Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways)

Present

The days felt shorter after that evening at the pool. Much shorter than their twenty-four hours. The morning after I let Arya win, Judge Lopez summoned me and Conrad’s attorneys to discuss the close of evidence. In my estimation, that put us at about a week till this whole thing wrapped up. The jury, I was positive, was going to take no longer than a couple of days to come up with the verdict.

That night, Arya couldn’t see me. She had dinner plans with a client, and at any rate, she explained, Jillian didn’t know the full scope of our relationship. Or lack of. It shouldn’t have bothered me. That Arya was keeping this from Jillian. I mean—wasn’t that the whole goddamn point?

But it did niggle at me. The end was nearing. And nailing Conrad didn’t feel as important as being able to enjoy his daughter.

The following evening, Arya couldn’t see me. Again. This time due to Jillian feeling unwell.

“I think I’m going to make her chicken-noodle soup and watch Friends reruns with her,” Arya sighed to me on the phone. I smiled and took it. What else could I do? I had no right to demand her time, her resources, her attention. We’d agreed it would be casual, and casual meant low to nonexistent expectations.

On the third day—four days before the end of the trial—Arya texted that her parents wanted to see her, and she didn’t know how long they would meet for, so it was best not to make any plans together. At this point, I was sure she was avoiding me. I left court during a brief break, hailed a taxi to my apartment, banged open the loose parquet under my bed, and took out her book. I took a picture of it in my hand and sent it to her.

Christian: Enough is enough, Arya. See me tonight and no one gets hurt.

Arya: So you are not above extortion.

I’m not above anything when it comes to you.

Christian: We had a deal.

Arya: I don’t remember signing any paperwork.

I waltzed back over to my front door; I needed to be in court in twenty minutes. In fact, it was time for me to personally cross-examine one of Conrad’s witnesses. Now was not the time to chase skirts.

Christian: What happened?

Arya: I just don’t see the point in spending every evening of the week with you when it’s going to be over in a few days, anyway.

Christian: Let’s talk.

I used the time it took her to answer to call an Uber. Just in case, I texted Claire to make up a good excuse in case I was going to run late. Judge Lopez was a ballbuster, even if he did like my golf moves.

Arya: What about?

The weather. What did she think?

Christian: I’ll come to your place at six tonight.

Arya: No. Jillian can’t see you.

Again with this bullshit. I didn’t have the heart to tell her Riggs and Arsène were pretty much in the know about every orgasm we had shared between the sheets—or in my kitchen, my shower, my Jacuzzi, or her reading nook—since we’d started hooking up. I was tired of being a secret, even if I was the very asshole who had suggested it in the first place.

And for a good reason too.

Christian: I take it you don’t want your book back.

Arya: I’ll sue you.

Christian: I know a good lawyer.

Arya: There’s a special place in hell reserved for people like you.

Christian: Heard lawyers get lava-view condos. Be nice and I just might let you room with me in the afterlife. When can I expect you?

Arya: Seven.

Christian: Don’t be late.

But of course she was.

Late, that was.

Arya arrived at 7:23, not a trace of regret or embarrassment in her stony face. As I buzzed her up, I had to remind myself that she had every reason to want to cut ties with me. I was the painful reminder of everything she’d lost.

She walked in, tossing her bag onto the black leather couch, ignoring the dinner for two I’d made, which was sitting in the breakfast nook, getting cold.

“You wanted to talk?” She didn’t bother toeing off her Jimmy Choos, which was suspect, since that was the first thing Arya did when she walked into my apartment after a long day.

“I made dinner.” I headed over to the kitchen and grabbed two glasses of merlot. I handed her one. She hesitated before taking it. Staying long wasn’t in her plans.

“You did.” Her eyes traveled over my shoulder. “Sorry I was late. I had a call with a client in California. They were in no hurry to hang up.”

“Not a problem. Cold steak has always been my favorite. Mind taking it to the kitchen?”

I suppose this was my version of eating humble pie. I didn’t like the taste of it at all. I’d never chased a woman in my life and wasn’t planning to make an exception for Arya, but I couldn’t accept the idea that this was going to be over in four days. I needed more time. A few more months of an illicit affair weren’t going to kill anyone. Other than, perhaps, my remaining working brain cells. I wasn’t in the business of thinking straight whenever I was with this woman.

“You know what? I’d rather do this here, if you don’t mind.” She settled on the armrest of my black leather couch, cross-legged, holding her glass from the stem. I wanted to strangle myself for getting into this situation. All of this could have been prevented if I’d resisted the urge to meet Amanda Gispen.

Or if I’d simply passed the case along to someone who didn’t have a hard-on for the Roths.

Or if I hadn’t bet Arya, pushing an already defiant woman to the edge.

Or if I hadn’t seduced her.

Or if she hadn’t seduced me.

Or if I had simply told her the truth. That I, Nicholai Ivanov, was alive, (mostly) well, and (infuriatingly) obsessed with getting into her pencil skirt.

But I didn’t think Nicholai deserved a girl like Arya, let alone the woman she’d become.

“We’re leaving,” I said, standing up abruptly. Arya followed me with her eyes, a little confused. It came back to me now. Teenage Arya. Small and brazen and fiercely independent. All she’d ever wanted was to be seen. And I’d put her through hell. First her father’s trial, which still hadn’t come to an end, then all these games. The wagers. The rules. She wanted to walk out of this with the remainder of her pride. My only chance to stop her was to give up my own vanity.

“Where to?” She leaned to put her wineglass on my coffee table.

“It’s a surprise.” I grabbed my jacket. It was clear to me where I was taking her. Only one place would do. I texted Traurig while we took the elevator down. Traurig had a limo and a personal driver on call twenty-four seven. These days his teenybopper daughter and her Belieber friends were the main users of this unpopular luxury, but he owed me a favor or six.

Then I remembered Traurig was on vacation in Hawaii. I texted Claire, who was working extra hard on making herself his favorite associate by moonlighting as his personal assistant whenever he was away, and asked for the limo. Claire promptly texted back that it was on its way.

Fun night planned? she added, right before I shoved my phone back into my pocket. Can I join?

Thank you, Miss Lesavoy.

That doesn’t answer my question, she texted back. It should’ve, though.

Sorry. Private occasion.

“Will it take long?” Arya slipped into her own jacket, still looking like a hostage at gunpoint.

I shook my head. “I want to show you something.”

When the black limo arrived, I opened the door for her.

“A bit dated, but usually works like a charm,” I said, remembering Arya’s promise to me two decades ago, that she would send me a limo to the premiere of her movie when she became a big movie star.

She slid inside, turned around, and gave me a wild look that said Busted. Had she finally connected the dots?

“What did you say?” she asked slowly.

“I said limos are dated. Why?” I gave her a meaningful stare.

Call me out. Tell me you know who I am. Break things off. I’m ready.

But Arya just bit her lower lip, looking lost in thought. “Never mind.”

Darrin, Traurig’s driver, caught my gaze through the rearview mirror.

“Mr. Miller.” He jerked his head in greeting. “Good to see you again. Where to?”

“The usual,” I instructed, flipping a button, making the privacy screen rise up between us so Arya and I could talk.

Arya didn’t ask where my usual place might be. She just stared out the window, arms crossed over her chest. The air was stuffy and dense inside the limo. I could taste the impending disaster, the loss, the cataclysm.

“This doesn’t have to end in four days’ time,” I said finally, feeling . . . what was the word for the atrocious storm brewing in my chest? Defenseless, maybe. It was a shitty feeling. I’d avoided it since graduating from Andrew Dexter Academy.

“And what would be the point of that?” Arya’s head tilted as she took me in for the first time tonight. “We won’t be able to go out in public—”

“Not necessarily,” I gritted out, stopping her midsentence. “We might. At some point. In a year, maybe two. We’ll need to let the media storm from the trial subside first. But there are ways. There is no law against us having a relationship.”

Arya let out a wry laugh. “Oh, and then what? I’ll bring you over to dinner with my parents?”

“You’re not close with your parents,” I pointed out.

“My father, especially—”

“He is out of the picture.” I sliced through her words again, a smile beginning to tug at my lips. “You couldn’t care less what he thinks. Neither could I.”

This felt eerily like standing in court, only without a judge running the show. I’d almost forgotten how persuasive I could be. “Please, carry on; what other imaginary obstacles do we have to overcome?”

“Well.” Arya huffed, and in that moment, she reminded me of Beatrice. Cool and dismissive. “I don’t know anything about you. Not really. You’ve been careful to keep me in the dark.”

“I’m changing that right now. We’re going to my secret place.” I chanced lacing my fingers through hers between us. She let me.

Her frown melted. “Sounds like the place where you hide all the bodies.”

“Not at all.” My thumb brushed the inside of her palm. “That’d be my second secret place, and I would never take you there before cutting you to pieces.”

She grinned sheepishly. “How many victims have you had so far?”

“Zero,” I admitted, realizing we were not talking about chopped bodies anymore. “No one’s ever felt worthy of . . .” Saving. “Killing.”

“And now?” she asked.

“And now,” I said, looking deep into her eyes, “now I’m not so sure what I’m feeling.”

I sat back, pleased. A few minutes later, we arrived at our destination, and I told Darrin to wait.

“Close your eyes,” I asked Arya.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Please don’t bother. If it’s New York—I’ve already seen it. There’ll be no element of surprise.”

“Humor me, then.” I smiled, getting a quick and overly optimistic glimpse of what living with this woman might entail. The sass, the stubbornness, the spine. She was going to be the death of me.

Arya screwed her mouth sideways. “All right.”

She closed her eyes. When I was sure she wasn’t peeking, I slid out of the limo and took her by the hand. She shifted a little as I led her the few short steps to our final destination. She could probably tell, by the background noise, that we were still in Midtown.

“Open them,” I said.

Arya blinked, looking around her. I stepped beside her.

“This is my favorite place in New York City,” I said. “This glass waterfall tunnel. It makes you feel like you’re actually inside a waterfall. It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. And it’s right in the middle of the Big Apple.”

The water cascaded around us through the glass. Arya’s face betrayed nothing. She turned to face me. “When did you start coming here?”

“As soon as I moved back from Boston to New York.”

I’d only had Arsène and Riggs in my life. Arsène had rented a three-bedroom converted apartment in Midtown and let me live rent-free while I’d made a name for myself at the DA’s office. I’d had no money to my name and lived off my friends’ leftovers for a few months. But even at my lowest, when I couldn’t even afford a gym membership, I would come here.

“You love water.” Arya eyed me curiously, as if unearthing something precious, an archaeologist brushing the dust off a mummy. I wondered if she’d finally recognize me. “Christian?”

“Yes?”

“Are you hiding something from me?”

“I’m hiding your book from you,” I said, not missing a beat. Not technically a lie, but not the whole truth either.

“I feel like there’s more than that. You would tell me if you were . . .”

She didn’t complete the sentence. Neither of us spoke for a moment. Arya was the first to take a step forward. She pressed her hand to my chest.

“I’ve been burned in the past. I don’t know if you understand what you are offering me, but my confidence in other people—especially men—is shredded right now. My sibling, my twin, my blood, died before I could ever know him. The first boy I loved ran away, then died. The man who was supposed to protect me, my father, has lied to me my entire life. In between there were others. Men, boys, guys. It always ended on a bad note. If I let you in, you have to promise not to take advantage. To be completely honest and true, as I intend to be with you. This is the only way this could work. Because in four days’ time, my world will be turned upside down, and I’ll need stability. Poise.”

I’d died? That was fucking news to me. Only not really, because I wouldn’t put it past Conrad to say anything that would make his daughter stop talking about me.

Ah. But that means that she did talk about you.

I clasped my hand over hers, using my free hand to produce something from my pocket.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” I lied, knowing damn well I was not fulfilling my end of the bargain. That I wasn’t true. I would tell her who I was. But not now. Not yet. Not like this. When I was so close to losing her. And I couldn’t lose her.

Because deep down, I knew, Nicky was still there, scared of being rejected by the golden girl sitting at the piano, back ramrod straight, sneaking smiles at him when no one was looking.

I pried her hand open from my chest and pressed something into it. My apartment key. It was the closest thing she was going to get to my heart.

“I’ll hold you when you fall.”

She smiled, and my heart broke a little, because I knew in that moment that I was destined to lose her.

“I believe you.”