Roulette (19 page)

“Oh, fine.” I reach for it with a snippy attitude, and he puts his hand on my arm to stop me.

Margot quickly starts serving the food and making small talk with Étienne and Lulu about how delicious everything looks, to distract them.

“You can be mad at me,” he says softly, “but don’t be mad when you take your first sip of this.”

I set the glass down. “Are you going to try to tell me how to drink a glass of wine?”

Lulu laughs, then tries not to keep laughing. Rome smiles at her, as if I am the one who’s such a spoilsport. I breathe in and try not to feel like I have a radioactive love machine sitting two inches to my left. “Fine.” I smile thinly and reach for the glass. “Here goes.” I take a sniff, and as much as I want to hate it, it’s one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever smelled in my life. As with Étienne, I kind of want to burrow down into the glass and never come out. Just from smelling it.

Rome is still swirling his around and watching me be seduced by his damn wine.

I take a sip. At that moment, my bitterness flies away, because it is simply one of the most pleasurable experiences of my life—the taste of the natural embodiment of the earth and the sun. It makes me feel as if I am part of the universe or something extraordinary that people who write about wine probably have a better way of describing. To me, it just tastes like love. On my lips. Down my throat. Warm in my belly.

I open my eyes and realize the other five are staring at me. Margot looks
a little guilty, despite herself, like she tried to warn me.

“Hmmm,” Rome hums, kind of a question and a victory all at once. “So you like it?”

“Yes. Who wouldn’t like it? It’s delicious.” I put it back down and pretend that I don’t want to cradle it against me for the rest of the meal. It’s probably obscenely expensive, and I don’t want to encourage him.

Of course, Rome never needs encouragement.

“So?” Étienne prompts. “What is it?”

“It’s the 1982 Pauillac,” Rome explains.

“I knew it!” Étienne cries, smacking his fist on the stone surface and dipping his nose into the glass for another soul-satisfying sniff. “Damn it, Rome. You shouldn’t have.”

“It’s peaking. We need to drink it. And you get married only once—or, in your case, twice, but I suspect this is a long-term hold. Am I right?”

Étienne smiles at his cousin, then pulls Margot close. “Definitely. But still, this is too much.”

I begin filling my plate with salad and vegetables and slicing off a few pieces of the lamb, and then Rome is doing the same. After a few minutes, we’ve all piled our plates with food, and before anyone takes a bite, Rome raises his glass.

“To Margot. The perfect woman for Étienne.”

“To Margot!” everyone chimes in, and Margot looks sweet and sort of embarrassed, then jokes, “Does this mean I can’t drink if the toast is in my honor?”

Rome laughs. “This, you can always drink.”

She takes a sip, and then we all dig into the food. I’m not a gourmet or anything, but I do love to cook when I feel like it. Everything just tastes fresh and delicious, and everyone is loving it. The wine doesn’t hurt. Apparently, this is a family game the Rothschild cousins play, bringing unmarked bottles of Lafite or Mouton Rothschild and then trying to guess the vintages or vineyards.

It’s good to be the king.

After he pours me a second glass and he’s not pestering me too much, I turn to steal a glance at Rome while he’s talking to Trevor about a deal Clairebeau is working on in Milan. I know he senses I’m paying attention, but he doesn’t slow down the conversation. I take another sip of the wine and slip deeper into the wonderful lull of friends and food and this spectacular place in the world.

He turns to me slowly, his lips on the edge of his glass, and takes a sip. Margot and Étienne are all lovey-dovey—and why shouldn’t they be, after one day of wedded bliss? Lulu and Trevor are talking about a piece of furniture she’s working on. And Rome is staring at me while that enchanted wine slides past those lips.

Fine. I look. And start not to care about fiancées again. My heart tightens in my chest. I put the wineglass down and look away from him, out across the valley, beyond the swimming pool and the ancient hedges and rough ground.

“Miki?” His voice is mellow.

“Yes?” I don’t want to face him.

“We need to talk.”

“Fine.” I look at my hands, then up into his eyes. “You want to go for a walk?” I suggest.

“Sure.” He smiles at the idea. “Then we’ll have coffee and that apricot tart.”

“Okay.” I stand up and pull my long legs out from under the stone table. I can feel Rome staring at my bare thighs, almost as if he has his actual hands on me. “Excuse us for a few minutes, will you?” I ask Margot.

She looks up at me. “You okay?”

I love her for that. She’s not going to let me get hornswoggled by a bottle of wine and a few suggestive glances.

“Yeah, I’m good. We’ve got some business to discuss.”

Rome rolls his eyes. He puts his hand at the small of my back and guides me toward a path at the far end of the pool. After Rome and I have walked about ten minutes, through the oak grove and then farther, into terraced rows of olive trees, he puts his palm on my bare neck and I stop walking.

“Miki?”

I turn to face him. “Are you engaged to Aziza or not?” I blurt. “No hedging. No story. Just the truth.”

He looks up to the sky and shakes his head, then looks me right in the eye. “Yes, but it might not be for long.”

I know it’s immature, but my first impulse is to kick him in the shin. I don’t, but I really want to. I want to throw sand in his eyes and pull his hair and do every angry, juvenile thing I can think of—because he is so awful. “Take your hand off me.” His fingers have started massaging my neck where it meets my shoulder, and it reminds me of how he did that same thing the first morning in Saint Petersburg, and how good it felt.

He lets his hand fall away slowly. “Why can’t you trust me, Miki? There are things going on with Aziza, and I’m just helping her through—”

“Alexei told me. I don’t care if she’s secretly in love with Durchenko and you’re some sort of front or bait or some shit. It’s all the drama. Don’t you get it? You are an adrenaline junkie who thrives on all this chaos. That is exactly what I don’t want.”

He looks around, and I realize we are standing in a quintessentially bucolic and peaceful place. The trees sway gently around us; the cicadas are beginning to saw in the late-afternoon sun.

He smiles ironically and says, “Yes. It’s very chaotic here.”

My heart loves that shit. My romantic, fast-beating heart is trying to tell me this is a wonderful man and this is his strange way of courting me. My rational mind tells me he just wants what he wants. He wants to get me back in his bed, and maybe we’ll even be a couple for a while, but then he’ll get bored. We will peak, like one of those expensive wines, and then he’ll be on to the next premium vintage.

“Rome, I like you.”

He practically chokes on how trite that sounds.

“What?”

I’m trying to stay calm. “I like you. We had a sweet time in Saint Petersburg. We’re obviously attracted to each other.”

His eyes narrow like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. That he’s being reduced to an episode.

“But seriously?” I shake my head cynically and fold my arms in front of my chest. He stares at me, and I think maybe I’ve succeeded in fending him off.

“Yes, Miki. Seriously.”

Not quite. Not at all. He reaches up and touches the edge of my lower lip, slowly tracing his finger along the sensitive skin, and it causes a bolt of sexual excitement to shoot down my spine. That tiny touch, and I’m just . . . mush.

“Rome.” I reach up and move his hand away from my mouth, but I’m still holding his wrist in both of my hands. I lean in and kiss his fingertips. “I can’t. I can’t be this crazy, free-spirited lover you’re looking for.”

“That’s not what I’m looking for, damn it. I’m looking for
you
.”

My body goes berserk—tingling and desperate. “You don’t even know me,” I breathe out.

“That is such bullshit.” He yanks his hand away, and I’m simultaneously relieved and bereft. “You’re just scared—”

“Damn straight I’m scared!” I’m breathing heavily now, from a combination of wanting him and wanting to protect myself. “I’m terrified. You’re everything that screwed up my parents’ life—
my life
—all wrapped up in one super-hot, tempting package.” I start enumerating, raising one finger as I begin. “One: blind passion. Great—we were great in bed. So what? That always fizzles. That’s not something to build a future on. Two: you are fucking
engaged
. That is not a maybe-I-might-move-in-with-my-cardiologist-boyfriend misdemeanor. That is you planning to marry someone I’ve met—and actually admire, from what little I know of her. And—”

He tries to interrupt, but I won’t hear it.

“No! I don’t want to know that it’s some sham engagement to do with Durchenko. That still makes you the type of psycho who would actually agree to such a thing.”

He recoils slightly at that. “Fuck you,” he says.

“Well. That’s better. I’m a bitch. Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand in a mock introduction.

He slaps it away, and then it’s his turn to point his finger in my face. “You never called me, Miki. Nothing. And don’t you dare pretend you wanted me to call you! You made it perfectly clear in Saint Petersburg that you wanted me to
respect your real life
—I think was how you put it. And I did that. The past two months have been miserable! And not because you are some quick fix I want in my bed, damn you. I wish it were that simple. Let’s fuck and get it out of our systems—is that it? I’m happy to try that route, by the way.” He smiles for a split second, then scowls. “But you’re a liar—if not to me, than to yourself. What we shared in Saint Petersburg might have been torrid, but it was still real.” He pushes his finger into my chest on that last word. “Real.”

“Stop,” I whisper. “Just stop. If you weren’t engaged . . .”

He grabs hold of his own head. “Then what?” When he lets go of his thick black hair, he looks kind of insane—still sexy, of course, but wacked. “Miki . . . Azi is really in a bad spot. She’s pregnant with Durchenko’s baby, and maybe he’ll come through in the end—they actually love each other, for some fucked-up reason—but if she has this baby out of wedlock, her father will disown her. Literally. Disown her. Or have her stoned to death or some shit. He’s a goddamned fundamentalist Somali warlord. He’s already irate that she’s refused to do any of his arranged-marriage crap, but she convinced him of that, at least. But if she has this baby?” Rome shakes his head. “He’ll go off the deep end. And why should I break it off anyway, especially if you think I’m some playboy lightweight bullshit artist? Why would I abandon a real friend, someone who respects me, to be with someone who thinks I’m a two-dimensional buffoon? Who thinks I’ve agreed to marry a friend because I’m some sort of adrenaline junkie? So, yes, fuck you.” He turns around and walks back toward the house.

My heart is racing from everything he’s said, and I realize I’m crying because he’s made up of so many parts I don’t understand—but it doesn’t make me want him any less. He also reveals parts of me that I don’t fully understand, and he’s right: I’m both afraid and lying to myself. I’m afraid of how much he makes me feel, even though we’ve been around each other only for these short, intense times. And I’m lying to myself because I don’t think I would ever tire of waking up next to him, or going to sleep next to him, or working at a large partners’ desk across from him. In fact, I can’t really imagine a situation in which I wouldn’t want to be near him. Tucked into him.

“Fuck.” So now it’s all on me to declare some undying faith in our burgeoning maybe-relationship? For that to be enough for him? For me to have faith in him?

Faith? I don’t have faith in people. I was raised by faithless wolves. That’s one of those learned human traits—nurture versus nature—that I most definitely did not learn. And he knows that about me, so why is he asking me to do the impossible?

I walk slowly back toward the house and dry my eyes with the edge of my T-shirt. Maybe there’s some of that mystical wine left over for me to drown my sorrows in.

CHAPTER TWENTY

A
lexei calls fir
st thing Monday morning. “I didn’t bother you on Sunday; did you notice?”

I stretch out, enjoying the quiet bedroom, with Zoe gone. But it’s still really early.

“Yes, I noticed, Alexei. Thank you for that. But it isn’t even seven—”

“Good. Okay. Now, back to work. Do you still want me to come down there? I’m happy to meet you in Monaco or wherever. We’re going to need to do a press conference soon. The
Financial Times
has been in touch with the head office, and I’ve been getting a few calls from our PR department in Saint Petersburg. The board is also getting itchy about whether or not you are permanent. Maybe we can do that from Nice. Paris is gray and boring.”

“Sure, we can work down here if you want.” I dread the idea of willingly standing in front of a roomful of reporters, but I remind myself I’ll probably be of little interest to anyone other than a few financial journalists. I force myself awake when I realize Alexei’s not going to take a hint and let me go back to sleep. “Hop on the train, and I’ll pick you up in Avignon this afternoon.”

“Well, actually . . . Rome said he’d send his plane up for me.”

“What the hell?” I’m fully awake now. “Is he running a shuttle service?”

“I think he’d just send the plane, you know, as a courtesy.”

“I thought you weren’t in touch with him. When did he offer said courtesy?” I ask suspiciously.

“Well, he and I were talking about the big picture . . .” Alexei’s voice trails off.

“Really. The big picture. Enlighten me.”

“Well, I was thinking . . .”

“Oh, god. You’ve been thinking again? What now, Alexei?” I sit up straighter in bed. “Maybe we should just merge Voyanovski Industries with Clairebeau and go head-to-head with Durchenko so all of us can spend every waking hour in close contact, arguing with each other.”

“I knew you would already have thought of it.”

I shove the sheets off me and leap out of bed. “I was being facetious!” I start pacing around the room.

“It makes sense, Miki. Listen to me. We need to at least start talking about it. Clairebeau has been angling to expand into some of the supply chain and manufacturing.”

“Alexei. How could you enter negotiations of this magnitude without telling me?”

“We haven’t entered into any negotiations! It just happened—”

“When?”

“Last night.” He sounds like his stupid, sheepish self. “He called me here in Paris.”

“Of course he did.”

“Look, Miki. Your father and Rome talked about this on and off for years. He would definitely want to keep you on board—”

“I bet he would.”

“I mean, he promises he’d keep the whole company intact.”

Oh, god
.
Rome as my boss? If he can’t have me in his bed, he’ll just muscle his way into my life some other way.
I try to separate out my feelings from the reality of what Alexei is suggesting. He’s right that in the grand scheme of things, it makes perfect sense. Rome is a businessman at heart, and he would never do something specifically to spite me. If it happened to turn out that way, he’d just see it as a bonus.

“The world is made up of conglomerates, Miki—”

“I know that! Just stop. I don’t want to hear another word out of you,” I hiss. “I need to get my mind around this. Just give me a couple of hours to separate the personal crap from the deal, all right?”

“Okay. Yes, that sounds good. Take some time to start thinking, and then call me back.”

“Alexei.” I sit back on the bed and want to smash something. “We need to hash this out in person. And obviously I need some sort of initial deal memorandum from Rome.”

“Yes, he wants that, too. He wants to work with us both. All the way through the deal.”

Of course he does. The idea of working all the way through anything with Rome simultaneously nauseates me and turns me on.

“Where is he now?” I ask.

“He’s still there in Provence, at his place.”

His château
, I want to add venomously, but I manage to stay silent.

“Miki, I know it’s a lot all at once, but we need to act quickly if we are going to present a united front against Durchenko and Kriegsbeil. Our two weeks are up Thursday.”

“I know,” I mutter.

“So, I’ll head down there?”

“Yes. And just take the TGV, would you? I can take only so much of his jet-carpool kindness.”

“Fine,” Alexei says with a laugh; then his voice softens. “It’s all going to work out, my dear.”

“I hope so. Just get on the train and text me when you’re going to arrive in Avignon, okay?”

“Okay.”

I disconnect the call and take a deep breath. Rome thinks he can get all saucer-eyed and passionate under the olive trees and then take over my entire company? That’s a really clever way to show me how much he cares. I whip off my pajamas and pull on a swimsuit. I need about nine hours in the pool, but I’ll settle for one.

I head out to the backyard and dive into the cool water. I feel better immediately. The water has always been my deliverance. I swim for a solid hour, slow laps with a few sprints mixed in, until I think I’ve worn out my body enough to settle my mind.

When I enter the kitchen, Trevor is there—in board shorts and another concert T-shirt—making coffee. It’s just before eight o’clock.

“Sorry if I woke you,” I say.

“I was up. I already went into town and got the papers. You okay?”

I’m rubbing my hair dry with the towel. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

He looks at me after he’s filled the
cafetière
with boiling water and put the top on to let it brew. “You sure?”

I slow down with the towel and stare at him. “No. I’m not fine at all. My uncle called earlier.” I hesitate. “Are we in the cone?”

He quirks his lips with humor. “The cone of silence? Yeah, we’re definitely in the cone.”

“Okay, then.” I flop down into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs and start spilling everything. Segezha. Clairebeau. Durchenko. I leave out about Aziza and Rome and Durchenko’s personal mess, but I suspect Trevor has his own insights where they’re concerned.

He starts talking about the different components of the Clairebeau bottom line, the physical plant of Voyanovski. It’s obvious he’s been following both companies very closely for quite some time.

“You just read annual reports for fun?” I rib him.

He turns his back to press the coffee, then pours a cup. “I guess you could say that.” He offers me the cup of coffee, makes another for himself, and joins me at the table.

“Thanks,” I say. After a few minutes, I continue, “So now Alexei tells me he and Rome have been having some talks without me—which pisses me off, of course—but, setting my ego aside . . .” I sigh and pull on the ends of the towel. I’m wearing a thin cotton Indian cover-up, and the moisture from my bathing suit is starting to soak through to the chair. “I think I’m going to have to actually consider it. Especially because I know deep down if it weren’t Rome making the offer, I think I’d be pretty psyched. Our cash flow is precarious, to say the least, even though our net income is solid. Really solid.”

His eyes brighten, as if the prospect of helping actually excites him.

“So, you want to work as my M-and-A advisor on the deal?”

He looks down at his messy appearance. “Do I need to put on a suit?”

“No,” I laugh. “But . . . where do you work, anyway? You can’t seriously do all this on a laptop in front of the TV, can you?”

He smiles again. “No. Let me show you my office. Lulu calls it the Batcave.”

“Let me change into dry clothes. I’ll be right back.”

Lulu stumbles into the kitchen as I’m leaving. “Why is everyone up so early?”

“People to see, places to go,” I say lightly, giving her a kiss on the cheek as I pass.

About ten minutes later, I’m cleaned up and Trevor and Lulu are leading me to a stone building about a hundred yards from the house. It looks like it used to be the stables or something, but while the original, golden-hued stone is still intact, it’s obvious that it’s been re-tuck-pointed. Modern windows and doors have been installed. We dip our heads beneath an overgrown vine that arches over the door, where it’s beginning to blossom, and then climbs wildly along the edge of the roofline.

The first room is a huge studio overlooking the valley—Lulu’s furniture studio—and it’s amazing. I feel a thrilling rush when I see what’s behind all their supposed lollygagging. I trail my fingertips along the edge of a perfectly smooth oval dining table. “It’s so gorgeous. My gosh, Lulu. You’re so good.”

“Oh, cut it out.”

“You are,” Trevor says definitively, and Lulu looks like she wants to throw him to the floor and make love to him right then. I look away from their heated silent exchange and walk around the space, fingering a few tools and loving the smell of sawdust and shavings. There are also a few stone pieces. “What are these?”

“I’m starting to get into carving and sculpting, too. There’s an artist over in Apt who’s been helping me.”

“They’re so cool.” I let my palm rest on an egg-shaped stone that comes up about as high as my chest. There’s a perfect circle drilled into the center.

“That’s going to be a fountain, maybe. I don’t know.”

“It’s really great, whatever it is. The size and shape are so appealing.” I let my hands feel the turn of the stone. It’s incredible—solid and alive. “Wow.” I turn to her. “You’re really doing it, Lulu. I’m so happy for you.”

“Well”—she shrugs self-consciously—“we can’t all be smart like you and Margot.”

I want to cry, because I don’t feel smart in so many ways that count. I feel like I’ve been following rules my whole life, never taking any chances. Margot and I used to make fun of Lulu and how she nearly flunked out of high school and never went to college, and here she is with this beautiful creative spirit. Not to mention that she’s also got a gorgeous man who loves everything about her. Trevor certainly isn’t looking for a
whole package
. He’s looking for Lulu.

I catch my breath when all that rolls through me. “It’s really great.”

“Are you okay?” Lulu comes over and puts her hand on my shoulder. “I feel like I keep saying the wrong thing with you lately.”

“No, it’s not you. I’m just so happy for you. You’ve really made this wonderful life.”

She smiles sweetly. “It is pretty great. But your life is wonderful . . .” Her voice trails off.

“Lulu. I’m basically squatting in your guest room, and my company’s about to be taken over by a man who—” My voice cracks, and Lulu pulls me into a tight hug.

“You’re good, honey,” she whispers, holding me close and soothing me. “It’s all going to work out.”

I get ahold of my emotions and almost laugh. “Everyone keeps telling me that, but I’m not so sure.”

“It will. Just do what you love . . . and then this happens . . .” She spreads her arms wide and gestures around the studio.

“Okay. I’ll try it. What I would really love right now is to see if we can get Rome de Villiers to pay an obscene amount of money for Voyanovski Industries while still letting me run it.”

Lulu laughs. “You’re a nut, but if that’s what will make you happy, you should go for it.”

“This way,” Trevor says, continuing toward another set of doors at the far side of the studio. “You going to work, love?” he asks Lulu.

She’s already picked up a sander and is rubbing her hand along the edge of that perfectly smooth table. “Mm-hmm,” she says, barely paying attention anymore.

“She’ll be out of it for hours now,” Trevor says with a hint of pride.

“Amazing.” I look back one last time before he unlocks a door with a pretty serious-looking coded-entry system.

“Holy shit,” I whisper once the door opens. Ten large screens along the far wall flicker to life when he flips a switch near the entry.

“Welcome to my secret lair.” He walks over to one of the keyboards on the long white table that runs the length of the room and taps in a few commands. One of the screens starts scrolling through the annual report from Voyanovski Industries. “I’ve been looking at Weyerhauser’s decision to operate as a REIT, and I think what you should be considering about that . . .”