I bite back a smile. These two are playing a game, but I think for once Jasper might have met his match.
The main course arrives soon after, and it’s beef bourguignon, which I love. The vegetables are perfection, crisp and fresh. The meat is lovely too, all tender and rich.
We have red wine with it, and I sip at mine, wanting for once to get absolutely wasted, but knowing I can’t. I must dance tomorrow.
“So, Bohdan, where are you from?” Jasper asks.
I freeze. No way will Jasper think it is coincidence that Bohdan is from the same area of St. Petersburg as me.
“Moscow,” Bohdan says smoothly.
“So fascinating that you’re Russian too,” Jasper replies, as he sips at his wine.
“Not really, there’s a lot of us,” Bohdan says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, a movement I follow out of the corner of my eye and sips at the wine. “It’s one of the reasons I was given the job.”
“It is?” Jasper asks.
“Yes, you see, if the worst were to happen and your wife and I find ourselves in a dangerous situation, we can communicate in Russian, and hopefully whoever the sick fuck … excuse me, the sick person is who is harassing her, they won’t understand.”
“I’d love to visit Russia,” Lilliana says.
“It’s very beautiful in Moscow in the winter.” Bohdan smiles at her.
“Not as beautiful as St. Petersburg,” I say softly.
“Ah no, the jewel of Russia indeed.” Bohdan raises his glass at me.
The jewel. He used to call me his jewel. I look away from him and at my plate.
“So,” Lilliana says with a small laugh. “Shall we discuss business?”
I lift my head. “Yes, of course, if you wish to.”
“We want to sponsor you to do a solo show,” she says, no preamble.
“I think it would be a huge hit. Huge. You’re a bona fide star on the dance scene, and Charles has the money, and I have the connections to make you even more of one.”
I’d love to do it, but I don’t want to give Jasper the satisfaction of knowing how much. If he sees how much I want it, he’ll be more likely to take it away from me.
“It’s a truly amazing offer,” I say. “And I’m more grateful than I can say, but can I think about it for a few days? I have a lot of things coming up, and I’m not sure when I could fit it in.”
“Darling.” Jasper’s voice holds that warning I hate so much. “I think it’s a wonderful opportunity, and other things can be moved around.”
I wave my hand in the air. “Oh, well, if you think so then, of course. You’re the one who arranges everything.”
He smiles, and I do too, secretly in the knowledge he now thinks this is his idea and against my wishes, when in reality, I want it so very much.
After a long and boring talk between Jasper and Charles over dessert, our guests finally decide to leave. Jasper sometimes likes me to stay up and partake of small talk after meals like this, but this evening as soon as the door closes behind Lilliana and Charles, he stalks away from me and up the stairs.
“I have work to do, goodnight.” He tosses those words over his shoulder, not even looking at me.
Night, darling, I think.
I walk to the kitchen and stop when I see Bohdan manning the coffee maker.
“You want a macchiato?” he asks.
“A what?” I only drink small black coffees. I need to stay slim.
“Don’t worry about it; just let me make you one.”
He starts the machine up and does all sorts of alchemy as it spits and hisses and steams. Then he hands me a tall glass cup, layered with something frothy.
I sip at it, and my eyes close. Oh my god!
I look at Bohdan to see him grinning at me. “Good, huh?”
“Yes, it is delicious.”
“Can’t believe you’ve not had one before. Latte girl, are you?”
I shake my head. “Espresso girl.”
“Oh, surprised you like this then.”
“I drink espresso because it’s not fattening,” I explain.
His expression darkens.
“Dasha, we grew up with nothing. You shouldn’t be denying yourself. You should take everything you want and be greedy for it. Greedy for life.”
His voice is quiet, and we’re speaking in Russian, but I don’t trust Jasper not to have bugged the place. I shake my head at Bohdan who gets the message.
He doesn’t say anything more, but he comes to sit by me at the breakfast bar. His arm touches mine, his scent wraps around me, and I turn to him; I can’t help it. I put my head on his shoulder and close my eyes.
He stiffens for a moment, and then his hand comes up and caresses my hair.
We sit like that for the longest time, as our coffees go cold, untouched.
Chapter Thirteen
Bohdan
What am I doing? I came here telling myself I was going to save Dasha, but how? If she wanted to leave Jasper, surely she would have already. The other issue is, in order to save her, I need to tell her I know what her husband is doing, and that means fessing up that I’ve filmed them. That’s going to go down like a bucket of sick.
My head’s messed up, and I’m fucking up. Last night after that achingly boring dinner party, I let her lean her head on me and stroked her hair the way we used to as kids, but we aren’t kids anymore. The way I feel about her isn’t innocent. It’s … complicated.
I want her. If I’m being honest with myself, I did from the first moment her gaze collided with mine in the corridor of the opera house. I stretch under the sheets and push them down.
My legs are covered in scars. It’s why I only wear long board shorts, even on the hottest day in Corfu. Not many people have seen my legs. I look now and grimace. The scars are still there. Some less livid than they used to be.
I close my eyes as a shudder wracks me. I can still smell the searing of hairs as they put the red hot metal onto my skin. They had laid the poker on me four times in total on the right leg, twice on the left. My uncle came off worse. All because of Dasha.
It’s why I’m so fucked up over her. She told the Bratva boss my uncle and I were skimming off the top, and got me the beating of my life, along with a branding. It cost me my uncle’s love and meant I had to flee St. Petersburg. How can I forgive her that? When I think about her now, I’m seething, but when I see her, the anger and the need for revenge fizzles out.
She’s already broken. How can you hurt a broken thing? It would be like pulling the wings off a fly.
I touch the worst scar and wince. I hate the sensation of the puckered skin.
My stomach churns and I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. I should leave her to her fate.
The thing is, though, Dasha is the only connection to my past. The only thing left from who I was before and something about that is heady. It’s probably the reason why siblings who can’t stand one another remain locked in their dysfunction long after their parents have died. They could walk away, but they can’t resist that siren call of someone who knows them.
Dasha knows me. We shared so many secrets. We laid at night wrapped up in one another’s arms, whispering our hopes and dreams and fears to each other.