Page 74 of Lethal Obsession

Now, after Paris, I don’t have to wonder anymore.

He wanted me too.

Even then. Despite everything.

I know it.

But knowing it doesn’t help me endure his deafening silence since Paris.

One day passes, then another. Still more pass, but with no word from Lars’s friends with the yacht—or from Alexei.

I walk in the early morning, out past the cave bars of the Sacromonte, shuttered and silent after their late-night shows. I take the road beyond them that winds along the valley, past the ruined mansion I always dream of restoring and the old monastery rumored to hide ancient secrets in its underground tunnels. I return as the sun grows high and take my breakfast on the terrace. It’s the same every day: fresh orange juice and black coffee with a tostada, savored as I listen to the sounds of the Albaicín coming to life.

I settle into piano practice by midmorning, when I can hear the buzz of scooters between the stone walls and the cries of the small delivery vans, custom-built to fit the narrow cobblestoned streets, carrying everything from gas bottles to fresh bread and milk.

I didn’t realize how much I’d missed Spain until I woke here again, amid the cheerful bustle of humanity and familiar scents and sounds. It soothes some part of me that never feels truly settled in large cities. I practice piano with my doors open onto the Alhambra and the constant feedback from an ever-moving audience below. Sometimes, when I miss a note, the ex-flamenco dancer who lives one street over calls out to scold me. When I play well, she joins my other neighbors’ enthusiastic applause and chorus of “¡Olé!”

And through it all, Alexei is who I think of. When I walk in the morning. When I breakfast on my terrace. When I practice, or teach local students.

When I cook lunch, making velvety gazpachos and eating the heavy figs that hang from every tree at this time, savoring them with fresh yogurt and honey from the market.

In the afternoons, when I sunbathe naked on my terrace, my body burning with heat that has nothing to do with the blazing sun and everything to do with the recollection of Alexei’s mouth between my legs.

In the early evenings, when I shower in the vast tiled bathroom, using the Moroccan almond-and-rose body scrub sold in one of the Moorish street markets nearby, rubbing the mixture into my inner thighs, my body in an almost incessant state of mind-bending arousal, unable to think of anything but Alexei’s hands, his mouth.

He lives inside me when I dress in floaty summer frocks and head out to Lourdes’s family bar, to take a tapas and watch my friend play guitar for the nightly flamenco performances. When I’m leaning forward in my seat, my breath stuck in my throat as the dancers arch and stamp, their sultry, sensual display almost seeming to mock my own frustrated desire.

I wander home along the deserted alleys in the early hours of the morning, flanked by the tactful shadows of my ever-present security detail, the warm summer nights winding around me in a seductive haze of rich scent, music and laughter, and I miss Alexei with a physical ache.

I embrace the rhythm and try to use the burning longing inside me to fuel my practice. But the edge that Dittorio talked about remains elusive, buried somewhere deep inside, churning with my frustrated desire and the memory of Alexei’s face.

12

Alexei

I spend the first week of the voyage south having a serious argument with my conscience.

Staying away from Ofelia will potentially destroy whatever might have started in Paris. Which is what I should do.

Going to see her will, at best, be starting something I’m not at all certain I will be able to see through.

And at worst, it will put Ofelia directly in danger.

It’s the reason I’ve moved slowly. The reason I can’t sit at my laptop for more than half an hour at a time. And it’s sent me into the onboard gym so often that my lifting power would be the envy of a fucking Navy SEAL.

So it’s almost a welcome diversion when we drop anchor several nautical miles offshore from the party island of Ibiza, and Mak’s high-powered speedboat pulls up alongside Quantum Drift.

“Interesting choice of rendezvous,” I greet him as he steps over the railing. “Never pegged you as a pill-popping raver.” His tall, rangy form is clad, typically, in immaculate linen and designer loafers, with his trademark fedora perched one side of his head. I swear Mak would be crease-free and fresh as a daisy in the middle of an equatorial jungle.

He probably has been, for that matter. Bastard might dress like he’s just been on the cover of Esquire, but he’s one of the hardest, most dangerous fuckers I know.

“I’ve always liked Ibiza,” he says, shaking my hand and regarding me with the perennial amusement that seems to gleam just beneath the surface of his charcoal eyes. “It’s full of people who don’t want to be found, which is always interesting. Negroni,” he tells the steward waiting to take his order. “I’ve recently spent a hectic few days with Roman,” he says when the drink arrives, raising the extremely alcoholic concoction in my direction. “And believe me when I say that I’ve earned a decent drink.” He gives a long-suffering sigh. “The only time I can’t delegate security setups to one of my teams is when it comes to Roman’s children. And when it comes to setting up a home for his eldest daughter, the man borders on the pathological.” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “Understandable, obviously.” For a moment, we’re both back in a Miami hangar, surrounded by wounded men, with Ofelia lying on a stretcher.

Mak raises his glass to me and we both drink, a silent honoring of those who never made it out of the firefight with the Orlovs that day, and in gratitude for the lives of those who did.

He eyes me over the rim of the glass, taking in my altered appearance and dark sunglasses. “Interesting hair color,” he murmurs. “And I’m rather sad you’ve ditched the eye patch; I always quite liked it. On the upside, you’ll definitely keep the gray men on their toes. I almost didn’t recognize you myself.”

“Gray men. Ha.” I pull a beer out of the cooler. “I take it you’ve met John Owens, then.”