AllFreeNovel
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It’s the best lead I’ve got. Holding my breath, I sprint that way—which is when the hostess tackles me.
Splash.
I land in the pool.
Fucker.
I begin flailing and gasping for breath—the last thing I want to be doing in this place.
Somehow, I’m surviving. The stench of chlorine from this pool would usually kill me, but it covers the taranka so I’m grateful for it—at least until I accidentally swallow some of the nasty pool water.
Now I’m not grateful at all, and afraid for my life.
“Hold on, kislik,” an achingly familiar voice says, and then strong hands grab me and pull me out of the water like a wet doll. In an eyeblink, I’m being transported through the banya in a bridal carry.
Wiping pool water from my eyes, I feast on Art’s gorgeous face. His dark hair is wet, and droplets of water cling to his lashes, highlighting their thickness.
“Hi,” I gasp.
“Don’t breathe. I’m going to get you out of here.” He speeds up, and in a few seconds, we’re out of the horrid place and on the street.
I inhale my first taranka-free breath and nearly have an orgasm.
Art doesn’t set me down. He carries me across the street and onto the boardwalk.
Oh, the ocean air. It’s as welcome as the hands holding me.
Seeing color return to my face, Art finally sets me on my feet.
“Can I breathe now?” I ask.
His lips quirk. “I guess that’s okay.”
I pointedly fill my lungs with luxuriously salty air, then let it out with a whoosh. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He grimaces. “I should’ve told you.”
“That’s just it. I have no idea what it is that ‘you should’ve told me.’”
He frowns. “But I thought Alisa—”
“She made me think you were married to another woman.”
His eyes widen. “She what?”
“She gave me a marriage certificate that stated you were married back in Russia.”
His jaw tightens dangerously. “That’s a lie,” he says in a low, hard voice. “I was never—”
“I know that now.” I squeeze about a gallon of pool water from my hair. “The document she gave me was a fake.”
“Oh.” He grabs my hand. “So she didn’t tell you what really happened?”
My hand should feel warm in his palm, but it doesn’t. What if “what really happened” is worse than the “secret wife?”
“She didn’t tell me much,” I say cautiously. “But you should.”
He sighs and releases my hand to shove his fingers through his wet hair. “Remember when I told you about a couple of casual encounters with ballerinas?”
