Dmitry's Royal Flush: Rise of the Queen (18 page)

"Well, I'm sure that we can accommodate you with that," Royal said, turning to her assistants. "Ladies, lets pull a few collections in black." She turned back to the stranger. "What size?"

He smiled cleverly. "She's in between a six and an eight."

Royal nodded. "Six and eight, ladies."

The women scurried around and left the two to talk. Royal gave him a curious and untrusting half smirk as she went behind the counter. Inside, she was screaming for space. He was so familiar to her, yet she was sure that she had never laid eyes on him.

"So where are you from?" She tried to calm her anxiety.

"Moscow," he answered, walking over to the counter. "And yourself?"

"So many places," she pulled out a few collections of jewelry and began strategically placing them on the counter for him to shop thorough. "You'll want a nice necklace, pair of earrings or some jewelry to accompany your dress," she said without looking up at him. "We can provide you everything you need and have it delivered to your hotel this evening before seven."

His eyes burned through her. "You sound American," his voice was low. "
Southern American
."

She looked up at him. "I would suggest platinum jewelry. It's popular this season." Her eye twitched.

Dorian bit his lip. "Pick something. I'll buy it."

"Do you have a budget?"

"No. I'm not the budget type."

Royal grabbed the most expensive set of earrings, a necklace and bracelet in the case and placed them in a box. She could feel him staring at her. She finally looked up and sighed. "Memphis," she confessed. The truth longed to break free. She felt vindicated by saying it. "I'm from Memphis, Tennessee." She stood up a little straighter.

"Home of the blues," he smiled. "It's hot as hell there."

"So you've been?"

"Yes," he nearly whispered. "A few years back." He eyed her.

"How many
years
back?"

"Almost three and a half now."

Royal cleared her throat and moved the long strands of hair falling out of her bun. "I was long gone by then." She pushed the box across the counter. "This set is very charming. Shell be pleased at your selection."

Dorian reached into his jean pocket and pulled out his wallet. He put down a black American Express card on the counter and pushed it over to her fingertips.

Royal did not speak for a minute. So many thoughts passed through her head and her heart beat at such a painfully fast pace until words would have been far too much of a struggle.

He breathed as hard as she did. His thoughts were unreadable but desperate. With his hand still on the card, he eyed her as she looked down, refusing to make eye contact.

"I'm at the Hotel Iron Gate in the Royal Suite," his thoughts lingered on after his words, but he forced himself to stop talking, afraid to say too much or the wrong thing.

"Well have it delivered tonight," she said, finally looking up as she took his card.

"Is that your beautiful daughter you sent to the back?"

"Yes," Royal said, even more worried now.

"She looks
well
." His jaw clenched.

"She is. Thank you."

Royal watched the women come out of the back with an assortment of black dresses and walk to the sitting room where he could pick through them. He looked away from her for a moment and then looked back. He wanted to say something, but what he could he say?

"My assistants are very capable. I'll leave them to help you." She walked from behind the counter and headed towards the back. "Thank you for your business."

Dorian didn't speak. He watched her until she disappeared in the back and then calmly walked over to the sitting room to pick out a dress for his fictitious fiancée.

The restaurant was only a block over from the boutique. Bundled up tightly, Royal carried Anya to see her father for their lunch date. The wind beat against them as they huddled together under large furs and rushed through the cobblestone lane to the warm welcoming Russian restaurant on the corner.

As soon as they entered, the hostesses took their coats and greeted them. Then they were escorted back to their normal table, where Dmitry had placed a large bouquet of roses for his lovely pair.

When they were seated, Dmitry came out of the kitchen with one staff member and several trays of food. One special plate had bowtie pasta and alfredo sauce for Anya.

"Hello, Mrs. And Ms. Medlov," Dmitry greeted with a bright smile. "How was your morning?"

Royal hesitated. Something about the strange man made her feel as though she should instantly tell Dmitry, but something else told her to hold her secret.

"We had a very interesting day," she finally answered.

"I wore big shoes, daddy," Anya explained. "And they had diamonds on them."

"Diamonds?"

"Big, big diamonds."

Royal smiled but was quiet.

"I know your momma sells some expensive digs over there, but I didn't know that she sold diamond shoes," Dmitry bent over and kissed Royal on the forehead.

She ran her hand through her daughters long black locks of silky hair. "It's part of the new Anya Only Collection," Royal said, trying to play the part and rid herself of the memories of the stranger.

Dmitry noticed a sort of disconnected daze on Royal's face but chose not to comment further. He was sure, when it was time, she would tell him. Instead, he served them a wonderful meal and sat down to have lunch with his family.

* * *

Dorian left the boutique soon after his meeting with Royal and quickly jumped on his motorcycle to head across town to the airports private airstrip. His heart was in the bottom of his chest after seeing that his ghost was not only still alive but also had given birth to Dmitry's daughter, a child that he swore belonged solely to Ivan. It made him wonder if the girl was his old friends.

He admonished himself and tried to focus. His planned could nearly be ruined if he allowed himself to unravel. But the woman was strikingly beautiful, so much so that he instinctively wanted her for himself. Thou shalt not covet. He heard the words in his head as he drove through the streets of Prague.

Had he forgotten himself so much that he could not remember his commandments? He held himself to a higher standard than most, hence his nickname as a holy man, yet he found himself wanting Dmitry's wife so badly until he could taste her perfume in the back of his throat.

He was certain that she did not know who he was, but what if she went back and told Dmitry about him coming into the boutique? Something in her eyes promised that she would not.

For now, he had to stick to his plan. He had a meeting with an aircraft pilot in forty minutes. The deal was that the man would receive a small fortune for simply not showing up for work on tomorrow morning, leaving his clothes and passes for another person to use.

The bomb would be placed on Dmitry's jet and detonated after it left Sochi. The plan was flawless, all accept for the possibility of Royal being on it, or even Dmitry's daughter. The possibility of a second chance from God to redeem himself from his horrid sins seemed to be clouded by revenge. He needed to pray, to figure out why things had happened as they had.

* * *

When Dorian was finished at the airport, he gave his assistant a call to follow through with things as planned. She did so swiftly. Within the hour, she had notified Anatoly about the meeting set for tomorrow night in Sochi.

Anatoly was ready. He nodded at Victoria and put down his cell phone. She sat across from him in living room on the couch wearing one of Royal's cashmere dresses. He cleared his throat and picked another cigarette up to light it.

"That was phone call we were waiting for," Anatoly confirmed. "You flight out tomorrow. I'll arrange for a first class ticket for you. Don't be late. Don't fuck up."

Victoria raised her brow. "I won't." She watched him pour another shot of vodka as he smoked his cigarettes. His blue eyes squinted as inhaled the nicotine. "What's next? After this, what I am supposed to do?"

"You go to Memphis with me. I told you." His voice was a growl.

Victoria rolled her eyes and grabbed the back of her neck to massage her aching muscles. Her dark, thick hair fell over on her arm, catching Anatoly's eye.

He looked over at her and put down his glass. There was an inquisitive look on his chiseled face. He clenched his jaw and tilted his head, puzzled by the woman.

"What?" she asked, realizing he was eyeing her.

"Why are you the way that you are?"

Victoria frowned. "What
way
am I?"

Anatoly took another drag from his cigarette. "Twisted. Damaged."

She bit her lip. "I don't know. Why are you the way that you are?"

"I think it's genetic. It could be inferiority complex. Mostly, it's just because I like money."

"So you admit that you're fucked up?"

"Yeah," he said quickly.

"And you like woman who are?"

Anatoly nodded. "I
think
I do." He was sincere. "I feel like most good women are too good for me and most of the others are out to get something."

"Well, at least you're honest," she said, scratching her head. She sat up straight and crossed her legs as he waited for his answer. They were silent for a moment. He watched her go through the motions before she finally spoke.

"My father never gave me the attention that I wanted. My mother never thought that anything I did was good enough," she smirked. "I know it sounds beyond elementary, but being twisted, as you call it, was a release for me. I mean, I went to top schools, got great grades, had a fucking five year plan from hell," she laughed and sighed. "But it just wasn't good enough."

"According to them?" he asked.

"Yeah, I originally started to travel abroad and take care of kids to get away, but then I saw that there was a hell of a lot of money involved in men who had fallen for the help and wanted to make it all go away after they had played for awhile and gotten bored."

"My fathers no saint, but he would never cheat on his wife."

"I know," she laughed. "Boy, do I know." She cringed. "They're a really weird couple."

"Tell me about it," he said, shaking his head. "So, you got back at papa by sleeping with his friends and bleeding them dry."

"Basically."

"Hey, it is five year plan too," he said, offering her a glass of vodka.

"Like you said, I'm
twisted
."

She stood up and walked across the room to him to take the glass. He clenched it in his hand and looked up at her.

"What do you do about real relationships if you're always making them up?"

"I don't believe in real relationships." She looked him in his eyes. "They don't last."

"Sounds like your hearts been broken."

"Crushed." She took the glass. "I take it your heart hasn't."

"No. Never had that problem."

"Well good for you." She gulped down the vodka and looked away with her hands on her hips. "I'm sure that just because your heart hasn't been broken, it doesn't mean that you haven't broken a few."

Anatoly thought about Brigitte—the last name on his long list of victims.

"What was his name?" Anatoly asked, still looking up at her. He preferred for the conversation to never focus on him. It kept him from feeling guilty or feeling anything.

"It isn't important." She turned and looked at him. "Do you mind if I pack some of your stepmothers things for tomorrow. You never did let me go back to my hotel to pick up my own stuff."

"I forgot about that. I'll send for them, but for now,
Da
, just pack whatever is in there."

"It's not like my stuff is better than hers, really. It's like a freaking runway fashion show in her closet," Victoria explained. She turned to walk away and stopped at the doorway. Anatoly was still sitting, brooding over something quietly. "Do you mind if I have one more drink?"

"No," Anatoly pulled the corked top off the vodka and reached out for her glass.

She walked back over directly in front of him and gave him her glass. She was much closer this time. He felt her skin against his.

Anatoly poured the vodka. The sound of the potent contents ran smoothly into the shot glass in the silence of the room. He set the bottle down then sat back in the chair. She was still standing in front of him, in between his open legs. He controlled his breathing, but he could feel the familiar heat rising at his collar.

She finished the shot and set it down on the table beside them. Then, slowly, she leaned in. He watched her closely as she snaked into him.

"What's one night, right?" she said, moving into his body to kiss him.

Anatoly felt her body lean against his. The contact made him grunt a little. Her slim long temple was warm to the touch.

"Don't… "Anatoly finally objected, turning his neck away from her soft lips. He could feel her breath on his skin.

"Why? It doesn't mean anything." She inhaled his cologne and kissed his cheek.

"That's exactly why," he explained. His minty breath tickled her nose.

She looked at him in his memorizing blue eyes. They were face-to-face now, and she could see that behind the tough exterior there was a young man who actually wanted to be loved.

She bit her lip and sighed. "People lie, you know." She hoped he read her thoughts. I do care, she whispered in her mind, but she would never say so aloud.

"All the time," he whispered.

She could feel his hot breath on her skin but he did not move towards her. Finally, she planted her hand against the chair to push herself up, embarrassed at her feeble attempt to persuade him. Refused by both father and son—what a loser, she thought.

His strong hand grasped her waist. Anatoly looked up at her and pulled her back down on his body. He slipped his free hand behind her head and pulled her mouth to his lips.

The hunger in his kiss startled her. It wasn't slow and sweet like Dmitry's. It was full of fire and vigor, bruising her lips, sucking her tongue, tasting the inside of her fleshy orifice.