Roulette (20 page)

He continues talking, and it’s as if I’ve entered another realm. Like Lulu’s studio, it gives me a thrilling feeling of purpose and wonder, but this is the type of place I need. This is where my creativity resides. Numbers. Information.

“You like?” Trevor asks.

“So much.” I turn to him. “You all make it feel so obvious. Do what you love. That’s it, right?”

He smiles, and it’s really contagious. “It helps that I inherited a boatload of money, so I can manage my own accounts, but yeah, it kind of makes sense that you’d be best at doing something you love . . . and I love this shit.”

Sitting down in a black desk chair, he spins around and starts typing and looking up at a few different screens, checking the Nikkei index and a couple of other exchanges. “So, Rome is trying to bully you—is that it?” he asks while he taps and looks up at the different screens.

I sit in the chair next to him and start to take in all the information that’s there for my delectation. “I don’t know . . .” I watch the action on the London exchange. “Apparently, he and my father were talking about the merger for a while. I’m trying not to take it too personally.”

Trevor tears his attention away from a spreadsheet that seems to be tracking some of his commodities shipments. “I think it’s personal; don’t you?”

I nod slowly.

He turns back to the screens and the keyboard. “Good. You can use that to your advantage.”

“Oh my god. I love you.” I kiss him on the cheek and stand up. “Let me get my computer and all my files, and we can prepare for the onslaught. Alexei arrives this afternoon, and I suspect Rome’s going to have a deal memo for us by the end of the day.”

“Sounds good.” Trevor is deep in his own world as I slip out.

Margot comes out and joins us about an hour later. She might be studying seventeenth-century French history lately, but before that she was one of the best forensic accountants ever to graduate from MIT. So basically, the three of us make up this incredible group of number crunchers and data machines. Trevor is loving collating all the competitors’ annual reports and shareholder reports. Margot is dissecting all the numbers like a boss. She’s so much more detail-oriented than I am.

But when they start giving me their information, it’s my turn to shine. I almost feel like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, bringing brooms to life and orchestrating stars and oceans. Synthesizing information has always been my strong point (despite what that loser at USC said about my being uninspired). I have the fleeting hope that I’m the Sorcerer, not the lowly apprentice summoning spirits I can’t control.

Our different options sort of settle into place in my mind, and various solutions present themselves. The major assets are the thousands of acres of timber in Russia, and then the pulp and lumber plants, and then the smaller paper plants. I suspect Rome will want to sell off most, if not all, of the smaller plants; I know I would if I were acquiring the company. That will probably be a sticking point for Alexei, but he and I can play Good Cop/Bad Cop during the negotiations on those points.

It’s definitely the best thing for the company to join forces with Clairebeau. The main stumbling block is my getting over the fact that Clairebeau is synonymous with Rome. I have to carve out my feelings and focus on the deal.

Around two o’clock, Lulu comes into Trevor’s office with a platter of delicious sandwiches on baguettes, made from the leftover lamb and some amazing tapenade. We all eat, and I mention that Alexei’s train is scheduled to arrive around three thirty. Lulu offers to go pick him up so the three of us can continue working. She trots off, and Trevor looks in her direction until she’s no longer in view. The two of them are seriously adorable.

Around four o’clock, my phone rings and I see it’s Vivian. I step out of the office and answer it.

“Hey, sunshine, are you back in Paris?” she asks, as if we were just talking to each other moments ago.

“Vivian, oh my god. You’re not going to believe what’s happened.”

“Oh, tell, tell! I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from you since last week.”

I catch her up on coming down to Provence for Margot’s wedding and how I’m now working on a possible merger.

She’s quiet, especially quiet for Vivian; then she says, “Have you seen the pirate?”

I’m sitting on a stone bench overlooking the Luberon valley, and her words immediately call up a slew of images of Rome—grabbing me in the bathroom at the end of the wedding, sipping the wine yesterday. I sigh. “Yes, I’ve seen him.”

“Oh, Miki.”

“It’s fine, Viv, I promise. Everything’s totally out in the open. He’s got shit he has to sort out, and even if he can, I’m not sure we’re really a good fit.”

“God . . . I don’t even know what to say. How did you suddenly become the glamorous one?”

I look down at my T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts and laugh. “I’m seriously unglamorous, I promise.”

“You know what I mean. My life, god, it feels so . . . rigid.”

“Oh, Viv. Please don’t start finding fault with your beautiful life. I’ve been like a chrysalis all these years, all tucked in. It’s just taken me longer to break out. And here I am, I guess.”

“You’re right. So, tell me more about Margot’s place. Is it phenomenal?”

We talk for another twenty minutes or so; then I tell her I need to go.

“All right. Call me later in the week, just to let me know you’re okay,” Vivian says. “I don’t want to open
People
magazine and see you and Rome at Clooney’s place in Como, all right?”

“You know you’re much more likely to be hanging out with George Clooney than I am, Vivian.”

We laugh together, and it feels good just to catch up. She doesn’t give me a bunch of advice or ask me for a load of promises. “Have you heard from Landon?” I ask when we’re winding down the conversation. I don’t really want to know, but I guess I do.

“I’m surprised you asked. He’s called Peter a couple of times, pretending he wants to set up a tennis match and then casually asking if any of us has seen you. Anything you want me to say?”

“He’s left me a few messages, but I’m not sure what to do just yet. I mean, I know it’s totally over, but, oh, I don’t know. I just don’t even want to hear his voice, for some reason.”

“That’s totally reasonable. He was an ass there at the end. You don’t have to be buddy-buddy right away. Give yourself some time. Can I tell him you’re in France, at least, so he doesn’t keep sniffing around?”

“Sure. Tell him you talked to me and everything’s good, and that I’ll be in touch when I’m back in LA.”

“And when will that be, missy?”

I take a deep breath of the dry, cool air that—Margot’s right—is lulling me into staying in Provence for the foreseeable future. “It’s probably going to be a while. I’m kind of falling in love with this place.”

“Mm-hmm. I wonder why that is.”

“It’s not only Rome, I swear. It’s just . . . oh, you’ll probably think it’s dumb.”

“No, I won’t. I’m almost at work, so just tell me.”

“Well, I feel like I’ve kind of squashed down my French and Russian heritage or history or whatever, and it just feels really good, on some deep level, to go into town and speak French. This is a big part of me that I’ve never embraced. Does that sound dumb?”

“No, honey. It sounds beautiful. Have the best time—whether it’s for a few weeks or forever.”

“Thanks, Viv.”

“But if it’s forever, you need a big enough house so we can come for weeks and weeks every summer and Isabel can cry on your shoulder about what a despot I am.”

“Done! I will buy a splendid château, and you will have your own wing. Sound good?”

“Sounds great. Okay. I’m here. I love you. Be good. Or not. You know, whichever.”

We both laugh again and say good-bye and agree to touch base later in the week.

A few seconds later, Lulu is pulling into the courtyard with Alexei in the front seat, and I can tell the two of them are laughing nearly to the point of tears. I stand up and walk toward the car—I might have a family after all, even if it’s not the usual one with parents and siblings. These are my people.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

R
ome’s offering memorandum comes in about an hour later, to my Voyanovski email address. Trevor hooked up my computer to one of the monitors earlier today, and we all stare as I begin to scroll through the attachment up on the screen. The offer itself is only a couple of pages, but then there are about eighteen pages of addendums.

Alexei hisses and I start laughing when we get to the actual numbers. The bastard is doing exactly what I did to him two months ago: making a hideously bad offer, just to get our blood boiling.

“Calm down, Alexei,” I say. “He’s just doing it to torment you. Don’t let him.”

“Damn,” Trevor murmurs when he gets to some of the more detailed sections about the plants and the restructuring of the timber holdings into a REIT. “He did all of this yesterday? Impressive.”

“Hardly,” I scoff. “I bet he’s been working on it for a couple of years at least. “Half of this is probably stuff he and my father worked on together.”

I have a deep, swift pang of longing for my father and try to remember that this is a pretty amazing legacy, as far as legacies go. I feel connected to Mikhail in a permanent, living way. But still, I wish he were here.

“You okay?” Alexei asks, sensing my change in mood.

I look up at him from where I’m sitting at the desk. “Just missing Mikhail.”

He grabs my shoulder and squeezes. “Me, too.” His face crumples slightly. “Me, too.”

I smile up at him as best I can and pat his hand on my shoulder. “Like you said, this is what he wanted, right?”

Alexei nods and looks up at the screen again. “Go to the next page.”

We all finish reading the document, and then I sigh and close out my email. “All right. I think we need to stop for food and to clear our heads for a bit. What do you all say? Can I take you out for dinner?”

The sound of a car pulling up sets my heart skittering, but Margot looks out the window and smiles. “Oh, it’s Étienne back from work.” She practically runs out of the office, and the rest of us smile at her newlywed enthusiasm.

“Dinner sounds great, Miki,” Lulu says. “What do you think, Trev? Should we go to the new place over in Roussillon?”

He looks up at her. “Sure. Or we could go to that place you love over in Lacoste.”

“Yes, let’s go there.” She turns to me. “You’ll love it there, Miki. It’s basically a farm. We can sit outside and watch the sunset.”

“Sounds perfect. Let me change into pants, and we can leave right away.” I look over at Alexei, who is going through some of the printouts I made of the offering memorandum.

“Alexei? Have you eaten?”

He looks up and shakes the paper in his hand. “You know, this is actually an excellent deal, other than the amount of money he’s offering.”

“I know. The management structure and the sell-offs are all totally reasonable. I’ve been staring at figures all day, but I’ll understand if you want to forget dinner and stay to go over everything.”

“No, I’ll come.” Alexei tosses the document on the desk and stretches up to his full height. “A nice glass of rosé will be just the thing.” He puts his arm around my shoulder, and we walk out of the office.

“I’m glad we’re working on this together,” I say as we cross the courtyard.

“Me, too, lovely.”

I kind of love when he calls me lovely now—or at least it doesn’t grate like it used to—because now I feel like he thinks I’m a lovely person, not just a pretty girl.

We take two cars over to Lacoste, and Lulu is right: the restaurant is spectacular in a rustic, laid-back way. The couple who runs the farm serves the cheeses and meats they raise from their own goats and pigs, and the cool wine from the adjoining vineyard is refreshing and light.

Margot and I can’t help but talk about the financials from the deal, both of us keyed up and focused on the work, even as we sip our wine under the stars. We all agree that tomorrow morning I’ll send an equally offensive counteroffer and we’ll get the negotiations rolling.

When we get back, I go for another long swim, needing to clear my head before I can even think about sleeping.

I slip into bed fairly early, but the combination of all the work and all the laps makes me feel like blissful sleep might actually come. My phone is charging on the bedside table next to me, and it starts to flash about five minutes after I’ve opened my e-reader and started to doze.

Of course it’s him.

My fingers start to tingle as I decide whether or not to answer. The screen is flashing, and the phone is vibrating insistently.
Ack, fine!

I pick it up and try to sound curt. “Yes?”

“Ah, the answer I’ve been praying for.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

He certainly isn’t. He’s as cool as can be—just inhaling a cigarette and probably taking a languorous sip of some peaking wine and trying to unnerve me.

And succeeding. My silk pajamas feel instantly sensual and provocative, instead of comfy-cozy, damn him. His voice revs me up just like he revs up the engine in his car. I want to
go
.

“What do you want, Rome?”

“Interesting question.”

“Cut it out, would you? I’m just about to fall asleep, and it’s been a long day. Someone’s trying to take over my company, and I need to weigh my options.”

He hums as if he’s processing that new bit of information. “I’m pretty good at that sort of thing. Want some help?”

I want to laugh at the absurdity but manage to keep my voice steady. “Thanks, but I think I can handle it.”

“You don’t need to do everything on your own, you know?”

“This I do.”

“I’m starting to think your father wanted us to meet. Do you ever get that feeling?”

That is so unfair. I want to shout
dirty pool
! But it has occurred to me that my father is somehow playing matchmaker from beyond the grave.

“How’s Aziza?” I ask meanly.

He nearly growls, obviously annoyed that I’m no longer playing another round of We Belong Together. “Probably fine. Her so-called boyfriend is back on the scene with absurd apologies about how he thought she was trying to manipulate him or something. We’re still technically engaged, if that’s what you’re asking.” I can hear him take another sip of his wine.

We’re both quiet for a bit; then I speculate, “I wonder what an apology from that man looks like.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Some man begging for your forgiveness.” His words sound edgy, and I don’t reply for a few seconds.

I exhale. “No, Rome. Just stop, all right? You call and act all flirty, and then when I—”

“A diamond necklace,” he interrupts.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what an
apology from that man
looks like. A massive necklace from Cartier. I’m familiar with them. My mother had a vault full of similarly hollow apologies from my father.” He says it with complete disgust; I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him speak this way.

“Okay, okay. Note to self: I’ll never give you diamonds,” I say, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation.

“I want only kisses from you, Miki.”

My eyes close, and I slip deeper under the sheets. He’s like the grand master of seduction. Honestly. How am I supposed to resist words like that?

“Rome . . .” I’m sort of breathless, and I feel like he’s snaking his way through the phone and into my arms.

“
Oui, chérie
?”

I want to cry—or cry out for him. It’s so tender when he speaks to me like that. So different from how he presents himself to the rest of the world. Like it’s just for me.

I keep breathing, but I know he can tell he’s getting to me.

“
Alors
,” he says, thankfully letting it go. “So”—he switches back to English—“are you working all day tomorrow, too?” he asks, as if he’s free as a bird.

“Probably. It’s a pretty complicated deal, and the offer came in absurdly low.”

He chuckles at that. “Foolish man, thinking he could get you on the cheap.”

My heart goes all fluttery again, and I try to breathe through it. “Yeah. I’ve negotiated with him before. He’s used to getting his own way, so I figure it’s up to me to give him a little what-for.”

He laughs, deep and pleased. “I like the sound of this
what-for
. I’m sure he’s in for a real treat.”

“I’m not sure he’ll see it that way, but I’ll let him know you said so.”

“So, after you work all day, are you free for supper? You have to eat, yes?”

I exhale through my nose, wondering if I can actually separate the business from the man, or if it’s all too close. Either way, I’m playing with fire. “I don’t know, Rome,” I answer, with genuine concern.

“I just thought I could start showing you I’m not entirely ridiculous,” he says thoughtfully. “Forget I asked.”

I let the silence settle and then whisper, “Yes.”

“Yes?” His voice is so enthusiastic, I want to laugh-cry into the phone.

“Yes. I said yes. Dinner tomorrow night would be . . . nice.”

“Excellent. Okay.” He sounds so much like an eager teenager, I almost weep. “Right. I’ll pick you up at seven. Is that good?”

“Sure. Just casual, okay?”

“Well, no, of course that’s not okay,” he replies with disdain. “What’s the fun in
casual
?” He says
casual
as if the word is bitter on his tongue.

“Rome—”

“No.” He’s adorably huffy. “It’s my date and I get to decide what we’re going to do.”

Infant.

“So now it’s a date?” I ask.

“Of course it’s a date. And if you want to ask me out on a date, then you can do that at some other time. And it can be
casual
. But this is my date,” he adds.

“Fine. I’ll go on your fancy date,” I say, as if I’m going to be dragged through mud.

“Excellent. See you at seven.”

And then the line goes dead. What an ass he is—or, more likely, a wise man, because he knew if I stayed on the line much longer I’d change my mind and back out. I set the phone down on my bedside table and turn out the light. So what if I’m playing with fire? I can handle it.

At least, that’s what I tell myself until he shows up the next night in his obnoxiously expensive convertible. And drives me to his helicopter.

“We’re going to Monaco for dinner on my yacht and then a spot of gambling in the casino,” he informs me when we pull into the boutique hotel with the helipad, where the helicopter is starting its engines across the perfectly manicured lawn.

“Seriously? Don’t do this, Rome.” I’m so disappointed. He must know that the last thing I want is some splashy public-relations nightmare.

“Gotcha.” He waves to the pilot, and I watch as a smartly dressed couple comes out of the hotel. They hop into the waiting helicopter, and we stay long enough to watch it lift off and veer to the south.

Rome revs the engine and leans across the armrest to kiss me lightly on the neck. I feel the touch pulse through me like the vibrations of the car. He hums his satisfaction as he inhales the scent of my skin and then pulls back and gives me a wicked grin. “I knew you’d want privacy,
chérie
, but I couldn’t resist seeing the look of disgust on your face.”

He pulls out of the gravel drive.

“You’re an idiot.” But I’m laughing.

“I got you to smile, didn’t I?”

“I guess.” I settle back into the comfortable leather seat and turn to look at him. “So where are we really going?”

He smiles with that satisfied air of his as he thrusts the car into a lower gear to take a tight turn. “My place.”

I groan and look out my window, suddenly thinking a helicopter ride to Monaco and dinner on his yacht might be the lesser of two evils. Being alone with Rome in his château is going to be tender torture.

“So why did you ask me to get all dressed up, then?” I’m wearing a splendid confection of Lulu’s—long and flowy layers of chiffon, but with a high slit that shows lots of leg, and a plunging halter neckline. Margot tsk-tsked the whole time she helped me get ready, but I can tell she’s totally not sticking to her Rome-the-very-bad-man guns, even if she’s still telling me all the time to be careful.