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She has no fucking idea.
The night has flown by. I imagined we’d have a tight, sixty-minute dinner where we rehashed our rules and practiced holding hands. But everything happened naturally.
I guess I should have known after the first night we spent together: being with Cora is easy.
She finishes her dessert and leans back, wrapping her arms around herself. She rubs her hands along her biceps to stay warm. There’s a heater blowing behind me, but she’s closer to the draft coming off the balcony ledge.
“Here.” I start to shrug out of my jacket.
“Thanks, but I’m okay.”
I slip it off and stand up. “You have goosebumps. I can see them from here.”
I can also see the points of her nipples through the dress, though I keep that detail to myself.
I drape the jacket around her shoulders. The memory of the last time I offered her my jacket hangs heavily between us.
She looks up. “What’s this going to cost me?”
I slide my chair closer and sit down, blocking some of the wind coming from the balcony ledge. “What do you mean?”
“If I know anything, it’s that nothing good in this world comes without a price.” She grips the lapels and pulls them tightly around herself. “So, what do you want?”
Her face is flushed from the wine and the cold, but Cora is burning. Her eyes are a vibrant green, shimmering in the twinkle lights. But it’s deeper than that, even. I saw it the night we met when she told Stefanos exactly where he could shove his jackassery. When she told me that she had no interest in marryinganyone, let alone someone like Ivan Pushkin, whoever the hell he was.
She isn’t just burning—she’s incendiary.
She’s asking me what I want, but surely she already knows. Surely it’s obvious.
I’m about to tell Cora exactly what I want—and where and when I want it—when the waitress reappears with a silver wine bucket in her hands.
“A gift,” she says, taking the empty bottle from the center of our table and replacing it with champagne.
I’m content to ignore the waitress and the bottle. My gaze is still locked on the pulse thrumming in Cora’s neck. On the curl of hair against her collarbone. On the swell of her breasts in the shimmering fabric.
“Oh, how nice,” Cora exclaims. “From who?”
The waitress shakes her head. “I’m actually not sure who it came from. We don’t usually carry it, but I know it’s a very expensive bottle.”
“If anyone asks, we’re overcome with gratitude.” I wave the waitress away. “Thank you.”
Cora pulls the bottle free, studying the label. I want to shove it and the entire bucket off the balcony. It’s all a distraction.
Then Cora goes pale.
I see the shift in her. The way the color drains from her cheeks and her eyes turn wary. She glances up at me and whispers my name, a hollow sound. “Ivan…”
Instantly, alarm bells sound in my head.
This was all a distraction. The wine, Cora, the conversation. She’s in danger, and I let myself become distracted.
I snatch the bottle out of her hands and turn it around. A word on the label has been scratchily underlined in red ink.
Francia.
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IVAN
