Ruthless Rival (Cruel Castaways #1)(83)

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.”