her eyes are troubled. ‘Whatever you do, do not tell him about Noah.’

‘I wasn’t planning to,’ I say quickly. 

‘Good. Just tell him you don’t love Oliver and don’t want to marry him because he is a pervert who will make you unhappy. Don’t give him a focus for his anger, and do not be careless. After you tell your father, whatever method you are using to meet Noah, it would be wise to discard it and wait for the coast to completely clear before you attempt to see him again. Your father will immediately suspect that it is another man that has made you change your mind and he will be watching you closely.’

She looks sad.

‘In fact,’ she adds, ‘I believe it may already be too late. You have most probably done something to alert him. Look at your face. You are glowing. I knew the moment I saw you that you were different.’

I lean forward, my heart beating fast. ‘Do you really think he knows?’

‘If I know him as well as I think I do, then, yes. He can read people like a book. He is waiting for you to make your next move so he can make his. He already knows his move.’

I feel a shiver of fear go through me. ‘He loves me,’ I insist stubbornly, because it is too painful for me to believe that my father could be such a bitter enemy of mine.

‘Darling, darling Tasha. There is no other way to say this. Your father is a psychopath. Asking him to love you is like asking a plate or a table to love you. In fact, it would be unfair even to ask it of him because he can’t do it. He is incapable of love. There is no one he truly loves other than himself. You and your Baba are around only because it suits him. If it didn’t he would have no hesitation to get rid of either of you.’

I gasp.

‘If you look deep into his eyes you will see nothing. There is nothing at his core. There is only a naked, all-consuming, aggressive, grotesque obsession for more and more and more material gain and glorification.’

That afternoon I go to see Baba. She is sitting in the garden with her coat and hat on, and her eyes are closed as she soaks in the last rays of the sun. She opens one eye when my shadow falls on her, before closing it back.

‘Sit, Sergei,’ I say as I sink into the chair next to hers. He lies down next to me.

‘Baba,’ I say, gently tickling Sergei behind his ear, and keeping my voice neutral and casual. ‘Do you think that Papa loves me?’

She does a strange thing. She doesn’t immediately look at me and say, of course, he does. She takes a deep breath and doesn’t turn to look at me. ‘Why do you ask this?’

‘I don’t know. I just wondered.’

‘The honest answer is I don’t know. Let’s hope we never have to test his love for you.’

I chew at my bottom lip. ‘Do you think this great alliance he has planned with Oliver is more important to him than my happiness?’

She sighs softly. ‘I have always told you the truth, and no matter how much it hurts I will not lie to you. Your happiness is not more important than this alliance he has planned.’

‘I see,’ I note quietly. ‘What will he do if I refuse to marry Oliver?’

She turns to me then, her eyes urgent. ‘Do you really want your man?’

‘Yes,’ I say immediately.

‘If you really value your dream, then you’ll say nothing. You will give your father no warning, no opportunity to strike first. You will simply run away with your man. Take nothing that can be traced back to you. Leave every single person you know behind, and start again in South America, or Asia. Are you prepared to do that?’

‘I can’t leave you and Mama.’

‘Then you will not have your dream,’ she says with such finality that I grow cold inside.

I lean forward restlessly. ‘But even if I could leave you and Mama, Noah will not consent to run and hide as if we have done something wrong, anyway. We’d be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives. Noah is not afraid of Papa. He says he is ready to take on Papa.’

In the last rays of the sun, Baba suddenly looks old. ‘If what you say is true you must prepare for bloodshed. His or your father’s.’