The Master (22 page)

“Not today!”

“Why?”

“I need to think.”

“Then I’ll have to coax your affection myself?” He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine so tenderly, kissing me and kissing me and kissing me . . . until I was docile in
his hands. He soaped my body, bathing me, exploring. Every touch was its own seduction.

Why was he bothering to seduce me? I was here at his “disposal.” What was his game now?

Soon I was trembling for it again.

He lifted me. “Wrap your legs around me.” With a forearm under my ass and an arm looped around my shoulders, he worked me on his cock.

When we came, with our foreheads together as we shared breaths, I wondered,
Why fight this . . . ?

Once we’d dressed, an extravagant breakfast spread awaited us on the pool deck. He’d ordered in advance, what looked like every item on the menu.

“To discover which are your favorites,” he explained.

When he smiled at me, I realized he was responding to my own grin. Dick.
Why fight?

Yet then his phone rang. Sevastyan answered with a resigned exhalation. Soon his expression darkened. Must be Dmitri.

I got the impression that Máxim had lost himself for a while this morning, and now was being harshly reminded of . . . something.

He looked increasingly angry—
at me
, as if I was the one who’d distracted him, from whatever it was he should never forget.

I
sat on the couch, reading as a breeze fluttered the curtains and teased the curls around my face. I’d noticed that Sevastyan
preferred the doors and windows open whenever possible, so I’d opened the line of them facing the pool.

Since that phone call, he’d been distant, his mood clearly depressed.

All morning, he and I had passed each other, gravitating toward one another, yet saying nothing. He’d read this same business journal by the pool while I was swimming. Or he’d
appeared
to. In reality, he’d been very interested in my bathing suit—a white one-piece woven from thin strips of material. His fascinated gaze had followed the webbing as it
moved with my body.

Now he sat on the other couch with a newspaper open, but he didn’t read it. His ocean-blue eyes were grave as he stared out at the matching water. What was he mulling over?

I could swear he struggled with a decision.

He checked his phone, texted something, then abruptly stood. He looked at me, parting his lips. Thinking better of whatever he was about to say, he turned toward the door. “Vasili will be
outside.” Then he left me.

Qué?
I was going to be alone on Christmas Eve? Yet another miserable, lonely one.

If he was teeing me up for a crash, I should at least get the benefit of company today.

For the last three holidays, I’d been undergoing the hard task of rebooting. The Christmas before those, Edward had left me to go on an “unexpected business trip.” Probably a
vacation with Julia that I’d unwittingly funded.

I thought back to the last Christmas I’d enjoyed. I’d cooked with
mi madre
, a traditional
Nochebuena
dinner.

Maybe I should cook today? I rose and strolled to the kitchen, checking pots, pans, and equipment. There were four convection ovens, warming drawers, two microwaves, and a steam oven—all
brand-new and hi-tech.

I hadn’t been in a fully functioning kitchen in ages—had never been in one as modern as this—and I missed cooking. I could order ingredients through Alonzo.

Preparing a meal would relax me, setting my mind right. That was the only reason I would do it. Not because I wanted to show off for Sevastyan.

He probably wouldn’t even return until late. I’d known he would want to spend the holidays with someone other than me!

His loss. I’d treat Vasili and his battalion of bodyguards to thank them for their protection.

I called Alonzo, listing all the ingredients and equipment I needed asap, everything from mint sprigs to a rolling pin, from food processors to meat thermometers.

An hour later, when several attendants arrived with bags and boxes, Vasili furrowed his bald head at me again.

I shrugged. Turning the surround sound to a Havana station, I tied on my new apron.

To bad weather, good face.

I fried bacon, peeled sweet potatoes, and simmered brown sugar with anise seeds. I toasted almonds. I rolled dough and cut circles for crab
croquetas.
I chopped mint for mojitos. The
entire floor smelled incredible.

I was singing “
Fuentecilla Que Corres
” as I put a spiced pork roast into the oven.

“What’s this?” Sevastyan asked, making me jump.

I almost dropped the roast, one of three I was cooking. “A Cuban Christmas dinner.” He’d returned!

“What’s on the menu?”

“
Lechón asados,
pork roasts drenched in
mojo; langostinos con salsa rosa,
prawns with pink sauce;
arroz congri,
beans and rice;
tostones,
fried sweet
plantains; and crab
croquetas
. For dessert, I’m making
buñuelos,
fried sweet dough;
turrón de Navidad,
nougat almond candies; and
boniatillo,
sweet
potato pudding.”

He smirked. “So now you’ll cook to get back into my good graces?”

I pressed my fingers to my chest. “I’m sorry; did you think any of this was for you?”

“You’re preparing enough for an army.”

“
Tengo mucha hambre. Es todo para mí.
”

“You’re very hungry? And it’s all for you?”

While he was picking up Spanish at lightning speed, the only Russian I knew was
blyad´, prostitutka, dushen’ka,
and
kotyonok.
“All for me. You couldn’t
handle my food. Dessert alone would make you have an orgasm
espontánea.
” To taunt him, I sampled a flaky
croqueta
I’d just fried up.

Before I could stop him, he’d snagged one, taking a bite. His lids went heavy, and he chewed slowly. “I’ll expect dinner at seven. Do not be late.”
Croqueta
in
hand, he turned to go.

Ordering me? “
Pendejo!
” I tossed a handful of toasted almonds at the back of his head.

He paused, then continued on.

With a roll of my eyes, I got back to work. Though I kept the music going and I sang as I cooked (with a voice that no one would write home about), Sevastyan remained near the kitchen all
afternoon, even when talking on the phone and reading business proposals.

Over the day, he relaxed by degrees. A time or two, I caught him doing nothing but staring at sailboats. His piercing gaze had been at ease, his complicated mind lost to daydreams.

In contrast, I grew nervous, as if I had a date later—when in fact, he’d simply commanded dinner. At six, he’d headed to the master bedroom without a word.

I’d finished everything, stowing dishes in the warming drawers, and I’d even packed heavy boxes for Vasili and his guys. When I called the man inside for pickup, he’d eyed my
offering warily.

Speaking slowly, I assured Vasili, “This food is one hundred percent not drugged because I couldn’t find any drugs.”

He grated, “
Spasiba.
Thank you.”

One more word in my Russian lexicon. “There are written instructions inside. If you put pink sauce on anything other than prawns, I will kick your Russian ass,
comprendes
?”

He exhaled, grudgingly saying, “Christmas no good for boss.”

“What does that mean?”

“Boss want keep you. Okay. You keeped. Now fix Christmas.”

That’s all he would say.

F
ix Christmas?
In the shower, I mulled over that curious exchange. Some people hated the holidays. I should.

This would explain why Sevastyan’s mood had been deteriorating. When I’d brought up the subject of Christmas, he’d snapped,
Do not remind me!

The idea of him in pain bothered me.
Really
bothered me.

Because I was an idiot.

He’d told me he would keep me till he could shake what he felt for me; while he worked to recover from his interest, Catarina was sinking deeper into infatuation.

Why else would I take pains with my appearance? After my shower, I donned a strapless red dress, along with the only jewelry I had: my earrings and arm cuff from my first night here. I wore my
hair up in a loose knot and applied eye makeup and lip gloss.

Feeling silly for taking the trouble, I frowned into the mirror. This was just a meal between a mobster and his prisoner (one he considered to be a lying
prostitutka
).

Still, I got to the dining room early, lighting the many candles inside and the torchlights on the adjoining balcony. I carted dishes to the table, then opened the room’s doors and windows
for Sevastyan—allowing in the sound of waves.

When he joined me, I smiled to see he’d worn slacks and a blazer, dressing up as well. That meant a lot. I told him, “I’ve decided to share some of my food with you, because I
didn’t get you anything else. I was debating a tall, blond blow-up doll—or a goldfish.”

“I have a closet full of blond blow-up dolls, and goldfish travel poorly on airplanes. Dinner was a wise choice.”

I grinned. “Mojito or wine,
Ruso
?”

“Vodka.”

“Not on your life. Obey my playground rules, or take your balls elsewhere.”

Raised brow. “Mojito.”

I poured him one. When he sampled my concoction, I could tell he liked it. We sat, and I served him from the many dishes, detailing the main ingredients in each.

With his first bite of roast, he seemed to be stifling his reaction. “And on top of everything else, you can cook. Did you learn only from home, or did you have schooling too?”

“Only home.”

He ate everything on his plate, so I served him seconds. But when he pushed his plate to me for thirds, I said, “There’s a lot of dessert.”

His first taste of
turrón
made him groan. Once he’d eaten that and a helping of pudding and two
buñuelos,
he said, “I didn’t come spontaneously, but
it was touch and go for a while.”

I laughed over the rim of my mojito.

“You could be a chef,” he said.

“That would be exciting. But I think I’d prefer your job as mogul, so I could dominate the world.”

“You think you could handle my job?”

“I think you’d be surprised.”

He rose, crossing to the sideboard. “I doubt that. I know how smart you are.” He returned to his seat with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. “Cuban dinner, Russian after
drinks.” He poured.

Oh boy.

“
Za zdoroviye,
” he said. “To your health.”

“
Salud.
” I drank my glass, coughing.

As he poured for us again, he asked, “Whose meal did I enjoy?”

“Pardon?”

“You would’ve cooked this for friends or family over the holidays. Maybe the lover I took you from.” He shot his glass.

“The kitchen inspired me.” I drank mine, with another wince.

“What’s so remarkable about it?”

“The appliances.” They worked. Also, the pots weren’t dedicated to flood prevention. “Why are you so convinced there’s someone else?”

“You respond to two things: money and pleasure. I give you both, yet you hold yourself back.”

I frowned. “There’s got to be more than that.”

“Why
wouldn’t
you have a partner? If you didn’t choose a man from outside your work, then one of your clients would have snapped you up.”

“You sound so certain.”

“When you fuck your clients”—that muscle ticked in his jaw—“you . . . affect them. But you would have me believe that not one has kept you?” He poured another
round. “I see you, hear you, smell you,
feel
you. You should be haunted by men.”

I almost gave a bitter laugh. If only he knew.

Edward had been on my mind more and more. Though he’d acted the gentleman, never using bad language, never raising his voice, he’d been eager to murder me. Now that he’d nursed
his rage for years, what would he do?

Sometimes I swore I had an animal sense that he was closing in—

“You’re doing it even now!” Sevastyan slammed down his glass. “Your eyes go distant whenever you think of him! That drives me insane!”

“I am in no way thinking about a lover.”

“Why should I believe that, or anything you say?” He poured more vodka.

“I suppose you shouldn’t. You have no reason to believe me.”

“Are you being sarcastic? Ridiculing my inability to trust? I didn’t simply wake up one day and decide to be like this. The last time I trusted someone’s word, I was cursed to
pay for the rest of my life.”

“What does that mean?” How had he paid?

Silence.

How exactly did Vasili expect me to “fix Christmas” when Sevastyan wouldn’t talk to me? “Fine. Forget it.” I rose to clear the table.

“And you clean as well?” His tone was half-cutting, as if he intended to be rude but didn’t quite commit.

“Oh, I’m a real
pro
at cleaning.” When I’d finished with the dishes and had stored a mountain of leftovers, I returned.