Every word was a hammer on his heart. She was right.
“How did Freya even know the man isn’t Andre?”
He braced himself for another volley of anger. “Remember when I said I have supplies in my rental car? Freya gave me a whole kit for taking photos and planting bugs. Including this ring”—he held up his hand and tapped the championship ring with his thumb—“which takes photos. I snapped his picture last night at the reception and sent it to Freya along with all the others.”
She took a step backward, retreating from him, her face showing a mix of emotions. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” She turned away from him again. “You tracked my phone without my authorization. You sent photos to Freya… I might have appreciated that, but…not like this.”
“I’m sorry, Kira.” He spoke, once again, to her back as she walked away from him.
All he could do was follow at a distance and hope that before the night was over, she’d accept his protection again.
Kira couldn’t think about Rand and secrets that were also betrayals. She had a fake cousin who’d lured her to Malta and a meeting with an oligarch—or rather, an oligarch’s son, from what she’d managed to learn before going to sleep last night—to get through.
Reuben Kulik sat at a two-person table close to the street. He smiled at seeing her, then frowned when he looked behind her. He must’ve spotted Rand. “Kira, my dear, we agreed this would just be the two of us.”
She made a show of glancing backward. Rand was rapidly approaching. “He’s not with me.”
Rand took a seat at an empty table just ten feet away. There was no worry he’d overhear what she and Kulik talked about, as the restaurant next to the Co-Cathedral was playing loud music that filled the piazza.
Kulik glared at him, then turned to Kira. “You’re certain he’s really an author? He could be playing you. A little convenient that he can’t tell anyone his pseudonym.”
Kira gave him a tight smile. Clearly, he’d asked the manager of his gallery about Rand. “If I’m being played, what’s it to you?”
“It doesn’t bother you that he could be a spy, trying to uncover your father’s secrets and manipulating you to do it?”
“Why would he—or anyone—be after my father’s secrets?”
“I told you last night what your father was.”
The waiter approached to take her drink order. Remembering her vow to drink fruity cocktails with handsome men and feeling utterly shattered by all the events of the day, Kira decided to throw caution to the wind and order the most froofy drink possible. She pointed to the sign that showed an orange and red drink with a tower of fruit garnish. “What’s that?”
“Sex on the Beach.”
“Works for me.” It was too bad she didn’t actually want to flirt with Reuben, or she could check off two items on her to-do list for this vacation.
The server informed her that because it was happy hour, she’d get two drinks. “Even better,” she said.
Reuben ordered a vodka martini, and the waiter left.
“Does it bother you that the author appears to be following you?”
Considering Reuben’s demeanor put her on edge, in this moment, no. But later, when Rand tried to get back into her hotel room, there’d be a big, ugly problem. “What makes you so certain he’s following me?”
He scowled and said, “Don’t be naïve.”
“I’m not, Mr. Kulik. I just wanted to know why you think so. Are you following me, or him?”
“Call me Reuben. Tell me, are you sleeping with him?”
“That’s really none of your business.”
“If you’re here to claim your inheritance, it is.”
“My inheritance?” Did he know about secret bank accounts she had yet to discover?
“Yes, Kira.” His English took on a faint Russian accent as he said her name. The sound was achingly familiar and unheard by her ears in the years since her mother had died. “Your inheritance.”
“And what is this inheritance?”
“You expect me to believe you don’t know?”
“I’m tired of your games, Reuben. Tell me what this is about.”
“Cousin Andre didn’t tell you?”
“He’s not my cousin.”
“Step-cousin, then.”
“He’s not my step-cousin either. But you knew that already.”
“Yes, but do you know what he is?”
She tightened her jaw. She was sick of these conversational circles. “Not a single fucking clue.”
“Such language is unbecoming, my dear.”
