“Kors. Chilled,” Ronan replied for both of us.

“I’ll just have water, please,” I countered.

The attendant didn’t pause as he rushed off to do Ronan’s bidding. Alone again, Ronan cast me a dry look.

“You are in Russia, kotyonok.”

And that was the end of that.

I accepted a tumbler of clear liquid knowing it wasn’t water. At home, I only drank the occasional glass of champagne besides a single drunken incident with a bottle of UV Blue and 7UP.

It took one night on a yacht that bobbed in the water and a smug dare to know alcohol and Mila Mikhailova didn’t mix. I’d stripped out of the modest swimsuit Papa had approved of before the party and then dove off the bow of the boat into open water, masculine cheers swallowed by the waves of the Atlantic. Ivan ended up carrying me home, grumbling about how heavy I was the whole way, and once there, the severe, quiet reprimand I received from my papa killed my buzz on impact.

I swirled the liquid with a frown, my father’s rebuke somehow still haunting me, even though, in his eyes, hopping on a plane to Moscow was much worse than skinny-dipping.

“You’re the first woman I’ve seen frown at a ten-thousand-dollar glass of vodka.”

My lips parted in shock, and I glanced at Ronan to see a lazy light in his eyes. He’d apparently learned I’d be horrified to know—let alone drink—something he bought me that cost so much. This was his payback for my picking out a cheap coat.

I stared at him in realization.

He stared back.

“Do you always get what you want?” I asked boldly.

His response was a clink of his tumbler against mine. “Na zdorovie.” Cheers.

I wasn’t going to win this one, but I didn’t want to torture myself by nursing the glass of pure liquor either. I tossed it back in one go.

Keeping his eyes on the stage, Ronan chuckled softly while I coughed and choked at the burn in my throat.

With the liquor settling like fire in my stomach, something magical electrified the air and swept over the hush of the crowd as the curtains opened and the performance began.

The opera was called The Queen of Spades. Since it was in Russian and my brain-to-mouth filter was impaired by two fingers of million-proof liquor, I asked a lot of questions. Ronan didn’t seem to mind, often translating what happened after a sip of vodka he savored on his tongue in such an impassive way it made it look like water.

“I’ll be disappointed if they don’t all die,” I announced to the mess onstage.

A corner of his mouth quirked. “I thought you would be the kind of girl to hope for a happily ever after.”

My happily ever after came on the lips of a mad fortune-teller, and sadly, I gave up on fairy tales and superstition long ago. Eyes settling on the stage, I pulled my star pendant back and forth, the heated lull of vodka in my belly softening my words. “I believe in happily-for-nows. They’re . . . real. Unique.” Dropping my necklace, I glanced at him, warmth and lightness pervading every cell in me. “I like unique.”

I sat in a red velvet chair in the heart of Moscow, holding this man’s stare through the vibrations of an opera singer’s soprano, buzzed on vodka and fascination, and it was the best happily-for-now I’d ever experienced.

The longer we stared at each other, the faster the intoxication spread through my bloodstream. Eyes half-lidded on his, I rested my head on the back of my chair.

“I’m thirsty.”

“You’re drunk.” It was practically an accusation.

Laughing softly, I said, “You made me drink it.”

“I didn’t know you would down it like a fraternity pledge.”

I smiled at the visual coming from his lips. “You can’t have everything your way.”

The expression he cast me said he absolutely could, and the dry, authoritative spark only stole the remaining wetness from my mouth.

“So thirsty,” I echoed with a soft, languid lilt.

He stared at me for a moment, thoughtfully and with something darker than a cloudy night, then he handed me his glass, which was already refilled. I thought he might snap his fingers and a Perrier would appear on a silver tray, but I wasn’t going to complain about sharing with him. I took a sip of vodka that didn’t burn as hot as his eyes. After returning it to him, I pulled my attention back to the stage to silently watch and listen to Liza’s hypnotic voice.

I was either drunker than I thought, or Liza kept glancing my way between her lines. She was gorgeous, with long black hair and exotic looks. It took a moment to realize she wasn’t looking at me but at Ronan.

basorexia

(n.) the overwhelming desire to kiss

During the intermission, one of the theater attendants slipped a piece of paper into Ronan’s hand. He read it and then put it into his pocket. Call it intuition, but I knew Liza wrote the note.

As the curtains closed and the lights came back on, we headed down the hall to the exit, but something drew me to a stop. A portrait on the wall in a gaudy gold frame. My mother’s hair was in an elegant updo, her eyes sparkling with an animate light. Ronan waited behind me, and if he noticed the uncanny resemblance, he didn’t say anything.

I swallowed and followed him out of the theater.

My mother performed here. Now I knew for sure, maybe I could come back and question some of the employees tomorrow. Someone had to know if she had family and where I could find them.

Having beat most of the crowd outside, we passed the old-fashioned ticket booth, where my attention caught on an elderly woman sitting on the ground wrapped in a thin, tattered blanket. Her eyes were full of crazy, and, as they held mine, her throaty, terrified whisper reached my ears.

“D’yavol.”

The hair on the back of my neck rose, my breath a ragged puff of vapor. I stopped and turned to look over my shoulder as if a red-horned devil would be standing behind me, but Ronan grabbed my arm.

“You’re holding up the line, kotyonok.”

“Sorry,” I muttered.

That couldn’t be what she said, could it? Did a concussion make you hallucinate?

We reached the car, but I hesitated. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

Turning around, I fought against the crowd back to the ticket booth. When the old woman saw me coming, her eyes widened with fear. She started to get up, but I tried to reassure her.

“Nyet . . . druz’ya.”

I thought I said “friends,” but she looked at me like I just told her we were uncles, which was annoyingly possible. I crouched in my heels and fur coat in front of her, took some rubles from my clutch, and offered them out. I wished I could give her all of my money, but I knew if I pulled cash from an ATM, Ivan would find me and force me home. I wasn’t ready to go yet.

The woman eyed the rubles warily for a moment, but then, as if she thought they might disappear, she snatched them from my hand. Her hands were red and raw, and with a gust of wind, a shiver wracked her. I chewed my lip in contemplation.

Oh, screw it.

I took the coat off and settled it on her shoulders. It swallowed her small frame. I didn’t know how Ronan would feel about me giving a crazy homeless woman a luxury coat he just gifted me, but my conscience wouldn’t let me sleep in a warm bed tonight while she was out here cold.