Page 70 of Lethal Obsession

It’s my first night alone in my new home, and the first time I’ve felt like I’m living somewhere that is truly my own—even if my father did buy it for me. But then again, that was never going to be up for discussion.

“Ofelia.” Teresa, one of my new security detail, waits for my response before coming into the room. “Security checks are done, so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be next door if you need me, and Julia will swap me out at midnight.”

“Thank you.” I smile at her. “I hope they did an okay job on the house for you?”

Teresa grins. “Are you kidding? They even installed a bath. Good luck getting me to ever leave.”

My security detail are housed in the adjoining terrace. Both homes are securely locked behind a heavy iron door, sharing a garden and small pool.. High stone walls guard us on all sides, but since most places in the medieval precinct of the Albaicín are similarly walled, our security isn’t ostentatious.

Best of all, the security detail have their own separate entrance, and although there are cameras monitoring all angles and security buzzers in every room, along with my own personal alarm that I wear on a necklace, my own domain is blissfully camera-free.

“You know you can use the pool whenever you like,” I say, smiling at her. It’s barely June, but already the daytime temperatures soar to thirty degrees Celsius by midmorning, and it’s only going to get hotter. Granada is a place of extremes: winters that cover the surrounding mountains in snow and dry, arid summers.

“Thanks.” Teresa returns my smile, but I can tell by the reticent response that she’s unlikely to take me up on the offer. Teresa and Julia were my choice. Both are ex–Spanish Special Forces, multilingual, and have worked for Mak on various North African operations. I was slightly surprised when Mak offered to supply my security, since it’s usually Papa who oversees that, but I’m not sad about it either. I was happy to take the first two he sent my way.

One of the more satisfying moments of their interview process, for me at least, was watching both of them put Bryce and Luis on the floor not once, but multiple times. Best of all, Teresa and Julia are both young enough, and ordinary looking, to blend in with the many university students who live in the city. It’s nice to have a security detail who, for once, can accompany me to a bar without people instinctively moving away.

When Teresa leaves now, I almost bound up the stairs to my piano. It’s an incredible luxury to have it here. I thought the salon might be too small for the sound, but oddly, the old stone and wood provide the perfect acoustics for practice. I’ve got an electronic keyboard with headphones as well, just in case I want to practice late at night. But my neighbors, musicians and dancers themselves, have repeatedly assured me they love hearing me practice. Also, it’s Spain, which means that I’m welcome to make an absolute cacophony into the early hours of the morning—so long as I allow everyone to sleep until midday. After London and Paris, it’s almost amusing to be back in the somnolent rhythm of the Spanish summer, where nothing moves before ten a.m., everything closes again between one and five p.m. for siesta, and the world comes truly alive at dusk.

It feels like home.

My fingers hover over the keys. I should do exercises, but something about being alone in my new house for the first time, and the night itself, feels too exciting for technical practice. Dittorio’s words run through my head: Go somewhere you are feeling the music instead of practicing it.

I close my eyes, inhaling the Spanish night, hearing the distant strains of flamenco floating through the air.

Alexei’s lone eye, blazing into mine.

My hands settle on the keys, cool and smooth to the touch.

Alexei’s hands curled around my legs, his thumbs pressing on me until I’m gasping.

I inhale sharply, and suddenly I’m playing.

I don’t realize I’ve chosen Beethoven’s Appassionata until I’m several chords into the first movement, and by then, I’m lost. The notes flow through the doors with the Spanish night, rippling through me in a thrilling cascade, each taut passage speaking all the emotion I cannot put into words. Alexei’s face, indistinct in the early-morning light, floats like an apparition in the room before me, his dusky scent seeming to hover just behind the heady scent of jasmine. I can feel his hands on my body as if he were here, stroking the length of my thighs, touching my neck. I hit the hectic trills at the end of the first movement, and my head goes back, my lips parting, aching for his kiss until I’m pulsing wet between my legs, and my breath comes in short gasps.

I finish the first movement in a flourish. A moment later, applause erupts from the houses around me, and my eyes fly open, my hand going to my mouth to stifle my laughter.

“¡Olé!” my neighbors call, whistling and stomping their feet.

“Gracias!” I call back, smiling so widely it almost hurts my face. Only in Spain would a classical piano piece be greeted with the same approbation as a bullfight or a particularly fine piece of flamenco.

I’m so, so happy to be home.

And I miss Alexei so much it’s a physical ache.

Pulling out my phone, I stare at the screen. I already know it will stay dead. I don’t have Alexei’s number. For all I know, he doesn’t have mine. It’s not like we’ve had flirty text conversations.

Let’s face it—we’ve never even had a date.

I have no idea where he is. When I’ll see him again.

If I’ll see him again.

Restless, I walk to the open wooden doors. The ice in my gin and tonic has melted, but I drink it anyway, staring out at the Alhambra like it holds the answers to my million unanswered questions.

Does Alexei even think about that night in the hotel?

Did it mean anything to him at all?