Wicked Like a Wildfire (Hibiscus Daughter #1)(40)

After we finished, we sat with our feet propped up against the restaurant’s ivy-twined railing, sipping the last of the wine and watching the night sky. The day’s heat had broken into a rainless thunderstorm, and the dense bank of clouds had gathered low above the inlet, flickering and bursting with bright bolts of jagged lightning, like a Polaroid negative of a daytime sky. I thought of Peter Pan, of celestial pirate ships dueling between clouds. The salty, ozone-laden wind blew into our faces, carrying with it that soapy scent of pine sap that was always strongest in summer.

Despite the storm, the restaurant was doing a lively business. A live band had struck up, covering classic, older hits from bands like Bijelo Dugme, Merlin, Hari Mata Hari. Luka eventually stood and held out a hand to Malina, bowing extravagantly in front of her. Giggling, she stood a little shakily and stepped into his arms. He led her through a loose, improvised waltz, his steps sure and hips swaying just slightly.

“Where did he learn how to dance like that?” I asked Niko, who was smiling a bit as she watched them, one corner of her mouth turned up.

“Mama and Tata used to take dance classes together. They were amazing—they could do anything from this silly tango to a ballroom waltz. They’d dance sometimes when the bands played at the cafés on the riva. Luka and I loved watching them. Tata so fair and tall, Mama gorgeous and dark and little.”

“Like you,” I said.

She smiled again, faintly, acknowledging the compliment. “She taught me all of them, and her Romany dances too. Sometimes—near the end—I used to dance with her, just a little, very slowly. It reminded her of her compania. They wouldn’t acknowledge her anymore, after she married a gadje. But she was happy with us. She was.”

“You must miss her so much,” I said. “She was so wonderful, so warm. We used to talk about it, Lina and I, sometimes. What it would have been like to have her as a mother, instead of ours.”

“And me as a sister?” she teased. “Not ideal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know.” She waved her hand vaguely. “You’ve seen me and Luka tear into each other, and you and I butt heads plenty even without being blood. There you are,” she said to Lina as Luka led her back to our table, her cheeks still flushed. I felt a surprising needle-stab of jealousy slide between my ribs. “I was just telling Iris how Mama and I used to dance, while you played us a sevdalinka on the guitar and sang for her.”

“I didn’t know you sang, Luka,” I said. I loved sevdalinke, too. They were my favorite kind of folk music, love songs that tasted like Turkish delights, slowly and sweetly strummed in a minor key that seemed to resonate in your own heart’s valves. “I thought you only played.”

“Of course I sing, Riss,” he said as Niko stood and twirled Lina back onto the dance floor, Lina laughing as she tucked a damp curl behind her ear. “You know what they say about Roma.”

The band drifted into “Emina,” a haunting Hari Mata Hari song about the forbidden love between a Bosnian Christian and his Muslim beauty. Luka spread his arms open for me. I stood unsteadily, moving toward him as if through molasses.

“Actually, I don’t think I do,” I said into his shoulder as he took my hand and began gently guiding me back and forth. Dimly, I realized that I’d never really been close to him like this before, my breasts against his chest, his hand like an ember at the small of my back.”

I could feel him smile. “When you take a Roma’s wife, they say, he laughs. And when you take his horse, he cries.” He shifted against me, dropping his head so we were cheek to cheek, his hand sliding gently up my back as he whispered into my ear. “But when you take a Roma’s song, he dies.”

An electric warmth swept through me, like I’d swallowed one of the lightning bolts that still flickered above the water. This was Luka, I reminded myself sternly. My best friend, and likely owner of an entire harem of Belgrade girls with high heels, full lips, and shining hair.

“Lina’s the song,” I whispered. “Not me. So I don’t know about this metaphor.”

He snorted quietly. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

I tried to slide my hand free of his. He wouldn’t let me go.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he murmured, swaying me back and forth. A few feet away from us, Niko was turning in a slow, sensual circle, her hips flicking beneath the tight band of her beaded skirt with each step. Lina was clapping the beat for her, cheeks flushed, one foot tapping in time. All the eyes in the restaurant were on them.

“Tell you what?”

“About the gleam. Lina told Niko. Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

His closeness was making my head swim. “Because I . . . because . . .”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything. I would still have—”

I stepped abruptly out of his arms. “I think we should head for home, if you’re all right to drive. I’m feeling a little dizzy again.”

Luka watched my face for another moment, the fine narrowing of his jaw below his winging cheekbones illuminated by the light from inside the restaurant. “Why don’t you head for the car, then. I’ll stay out here for just a little while longer, for a smoke. I’ll be right there.”

Before he turned away, I could see the flaring cherry of a lit cigarette as he settled down into one of the chairs, followed by a smoky exhale that sounded like a sigh.