Third Time's a Charm (Holland Springs #3)(79)

He wasn’t waiting until next week to leave. Today would suit him just fine.

Except he wasn’t fine. He was the exact opposite of it. He was the most miserable sod on the face of the planet and couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

For some reason known only to God and Rose, she was convinced that she belonged in that ass-backwards town. That she had to be Poppy Holland to a generation that cared little and knew nothing of what it meant to her. Jason Everett hadn’t preyed on Rose solely because of her last name. Jason had done it because he was an unfeeling asshole. Unfortunately and most likely, Rose wasn’t the first or the last woman he would hurt.

Perhaps Vladimir had been right all along. Sasha should have never tried playing the hero. Look what it had gotten him. Absolutely nothing. His uncle still plotted, his cousins were either not speaking to him or still missing. Phoebe hung on by a thread, wasting away while the woman he loved…Jesus.

He stared at back of a seat. “I love her. I love Rose.” Fate couldn’t be this cruel to make him love a woman whose life he ended up helping to destroy after all.

“We’ve been cleared for take-off, Mr. Romanov.” The pilot’s voice came through the intercom.

Sasha glanced out of one of the windows, hoping for some kind of unnatural weather pattern, but all it did was continue to rain.

He sat heavily in one of the numerous seats and fastened his seatbelt, ignoring the football match on the flat screen.

Once they were airborne, a flight attendant strolled through the cabin, the expression on her face inviting and hopeful as she bent over, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Anything you need?” That same hand slid lower, nearing his groin, but he caught it and gently moved it into away.

“Not this time, Taylor.” Not ever. She wasn’t Rose. No woman ever would be.

“I’ll be back after take-off with a soda water.” Taylor, then walked away.

He let his eyes close and put his heartache firmly from his mind.

***

Three days later, Sasha met his uncle at Romanov Industries London offices. He’d always admired this particular building, mostly for its view of the hands-on museum across the street. He’d loved going there as a child with his parents. They would spend the whole day exploring and touching everything in sight. Every child’s dream come true.

Of course, Vladimir wanted to tear the thing down because it blocked his view of the Thames.

“I’m surprised you’ve dared show your face.” His uncle strode into the office, security on his heels but always ten paces behind. “I had to pay someone to do your job.”

Bored at the always threatening tone of Vladimir, Sasha snagged an Asian pear from a fruit basket and rubbed it on his shirt. “Explosion expert is not on my list of talents.”

“Pity, it would actually make the other one less lonely if it were.”

There were times, Sasha darkly acknowledged, that his uncle’s sarcastic nature was unnervingly identical to his. He took a savage bite of the pear.

“Make it quick. I’ve more important things to do than listen to you blather on about your inheritance, your mother or what you don’t feel like doing.”

The speech he’d been prepared to make went into his mental wastebasket and what was left of his pear in the trash bin. “I quit.”

Glacial eyes bore into his. “Pardon?”

“Need a hearing-aid in your advanced years, do you?”

Vladimir cursed in Russian and advanced on Sasha. “You can’t quit.”

They stood toe to toe, but for the first time, Sasha was without fear. There was nothing his uncle could do to his mother. Phoebe’s health had deteriorated to the point that even the doctors refused Vladimir’s intimidation. A new administrator with family connections to MI6 and an amazing dedication to her patients hadn’t hurt either.

“I’m done. It’s over. Finito. Sore de kimatta. Shall I say it in your native tongue, or my mother’s?” Sasha didn’t bother to hide his smirk.

A vein pulsed in Vladimir’s forehead. His face turned red, then purple as his eyes bulged. He clutched his left arm, dropping to the floor.

Sasha rushed to his side, knocking two security guards out of his way. He loosened the tie and unfastened the collar around his uncle’s throat. “Call the medics, he’s having some kind of attack.”

Cell phones were whipped out, voices giving descriptions of what had just happened.

His uncle wheezed and gasped for breath.

“Keep breathing, because I’ll be damned if I give you mouth-to-mouth.”

“S-ss,” his uncle began, his eyes rolling and spittle accumulating in the corner of his mouth.

“Deathbed apology—not quite what I wanted, but who am I to argue with the Grim Reaper.”

A crew of in-house medics entered the room, brushing Sasha out of the way. They worked over the twitching body.

Sasha strolled over to the window, gazing down at the always busy sight of London’s streets. He supposed he should feel sorry or pity…something, but he couldn’t. He just didn’t have it in him. Tucking his hands into his trouser pockets, he started whistling and slipped out of the room.

A medic stopped him in the hallway. “Sir?”

Sasha grunted.

“The receptionist said you were next-of-kin.”