“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m going to take you to the rooftop pool.”
Pool is a magic word to any pregnant woman, I guarantee it. I perk right up. “Do I have a swim suit?”
“I packed one for you. But you could swim nude if you like, too. The pool is private.”
Skinny dipping isn’t my thing although after our afternoon session, I am feeling far more comfortable in my skin than normal. I find my bikini and put it on. The bottoms still fit, but my breasts spill out of the top.
Ravil’s gaze falls on them, hungry. He grabs and holds out a terry cloth robe that’s too large—probably his—and I slip into it. Then he changes into a pair of turquoise and navy swim trunks.
Like always, I stare at his chiseled, tattooed chest. The light dusting of golden hair across his chest. He tosses my flip flops out of the closet and comes out in a pair of his own, two beach towels tucked under one arm.
It’s a different look for him, and if it weren’t for the prison tattoos, he’d look like a California lifeguard. Blond, built and manly. Not wholesome. But it’s almost like I can see how, under different circumstances, he could’ve turned out wholesome. At his core, he’s not an evil man.
He can’t be—not with the care he takes with me.
Can he?
I ignore his hand when he holds it out but let him lead me out of the penthouse and up a short flight of stairs to the roof.
There, I nearly gasp at the scenery. There are large potted trees. Flower boxes. Colorful umbrellas. Fake grass gives it more color. We round past the roof fixtures, the concrete walls cleverly concealed with bamboo fencing, and emerge at the pool.
Where a pair of teenagers are fooling around.
“Oh my God,” the girl squeaks. Her bikini top is off, floating in the water, and she dives under to hide her bare breasts from us.
Her boyfriend turns around to face us. “Mr. Baranov!” He places his body in front of hers as he grabs the bikini top and surreptitiously holds it behind his back.
“I thought you said it was a private pool,” I murmur.
“I’m really sorry. I know these aren’t the open swim hours,” the boy stammers. His face is red although not as red as the neck of his girlfriend, who has her back to us, ducked down as she puts her top back on.
Ravil says something to him in Russian.
“No, sir,” he answers in English. The teen shakes his head emphatically. Seeing his girlfriend is dressed, he grabs her hand and tugs her toward the steps. “No, I swear we didn’t. I’m sorry we were here when we weren’t supposed to be. It’s just… no one’s usually here during private hours.”
Ravil looks at him coolly. “Come by my apartment tonight around eight, Leo,” he says.
Leo’s eyes widen. Out of the pool, he stands taller than I initially thought, but he’s still lanky. Probably no more than fifteen or sixteen. He holds his free hand up. “I’m really sorry. Being here when I wasn’t supposed to was really disrespectful. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Ravil nods, setting our towels down on a chaise lounge. “Apology accepted. I still need to see you tonight. Eight o’clock. Understand?”
Leo grabs a towel and opens it for his girlfriend in a decidedly gentlemanly move. “Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t bother drying off himself, just shoves his feet in his flip flops, grabs his towel and girlfriend’s hand and starts toward the doors.
He turns back. “Mr. Baranov?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to tell my mom about this?” His voice cracks a little on the word mom.
“No,” Ravil says. “We’ll leave her out of it. Unless you no-show on me tonight.”
“I won’t,” the young man swears.
“See that you don’t.” Ravil’s already given him his back, kicking off his flip flops and heading for the pool steps.
I watch the couple leave before I join him. The pool is beautiful. The kind that’s made to look like a natural water feature, with a gentle hourglass shape and a spa that cascades down soft rocks into the pool.
“It’s salt water,” Ravil says. “Perfect for your waterbirth.”
My waterbirth.
This man must be insane.
I am not giving birth on a roof in a pool.
I slip off the robe and step in. The water is perfect— refreshing on a warm summer afternoon.
“What did you say to Leo when you spoke in Russian?”
Ravil’s lips twitch. “I asked him if he had sex in my pool.”
I laugh despite myself.
Ravil’s eyes trace my face as if he finds my laugh fascinating.
I quickly tuck my smile away. “What’s going to happen at eight?”
Again, Ravil’s lips curve at the edges. We stand in the shallow end, the water rising to our ribs. “I’m going to have the sex talk with him. Give him condoms and make sure he knows how to treat a girl.”
My lips part. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t that.
“You are?” I say, inanely.
Ravil nods. “He lives with his single mother. I have a responsibility to step in for these man-to-man talks. Especially when I catch him stripping his girlfriend in my pool.”
I can’t help it. I laugh again. It’s so damn sweet. Here I was thinking Ravil was going to make some wicked threat to the kid. Instead, he’s… well, fathering the boy.
“Is he a relative?” I ask.
“No,” Ravil says. “But the Kremlin is my village. And I’m their leader. I have a duty to look after all of them... if I can.”
Something uncomfortable twists under my ribs. An unease.
Maybe I misjudged Ravil.
Maybe horribly.
But no. He’s a criminal. His tattoos prove it.
You claim to have complete knowledge of my profession—exactly what I do and how I manage my business? You researched this thoroughly?
I didn’t. I essentially racially profiled him. Although he did choke a man at Black Light for insulting me. That was a huge red flag for me.
Still, I have no other proof against him that he’s a bad man. Unfit to be a parent.
So perhaps that’s where I must begin. To build my case against him. Or for him. Either way, I need to build a case. Look at the evidence, weigh it.
I duck my head under the water and breast stroke to the opposite end of the pool. It feels great to be weightless. To exercise without the discomfort of my new shape. Without that bone tired feeling I sometimes get when I haven’t eaten enough protein or red meat for the baby.
I swim laps back and forth. Ravil sits at the edge of the pool and watches.
Eventually, I get tired and come up for air near him, water streaming down my face and hair.
“Why did you become a defense attorney?” he asks.
I squeeze my hair out and labor to climb out and sit beside him. “My father is a defense attorney. He represented some of the biggest organized crime leaders in Chicago. Some people said he must be soulless to represent them. That he lined his pockets with blood stained bills. But the thing is—my father believed, as do I, that every man has a constitutional right to a fair trial.”
Ravil raises a brow, and I catch the accusation in it. I didn’t offer him any such due process. I tried and convicted him based on hearsay. I tried to keep him from his own flesh and blood based on my own prejudice.