This would explain why Sevastyan's mood had been deteriorating. When I'd brought up the subject of Christmas, he'd snapped, Do not remind me!
The idea of him in pain bothered me. Really bothered me.
Because I was an idiot.
He'd told me he would keep me till he could shake what he felt for me; while he worked to recover from his interest, Catarina was sinking deeper into infatuation.
Why else would I take pains with my appearance? After my shower, I donned a strapless red dress, along with the only jewelry I had: my earrings and arm cuff from my first night here. I wore my hair up in a loose knot and applied eye makeup and lip gloss.
Feeling silly for taking the trouble, I frowned into the mirror. This was just a meal between a mobster and his prisoner (one he considered to be a lying prostitutka).
Still, I got to the dining room early, lighting the many candles inside and the torchlights on the adjoining balcony. I carted dishes to the table, then opened the room's doors and windows for Sevastyan--allowing in the sound of waves.
When he joined me, I smiled to see he'd worn slacks and a blazer, dressing up as well. That meant a lot. I told him, "I've decided to share some of my food with you, because I didn't get you anything else. I was debating a tall, blond blow-up doll--or a goldfish."
"I have a closet full of blond blow-up dolls, and goldfish travel poorly on airplanes. Dinner was a wise choice."
I grinned. "Mojito or wine, Ruso?"
"Vodka."
"Not on your life. Obey my playground rules, or take your balls elsewhere."
Raised brow. "Mojito."
I poured him one. When he sampled my concoction, I could tell he liked it. We sat, and I served him from the many dishes, detailing the main ingredients in each.
With his first bite of roast, he seemed to be stifling his reaction. "And on top of everything else, you can cook. Did you learn only from home, or did you have schooling too?"
"Only home."
He ate everything on his plate, so I served him seconds. But when he pushed his plate to me for thirds, I said, "There's a lot of dessert."
His first taste of turron made him groan. Once he'd eaten that and a helping of pudding and two bunuelos, he said, "I didn't come spontaneously, but it was touch and go for a while."
I laughed over the rim of my mojito.
"You could be a chef," he said.
"That would be exciting. But I think I'd prefer your job as mogul, so I could dominate the world."
"You think you could handle my job?"
"I think you'd be surprised."
He rose, crossing to the sideboard. "I doubt that. I know how smart you are." He returned to his seat with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. "Cuban dinner, Russian after drinks." He poured.
Oh boy.
"Za zdoroviye," he said. "To your health."
"Salud." I drank my glass, coughing.
As he poured for us again, he asked, "Whose meal did I enjoy?"
"Pardon?"
"You would've cooked this for friends or family over the holidays. Maybe the lover I took you from." He shot his glass.
"The kitchen inspired me." I drank mine, with another wince.
"What's so remarkable about it?"
"The appliances." They worked. Also, the pots weren't dedicated to flood prevention. "Why are you so convinced there's someone else?"
"You respond to two things: money and pleasure. I give you both, yet you hold yourself back."
I frowned. "There's got to be more than that."
"Why wouldn't you have a partner? If you didn't choose a man from outside your work, then one of your clients would have snapped you up."
"You sound so certain."
"When you fuck your clients"--that muscle ticked in his jaw--"you . . . affect them. But you would have me believe that not one has kept you?" He poured another round. "I see you, hear you, smell you, feel you. You should be haunted by men."
I almost gave a bitter laugh. If only he knew.
Edward had been on my mind more and more. Though he'd acted the gentleman, never using bad language, never raising his voice, he'd been eager to murder me. Now that he'd nursed his rage for years, what would he do?
Sometimes I swore I had an animal sense that he was closing in--
"You're doing it even now!" Sevastyan slammed down his glass. "Your eyes go distant whenever you think of him! That drives me insane!"
"I am in no way thinking about a lover."
"Why should I believe that, or anything you say?" He poured more vodka.
"I suppose you shouldn't. You have no reason to believe me."
"Are you being sarcastic? Ridiculing my inability to trust? I didn't simply wake up one day and decide to be like this. The last time I trusted someone's word, I was cursed to pay for the rest of my life."
"What does that mean?" How had he paid?
Silence.
How exactly did Vasili expect me to "fix Christmas" when Sevastyan wouldn't talk to me? "Fine. Forget it." I rose to clear the table.
"And you clean as well?" His tone was half-cutting, as if he intended to be rude but didn't quite commit.
"Oh, I'm a real pro at cleaning." When I'd finished with the dishes and had stored a mountain of leftovers, I returned.
He remained in the dining room, peering into his drink. Had he polished off the first bottle and started on another one?
I sat beside him. "You're hurting. I don't like it."
"Ah, the escort with a heart of gold."
I narrowed my eyes at him. Was insulting me his way of putting distance between us? Like the boundaries I was failing to maintain? "Por Dios, it's all pumpkins and carriages with you."
"You think me moody?"
I'd just told Ivanna about his hot and cold moods. "Yes, I do."
My answer surprised him? "All the world considers me a silver-tongued charmer--except for my Katya."
"Tell me what's on your mind, Ruso."
It took him a while to reply. "Ghosts of the past. You don't want to hear my drunken ramblings."
"Try me."
He pushed my vodka shot toward me. "How old were you when you had that memory of making paella?"
Random question. "I was almost four." I downed the
glass, wincing less.
"What time of year was it?" Another pour for each of us.
Where was he going with this? "Right after Christmas. I remember because it was before the 'red scarf war.' "
"What was that?"
Between the mojitos and the vodka, I found my tongue loosening. Or maybe the candlelit room and the sound of the ocean influenced me. Maybe this man did. "Mima, my grandmother, knitted a red scarf for me, and I loved it to death, smugly wore it everywhere. I even slept in it. My mother wanted to take it away, believing it was a symbol of my pride. She often assigned meaning to things, said nothing happened by chance." In that, I might agree with her.
"Go on."
"Though I was so young, I somehow knew I was fighting for more than the scarf. I could not lose that battle." I sighed, glancing up. "I'm boring you. Your life is far too exciting for my silly story to be of interest."
He met my gaze, all intensity. "You will tell me the rest, Katya. Now."
Well. I cleared my throat. "I ran from her, threatening to sail away and never come home. I hid outside past dark. Mima was terrified. I only weighed about thirty pounds, and it was cold that night. She intervened with mi madre. When she called out that I could keep it, I came home and slept in it that night. Years later, my mother told me she regretted not taking it from me--she was convinced she could've curbed my pride right in that moment. She could've made me meek and dutiful."
"Then if you'd lost the war, I never would have met you."
If not for my pride and rebelliousness, I never would've latched onto Edward. Though I do believe my mother had suffered from a degenerative disease--she'd presented symptoms before Edward and Julia had descended upon us--I didn't know how much longer she could've survived. "True. My life would've turned out very differently."
"Do you wish you'd lost the war?"
"I don't think I'll know that until my entire life has played out." I just hoped that wouldn't be in my early twenties.
He rotated his glass on the table. "I would've been thirteen at that time."
"What were you doing? Riding horses and chasing girls?"
It was like a pall fell over him. "Not at all."
"Then what?" He didn't answer. "Sevastyan, I've told you something. It's your turn to talk."
He finished his drink, pouring us another round. "My older brother is marrying an American girl. Roman--excuse me, he goes by Aleksandr now--hasn't known her that long. Their wedding is very rushed."
I let Sevastyan get away with the change of subject. "How do you feel about that?"