Vasili suddenly appeared on the pool deck, gaze alert, hand on the gun in his holster.
Maxim twisted to conceal me, and I sidled up to his back. Another laugh rumbled from his chest. "So unused to the sound of my amusement, he comes running."
"He could hear us?" I whispered.
"He must be making the rounds. I've booked the two stories below for him and his men. Vasili oversees all three floors."
"Oh." A small army of mafiya henchmen must be nice. All I had to protect myself was continual movement, a dead bolt, and a prayer. "Do you need this much security? Or is this more of an entourage situation?"
"I don't think I'm under an acute threat right now. But the show of might deters some foes, and extra men always come in handy." Sevastyan said something in Russian, and Vasili left. "Did seeing the gun bother you?"
"I don't know." My sole experience with one had been horrifying.
Bent on uncovering Edward's ace in the hole, I'd retrieved my father's commemorative pistol, a gift from the Cuban government. I'd loaded the accompanying bullets, planning to shoot the ceiling to get Edward's attention, like they did in movies. I'd also grabbed my mother's rosary and donned it for courage.
At the end of the night, I'd been drenched in blood, fleeing a madman.
I swallowed. Shake it off, Cat. I told Sevastyan, "It must be reassuring to be so protected. . . ." I trailed off. I'd dampened the material of Maxim's shirt and could make out marks on his back. Unable to stop myself, I tugged his shirt from one shoulder.
Muttering something that sounded like, "Get this over with," he yanked it off.
I gasped. Scars covered his back from his neck down to his hips--crisscrossing lines of them, as if he'd been whipped--repeatedly. What the hell had happened to him? Who could have done that? No wonder he had issues with touching!
He rose and turned with his shoulders squared, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He grated, "Ask me what happened."
I was the last person in the world to ask about something so personal. "That isn't my business." Sometimes I wanted to strangle people who stuck their nose in my own. "If you want me to know, you'll tell me, and I'll listen."
He narrowed his gaze. "Only a handful of people have ever seen my back. If you find out the story behind the scars, you could sell it to a tabloid. Make a lot of money."
I rolled my eyes. "Now you're just pissing me off, pendejo."
He tilted his head. He'd probably expected me to clasp my hands to my chest and tell him I would never sell a story!
"Look, Sevastyan, I don't mind problems--I handle problems--but I hate when they're unnecessary. So don't do this with me."
"You're not going to make the observation?"
"What observation?"
"That I whip women because I was whipped."
"That's not why you do it."
He raised his brows. "Thrall me with supposition."
I said nothing.
He stabbed his fingers through his hair. "It drives me mad not knowing what's going on in that head of yours."
I couldn't take his pain away, but I could acknowledge it. I could let him know he was still gorgeous to me. "Then I'll show you what I'm thinking." I climbed out of the pool and crossed to him. "Turn around, please."
He hesitated. When he finally turned, I could tell he was holding his breath, wondering what I'd do.
Standing on tiptoe, I pressed a tender kiss to the highest scar, then lightly grazed my cheek against it. On a shuddering exhalation, he murmured, "Dushen'ka."
I kissed and nuzzled the next line and the one below it, all the way down to the small of his back. When I got to his muscled ass, I pantsed him. I nipped one flawless, sculpted cheek, then started back up.
He turned, gazing down at me with his brows drawn. "Singular creature."
I told him what I told myself whenever my guilt grew too painful: "It happened. It hurt. Better things await you."
"Like what?"
"Like pouring champagne down my chest to drink from my nipples? While I ride you? That's in your future if you want it."
He swallowed. "A bright future for me, then. I'm long overdue for that." He retrieved another bottle from the bar. . . .
While I rode him on a lounge chair, he drank and drank.
More champagne . . .
We made toasts to each other. He tickled me. When I tried to escape, he pinned my wrists above my head and played with my breasts till I writhed. "In case I haven't told you," he rasped, "I like your size as much as you do." Then he rode me.
More champagne . . .
Room service arrived with pan-seared diver scallops, Wagyu beef tenderloins, and Beluga caviar. As we fed each other, he blamed me for how famished he was.
"Caviar is decadent!" I told him.
"I can't believe you've never had it." Voice gone gruff, he said, "There are many things I could show you."
More champagne . . .
I lay on a float on my front as he pulled me around the pool, our faces close. We discussed books and business theory till the pads of my fingers pruned.
More champagne . . .
We reclined side by side on a double lounger, sharing a blanket, gazing up at the full moon and stars. I was seriously buzzed. But I liked the faint feeling of spinning; it made the sky twirl for me.
"I've divulged more about myself than you have," he said, his voice rumbly with relaxation. "I can't tell you how unusual that is."
"Ask me light questions, and I'll answer."
"Very well. What was your first pet? A dog?"
"A goldfish. I never got to have a dog."
"If you want one, why don't you have one now?"
I stretched an arm over my head. "Ah, to be Maxim Sevastyan for a day. What you want, you get."
"I want more answers from you, but I don't get them."
Bob and weave. "What was your first pet?"
"A gelding."
"I've never been horseback riding." There were plenty of farms on the coast, but my family's mansion was isolated. I'd been secluded till I'd gone to high school. After that, all I'd cared about was partying.
He looked at me like I'd grown two heads. "That's unacceptable. None of your clients took you? A lover didn't?"
I shrugged again.
"I'll take you. You'll enjoy riding with me."
I was sure I would. And yet it would never happen. I drained my flute, raising it for more, and he poured. I could drink this stuff till eternity. "Do you often take lovers out riding?"
"Lovers? I've never had one." His voice turned chilly as he said, "My previous relationship was with a blond escort and lasted one hour. I wish her all the best." Dipping even chillier, he added, "I'd ask when your last relationship was, but I have no doubt you're currently in one."
"What? I'm not."
"A couple of times tonight I caught you staring off at nothing. I've found that usually means a woman is thinking about a man."
I had been. About Edward. What if I'd been mistaken about seeing him in Miami? What if I gave up more nights like this, fleeing for nothing?
Or, what if he was here to make good on his last vow to me?
"I'm not in a relationship, Maxim." How could I ever trust another man? I'd always think he was using me. I jokingly thought, Unless he's a billionaire. Then I chastised myself. Jets. Cooled. NOW. "What about you? Do you want one?"
"It would depend on whether I found the right woman." He turned on his side to face me. "What's your earliest memory?"
I had vague impressions of my father. He'd been an attache to Cuba, with a ready laugh. Sometimes I could remember hazel eyes that crinkled at the sides and the smell of cigars. "My most fully formed one? Helping my mother and grandmother make paella. I got to toss a handful of spices in, and I was beaming. My mother warned me to watch my pride."
If she hadn't been able to extinguish it, a year of Edward's inexplicable disdain couldn't have. My pride had merely lain dormant for a short while, bouncing back with a veng
eance, roaring to life.
And yet I'd chosen to disappear--instead of fighting back, a decision I still struggled with. Was I being shrewd?
Or cowardly?
Maxim asked, "Are you close to your mother and father?"
"My father died a while ago." He'd been in a car accident in the Cuban countryside, far from any hospitals. "I wish my mother and I could have been closer before she passed away."
She didn't "pass away," Cat.
I'd never forget the way my stomach had plummeted when I'd learned for certain that she'd been murdered. The rage I'd felt. . . .
"You're so sure that Ana-Lucia will keep quiet?" Julia asked Edward. "She's an impulsive troublemaker."