The Darkest Temptation (Made Book 3)

dépaysement

(n.) when someone is taken out of their own familiar world into a new one

MILA

“No, really, I can pay for my own room.”

Albert was obviously hard of hearing because his stoic expression didn’t falter as he walked down the hotel hall with my bag in his hand. I trailed two steps behind the giant, struggling to keep up with him.

I knew he understood English. On the way over, I touched the window while taking in the sights, and through the rearview mirror, he looked at me like I’d just slapped his favorite grandma and grumbled at me to not smudge the glass. He’d be handsome if he wiped away that scowl and didn’t shave his head like he was just released from prison. Though, with that attitude, I could only assume he was.

After driving me to a swanky hotel, he handed the straight-faced concierge a wad of cash. The older man didn’t ask a single question before sliding a shiny room key into Albert’s hand. It looked like a drug deal. Or a bribe. I couldn’t be privy to Albert’s illegal activities no matter how things were done here.

“Listen, I just want to pay for my room,” I said, slightly out of breath when I finally caught up to him. “I’m sure you have lots of other things to spend your money on. Giant underpants can’t come cheap.”

He almost appeared amused. Or constipated? I couldn’t be sure.

“The boss is paying for it,” he groused.

“The boss” sounded a little too formal and weird. But then I would be the last person to know about an employer’s correct title. The only job I’d ever had was volunteer work.

“You know, you don’t look like an Albert,” I told him.

Not a blink.

“I’m just saying, when someone says ‘Albert,’ expectations are formed. Old men with cheerful personalities, to be exact. You’ve crushed those expectations, Albert.”

He stopped in front of room 203.

“I’d peg you as more of an . . . Igor.”

His lips pulled into the slightest frown as he slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Naturally, I followed him inside.

“It’s okay to show your feelings, Igor. We all have them.”

He dropped my bag near the queen-size bed.

“Not to mention, men who cry? Hot.”

The disgusted look on his face was comical, and I bit my lip to stifle a smile as he passed me on the way to the door.

“Will I see you later?”

He grunted and slammed it shut behind him.

With a sigh, I turned to take in the room. The alarm clock near the bed said it was only nine in the morning. All of a sudden, the jet lag and everything else hit me like a semi-truck. I needed to let Ivan know I was okay—and I kind of missed his voice—but I was too tired to figure out how to dial out on the hotel phone, so it would have to wait.

I took a shower and scrubbed my skin raw. In a towel, I padded back into my room and dug through my bag for some clothes. A muffled commotion on the street drew my attention to the window. Outside, a bicyclist argued with a disgruntled taxi driver, who threw his hands in the air when the teenage delivery boy hurled a newspaper at his car. I started to turn away, but something else caught my eye.

A black car sat parked on the side of the street. Tattooed fingers hung out of the window ashing a cigarette before the unfamiliar man brought it back to his mouth. I’d never met a man with inked hands before coming here.

Must be a Russian thing.

Lethargy pulled on my limbs, so I fell into bed without a stitch of clothing on and was dead to the world for a solid three hours. When I awoke, it was with a groan and a piece of still-damp hair in my mouth.

Removing the tags from a new pair of bell-bottom jeans and a vintage T-shirt, I smiled as I slipped them on. They fit me well, caressing my body with a cotton form of freedom. Next, I dried and straightened my hair, applied some strawberry lip gloss, and donned the heavy cardigan I wore in place of a coat on the way here.

The cold sucked the air from my lungs as I headed across the street to the nearest convenience store to buy a disposable phone. Maybe it was the lack of winter apparel, but I stuck out like a sore thumb. Eyes followed my movements, and I got cat-called twice. Not an odd thing growing up in Miami, but I thought someone even took my picture.

The attention made me wonder about my mother—if she really was so famous here, and why my papa hid it from me. He didn’t like to talk about her. I assumed it hurt too much, so I never had the heart to press the matter. But one would think he could share something with me. The fact she was a well-known opera singer maybe . . .

With a new phone in hand, I dialed Ivan’s number.

He answered immediately, his voice cautious. “Hello?”

“Hi, Ivan. It’s me.”

“Mila,” he breathed. “Gde ty, chert voz’mi?” Where the hell are you?

I had an apology on my tongue, but the fact the relief in his voice was so palpable like he had no faith in me at all—even though he was annoyingly accurate in this case—stopped it from escaping.

“Relax.” I shivered and tightened my cardigan around me. “I’m fine.”

“I have been worried sick about you,” he snapped.

“I don’t know why. Obviously, I’ve been doing just fine.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“Where are you staying?”

A clothing store’s window display drew me in. A bell dinged as I stepped inside, and I sighed in relief at the warmth.

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I can’t read Russian, Ivan.” I headed to a clothing rack to peruse the dresses. I didn’t know if there was a performance at the opera house tonight, but I figured I should dress for one. Better to be overdressed than under in my learned opinion. “Besides, I stayed at a restaurant last night. I didn’t catch the name.”

Slowly, he asked, “Why did you stay at a restaurant, Mila?”

Well, crap.

“I wasn’t going to tell you that,” I said, and then before I could stop myself, I grumbled, “Must be the concussion.”

“The what?”

I was really digging myself into a hole here.

I bit my lip. “I’ll admit, yesterday wasn’t the most ideal situation, but it has nothing to do with my ability to take care of myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

I sighed, realizing I would have to tell him the truth because I’d never been a good liar, and there wasn’t a chance he’d buy the elaborate tale my brain was thinking up right now. It involved a bus and a kitten and a heroic sense of self.

“I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to tell my papa. I don’t want to worry him.”

“I promise,” he grated.

“Well, if you want me to put it frankly . . . I was sort of attacked, and maybe almost murdered.”

Silence.

“But don’t worry. Apparently, the man had a phobia of star necklaces, and I got away.” I pushed a dress on the rack aside.

A colorful Russian curse. “Where are you?”

“I’m shopping.”

I wasn’t going to tell him about my plans tonight. I knew how well it would be received—at least by my papa once Ivan snitched on me. Ivan never cared about who I went out with. His indifference stomped on my first crush and fantasy—created by Ms. Marta’s dirty books I snuck away with when she wasn’t looking—of a white knight on a steed who’d behead other men just for looking at me. Though, in that fantasyland, blood didn’t squirt in the air like a fountain because blood simply didn’t exist.

My expectations were unrealistic, a little gruesome, and a lot illegal. But a girl could dream.

“Shopping?” He sounded confused.

“Yes?”

“You were attacked, and then you got up and went shopping.”

“What would you like me to do? Cry myself to sleep?”

Maybe I should be traumatized, but somehow, I still only felt irritated at the situation. I hoped Scarface was having a shitty day.

“Mila . . . I want you to look around.” A foreboding edge crept into his voice. “Is anyone watching you?”

I froze, the hair on the back of my neck rising. “What? Why would someone be watching me?”

“Just do it. And do not make it obvious.”

A chill crawling up my spine, I discreetly glanced around the store, from a couple of women talking at the front counter, to a few others trying on accessories and perusing clothing racks. They were looking at me here and there, though only like I was a tourist who didn’t blend in. I stared out the front window but didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.

“Did you know my mother was famous here?” I asked. Maybe she had a Charles Manson-like group of fans?

He sighed.

“You did, didn’t you?” I accused. “Why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?”

“Because you would have gone digging where you do not belong.”

“Don’t belong? She was my mother!”

“Why don’t you say it a little louder, so the whole city can hear you?” he chided.

“Who cares if they do?”

“I want you to stay somewhere public until I come get you.”

The tone of his voice made my throat feel thick. “Ivan, you’re scaring me.”

“Good. Now, go hand one of the saleswomen your phone so I can find out where you are.”

I took a step in the front counter’s direction, but something stopped me. “I’m not ready to go home.”

“This is not about what you wan—”

“No, it never is, is it?” My voice rose. “I know about my papa’s other family. You don’t have to scare me into coming home to keep the secret anymore. For once, I’m thinking about myself.”

Silence.

“Mila—”

“Goodbye, Ivan.”

“Mila—”

I ended the call.

With a huff, I pushed a hanger on the rack aside. Receiving another call from him, I turned the phone off and dropped it into my pocket, but his ominous words still played on a reel in the back of my mind.