“Oh. Why didn’t you say so earlier?” I can hear the frown in his voice.
Because it wouldn’t be believable for me to be helpful to Dominic for no reason. And I don’t want him digging around, in case he finds the connection between me and Roy Wilks. It’s none of Dominic’s business, and I don’t want anybody to inform the little fawn—even by accident—of what I’m really up to. Grateful lures are eager to cooperate. When they know they’re being used, not so much.
It seems illogical, but people prefer to assert their will just to let everyone know they aren’t dead. That’s why they do stupid things that undermine their own self-interest, all in the name of making themselves heard. Everyone has an innate desire to be significant.
There are few things that can suppress that urge, but one is bone-deep gratitude. Even when Angelika’s grateful, she argues, however. About moving in with me. About accepting the clothes and shoes I bought for her so she can look the part when she starts her new job.
I’m not having Antoine ruin the delicate balance I’ve established. I really don’t want to have to hurt her to get to Roy Wilks. Nor do I want to redo my perfect plan to kill him.
“Anything else?” I say.
“No. That’s it. I’ll ask Elizabeth for a copy. I’m sure it will be fine.” Meaning: he won’t have to do another check of his own. He knows I’m very thorough, and doesn’t believe in duplicating work.
I, on the other hand, always verify everything. That’s what makes him good, and me extraordinary.
I hang up. Then, as I rub spices into a hunk of beef, I think about three possible scenarios for dealing with Roy Wilks. Lyosha made his wish when he was small, and I doubt he remembers.
But I promised I would make his birthday wish come true. And although I won’t be able to tell him, it will be enough that I know I did it.
I always keep my word.
Chapter Twenty
Angelika
By the time I’m done putting all the new clothes away, Tolyan’s pulling a pot roast and red potatoes out of the oven. The food smells amazing. Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky and Stravinsky are already salivating.
“Should I set the table?” I say.
“That would be helpful. Thanks.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know you asked Monique to pack some exercise clothes, too,” I say.
“You can’t run in an Armani dress,” he says. “Or you could, but…”
“Yeah. Not the right use of the outfit.”
He brings the food from the oven to the table and cuts the meat with precision. Every slice is so even, it looks machine-cut. The Dobermans lick their chops. Stravinsky whines.
Tolyan serves me, then himself, then hands three thick pieces to his dogs. They gobble up the meat like they haven’t eaten in a century.
“By the way…” I say, after a bite of the juicy meat. “I want to chip in for food and utilities while I’m staying here.”
He washes down the meat with his usual vodka. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist. You’re already going above and beyond to help me.”
Do you know why he’s doing that? Courtney’s voice whispers in my head.
I shove it out of my mind.
Something in his gaze says he’s mildly amused. “Then you know I’m not doing it so you can help out with groceries and electricity.”
“Of course not. I just… I don’t want to impose, is all. I mean, more than I already am.”
A corner of his mouth quirks up. “You should’ve thought of that before telling me you were going to go to the police. As I recall, it was to report me for being in the vicinity of that man who tragically killed himself on Friday.”
I squirm. The chair cushion seems to be full of small needles all of a sudden. “I didn’t really mean that. I was desperate.”
“But you said Roy’s been threatening you for eight years now. What suddenly made you so reckless?”
“He sent me a box at work.” My hands start shaking, and I grip my fork and knife tighter, although I can’t decide if I’m doing it to hide my reaction or because I need something that can be used as a weapon. Maybe both.
Tolyan’s expression remains placid. When I don’t speak, he gestures. “Go on. What was inside it? Some sort of roadkill?”
Shudders run through me. His guess is a good one. And I would’ve preferred that. “My underwear. He went through my stuff at home. So that’s why.”
“Poor security at your old place,” he murmurs.
I nod. The garage apartment has zero security. The door is flimsy. The landlord only converted it into a living space so he could make some extra cash that he doesn’t have to report to the IRS.
“So now you understand why I said you needed to move in with me.”
I nod again, flushing at the memory of how I initially objected to that suggestion.
Still, that doesn’t explain why he’s helping you when he doesn’t have to.
But do I really have to know his reason?
His phone buzzes. He glances at it and stands up. “I need to take this. Excuse me.”
He goes into another room, making sure I can’t hear the conversation.
I pick at my dinner, then shake my head. I’m overthinking this because of what Courtney said. I should just accept that meeting Tolyan is the first really good thing that’s happened to me in the last eight years and be happy. Unlike Courtney, I know what’s actually going on.
But do you?
He comes back and sits down. “Is everything okay?” He is looking at me like he knows exactly what’s going through my mind.
But the words get caught in my throat. It feels like if I question my good fortune, it’s all going to go away and I’m going to be back outside, alone and unprotected…
Running again.
I’m so, so tired of running. Tired enough that I’m willing to overlook a lot of things.
So I just nod. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Angelika
I take advantage of the home gym and do some treadmill jogging in the morning. I watch the dogs frolic on the vast deck while Tolyan swims in the pool.
Holy cow. He has an amazing body. I mean, I knew there was a strong, tight physique underneath his clothes. It’s obvious in the way he moves, the way his shirt pulls across that flat waist when he turns to get something. But seeing him in nothing but black trunks is quite another.
His body is more muscular and leaner than men a decade younger. There doesn’t seem to be an ounce on fat on him—just solid, functional muscle, like if a tree trunk suddenly decided to become a bodybuilder. The morning sun kisses the taut, lightly tanned skin of his broad shoulders, thick arms and legs, and gorgeously ridged abs.
I lick my lips.
And watching him cut through the water with seemingly tireless power and speed? My body temperature rises for reasons that have nothing to do with the treadmill. I chug down some cold water, but it doesn’t do anything to lower the heat curling in my belly.
About the time I’m winding down, he pulls himself out of the pool. Water sluices off, then lingers on his skin in droplets that sparkle like diamonds. My mouth goes drier than sandpaper. I want water. And not from the bottle stuck in the treadmill holder—off his body.