“Which half?”
“Oh wow, sounds like you have a tons of questions for me.” He takes another swig and gives me the bottle again.
“I was just curious.” I sip again and hand him back the bottle.
“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll answer that question but only if you agree to answer three personal questions with no bullshit answers. You owe me, Summer Reeves.”
I already don’t like this game. It’s like the predator chasing the prey again and trying to back it into a corner. This time he’s dressed up to make it look more appealing, but I’ll play. I like this feeling of normal. It’s something I’ve rarely had, even if right now this isn’t really real. I can pretend for a little while.
“Okay,” I reply in a meek voice. “But I get to ask you three more personal questions too.”
“Agreed.” His lips curl into sinful smile that sets off the nest of butterflies in my stomach. “Answer to question one: my father was Italian and my mother is Russian.”
“Your father was? Is he…”
“He was killed a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, and thank you.”
I see in his eyes though that the subject of his father isn’t okay. To confirm my thoughts he takes a swig of the wine and sets the bottle down.
“That was two questions,” he points out. “My turn.”
“Don’t ask me about the club,” I say quickly. “Please. I can’t talk about that tonight. I know it probably fascinates you because it’s a sex club but I swear to God, I would have never have gone to a place like that if I had another choice. I’m not a saint, but if you truly knew me, you’d know I would never work at a place like that.”
He stares back at me with a contemplative expression then his face softens and he nods. “Okay, I won’t ask you about the club, but I do want to know what sent you to Monaco.”
That’s still a hard question given the state I was in when I left the States. I was barely legal and barely alive, but it’s an easier question to answer.
“Life,” I begin. “I needed to escape life, so I ran away.”
“What were you running from, Summer Reeves?”
“Bad things, Eric Markov.” Terrible things I can’t speak of. Terrible things I’m sure that could still get me killed.
His brows wrinkle and I wonder how much he knows about me. There will be things he could have easily checked out, other stuff isn’t on record but it’s not going to be hard to do the math if he looks hard enough.
“How old were you, Summer?”
“I’d just turned eighteen a few weeks before. I got a waitressing job and managed to sell most of the things my grandmother left me. Things I never wanted to sell.”
My heart stills when I think of all the sentimental things Grandmama gave me that I had to practically give away.
“What kind of stuff, Babydoll?” His voice is softer and calmer than usual, almost like he senses the sentimental value I held for what I don’t have anymore.
“Things she knew only I would appreciate. Like the pearls she wore on the set of Gone with The Wind, and the dress she wore in Casablanca, and other beautiful jewelry she wore in some of the other classic films she was in. They were all gifts she’d received as keepsakes.”
“I’m sorry you had to sell them. Sounds like your grandmother did a lot of great films.”
“She did. She gave those items to me because acting was the love of my life and out of everyone, I was most like her. They were never supposed to be sold.” I can see he’s wondering where all my money my grandmother left went so I don’t leave him in suspense. “My stepfather took virtually everything my grandmother left my family. The only things he couldn’t take were what he didn’t know about. Like the cottage in San Bernardino. My great uncle used that cottage until he died. He didn’t have any family so it came back to us and Scarlett used it as a getaway.”
“Why did you stop acting?”
That question is another tough one and takes me back to the reasons why I couldn’t act anymore.
The short answer is Ted.