Heartless Lover by Faith Summers

21

Summer

Iknew from the moment night fell I was going to have a hard time falling asleep.

Eric and I got back just after lunch and I haven’t seen him since. I tried to take my mind off everything by going through the script for Scarlett’s play.

Scarlett and I used to practice our lines all the time. Doing lines worked to take my mind off things. It was great for me when she first joined the play because I practiced with her every day. She’d call me and we’d stay on the phone for hours just practicing. It’s a beautiful script and I loved talking to my sister so I didn’t mind how long it took or even finishing a shift at the club and spending that quality time with her.

Because I’m as crazy as my sister was we knew everyone’s lines too for the whole play. It made it flow well when we practiced.

At ten, when I didn’t see Eric come back I watched some tv in the living room before I retreated to my borrowed room again and dozed off for a few hours.

I was just getting into my reading again when I heard something.

I’m not sure what it is though. The only noises I can hear from inside here is anything just outside the door, or in the hallway.

Since I can’t hear anything when I listen out, I decide to go and check it out.

When I get to the kitchen I hear footsteps and talking coming from out on the terrace. It’s on the side near the hot tub. The entrance for that is just down the hallway.

It can only be Eric outside.

My cheeks burn when I remember us out there in that same hot tub. I’ve done a lot of things in my life but the way I behaved with him the other night was utterly scandalous.

If I can hear him talking, it could mean he’s not alone. And if he’s by the hot tub I can’t imagine him being there with one of his guards at this hour.

I glance at the clock and see it’s nearly one in the morning.

So if he’s in the hot tub or near it, maybe he’s with a woman.

How stupid would I look if I went out there?

How stupid am I now for feeling that stab of jealousy piercing into me?

I hear him talking again but now I can make out that he’s speaking in Russian and the sharp tone of his voice suggests he’s giving an order like when I heard him talking to his men. No one’s answering back either so that means he’s on the phone.

So… he’s alone?

My feet move toward his voice, as my body makes the decision for me to find him.

I get to the door and I can see him standing shirtless by the balcony. He’s got a cigar in one hand and the phone pressed to his ear with the other.

On the little table by the balcony is an opened bottle of wine.

I stop by the doorway and watch the trail of smoke blend in with the moonlight while he continues talking. With his back turned to me he flexes his muscles and straightens looking like an avenging angel. Although he’s not trying, the beauty of his sculpted body would weaken any woman’s defenses.

Even mine. He must have if I’m here watching him.

Or maybe it’s just that some part of me is stuck on thinking about how he devoured me.

I notice the moment he kind of glances over his shoulder, but I’m not sure.

He says something more in Russian, sets the phone down on the table, and reaches for the bottle to take a swig of the wine.

Drinking from the bottle doesn’t seem like his style and I wonder if there’s something wrong.

“Ty sobirayesh'sya smotret' na menya vsyu noch', kukla?” he says.

His back is still turned to me. I only know he’s referring and definitely knows I’m here because he called me kukla. As to what else he said, I have no idea.

“You know I have no idea what you just said,” I reply and now he turns to look over at me.

“Then how’d you know I was talking to you?” He smirks.

“You called me kukla. The other day I asked Lyssa what that meant.”

He chuckles. “I hope you didn’t ask her anything else.”

“I did, and I learned my lesson,” I reply nervously with a small smile

“Maybe save those questions for me.”

“Okay, so what did you say just now?”

“I was asking if you were going to watch me all night.”

“I don’t plan to.”

He gives me a mysterious smile and I can’t believe how normal we sound.

“That’s a shame.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

He takes another draw on his cigar and when a serious look forms in his eyes I know he’s going to ask me something more fitting to what we normally talk about.

“What are you doing out here at this hour Summer Reeves?” He takes another drag and lets out the smoke slowly so it loops into little rings before it disappears into the night.

“Nothing… much,” I reply and I realize how foolish I sound. Clearly I came to see him. I came out here because he’s here and I can’t deny that.

His eyes roam over my body, leisurely taking me in from head to toe in my camisole pajama top and shorts.

“Well come closer and do nothing much with me.”

It sounds like an invitation to sin.

I move closer and he motions for me to come even closer. When I do, I gasp as he picks me up like I weigh nothing and sets me on the table next to the wine.

He looks at me, picks up the wine, and offers me some.

I’m not much of a drinker. I can drink now to be social, but the situation I’m in is the perfect instigator for me to drown my sorrows. In the past, I use to hit the bottle hard when the bad memories struck me down. Then I’d follow that with drugs. I’ve come a long way since then by learning to spot the signs of when I should stay away from things that knock me off the strait and narrow.

Since I he’s here with me I’m sure a few sips won’t hurt me so I take a swig of the sweet wine. It hits the back of my throat and gives me a light buzz that takes the edge off. It’s another expensive looking wine I don’t recognize and the words on the bottle are written in Russian.

“That taste nice.”

“Russian wine always does. This is Fanagoria 'Cru Lermont' Saperavi.”

I like how he sounds when he speaks in Russian.

“Did you ever live in Russia?”

“No, but I’ve been several times.”

“I would never have guessed you were Russian.”

“Because I’m half Russian.”

“Which half?”

“Oh wow, sounds like you have a tons of questions for me.” He takes another swig and gives me the bottle again.

“I was just curious.” I sip again and hand him back the bottle.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’ll answer that question but only if you agree to answer three personal questions with no bullshit answers. You owe me, Summer Reeves.”

I already don’t like this game. It’s like the predator chasing the prey again and trying to back it into a corner. This time he’s dressed up to make it look more appealing, but I’ll play. I like this feeling of normal. It’s something I’ve rarely had, even if right now this isn’t really real. I can pretend for a little while.

“Okay,” I reply in a meek voice. “But I get to ask you three more personal questions too.”

“Agreed.” His lips curl into sinful smile that sets off the nest of butterflies in my stomach. “Answer to question one: my father was Italian and my mother is Russian.”

“Your father was? Is he…”

“He was killed a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay, and thank you.”

I see in his eyes though that the subject of his father isn’t okay. To confirm my thoughts he takes a swig of the wine and sets the bottle down.

“That was two questions,” he points out. “My turn.”

“Don’t ask me about the club,” I say quickly. “Please. I can’t talk about that tonight. I know it probably fascinates you because it’s a sex club but I swear to God, I would have never have gone to a place like that if I had another choice. I’m not a saint, but if you truly knew me, you’d know I would never work at a place like that.”

He stares back at me with a contemplative expression then his face softens and he nods. “Okay, I won’t ask you about the club, but I do want to know what sent you to Monaco.”

That’s still a hard question given the state I was in when I left the States. I was barely legal and barely alive, but it’s an easier question to answer.

“Life,” I begin. “I needed to escape life, so I ran away.”

“What were you running from, Summer Reeves?”

“Bad things, Eric Markov.” Terrible things I can’t speak of. Terrible things I’m sure that could still get me killed.

His brows wrinkle and I wonder how much he knows about me. There will be things he could have easily checked out, other stuff isn’t on record but it’s not going to be hard to do the math if he looks hard enough.

“How old were you, Summer?”

“I’d just turned eighteen a few weeks before. I got a waitressing job and managed to sell most of the things my grandmother left me. Things I never wanted to sell.”

My heart stills when I think of all the sentimental things Grandmama gave me that I had to practically give away.

“What kind of stuff, Babydoll?” His voice is softer and calmer than usual, almost like he senses the sentimental value I held for what I don’t have anymore.

“Things she knew only I would appreciate. Like the pearls she wore on the set of Gone with The Wind, and the dress she wore in Casablanca, and other beautiful jewelry she wore in some of the other classic films she was in. They were all gifts she’d received as keepsakes.”

“I’m sorry you had to sell them. Sounds like your grandmother did a lot of great films.”

“She did. She gave those items to me because acting was the love of my life and out of everyone, I was most like her. They were never supposed to be sold.” I can see he’s wondering where all my money my grandmother left went so I don’t leave him in suspense. “My stepfather took virtually everything my grandmother left my family. The only things he couldn’t take were what he didn’t know about. Like the cottage in San Bernardino. My great uncle used that cottage until he died. He didn’t have any family so it came back to us and Scarlett used it as a getaway.”

“Why did you stop acting?”

That question is another tough one and takes me back to the reasons why I couldn’t act anymore.

The short answer is Ted.

Creative people work with emotion. Our work is tied to our emotions and sometimes it’s a good thing because the best might come out of you. But it doesn’t work that way if you’re broken and the only thing you feel is lost. That’s a different type of emotion that syphons the life from your soul.

“I had to,” I decide to say.

“Why? Your sister still did it, why didn’t you?”

As his gaze rivets to mine, I think of that last time I stood on stage. I was fifteen years old and in the local theatre production of Gone with the Wind. I was Scarlett O’Hara. It was the first adult role I’d played and I’d gotten that part because of my raw talent. When it came to anything with Vivien Leigh, no one could beat me.

On closing night, Mom brought Ted along to see me and I wish she hadn’t. That was the first time she’d brought him over into my world I kept sacred. He tainted it just with his presence.

That night when we got home, was the worst. He made me wear my costume and his assault on my body included telling me how hard my performance in the play made him and he couldn’t wait to get home so he could fuck me.

That was the last time I acted in anything and my last show. I’ve never been able to fully talk about what happened to me. The closest I came to it was telling my father and he made me feel like a whore.

“I just couldn’t do it anymore,” I tell him and draw in a breath. “I think I’ve answered more than three questions.”

“You have and you got two more questions to ask me.”

I think about those questions carefully and decide on one easy one and one he might not answer

“How old are you?”

He raises a brow. “Thirty-one.”

“You don’t look like you’re in your thirties.”

“No?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Last question, Babydoll.”

I pull in a breath. “Has something happened with Robert?”

“That’s not a personal question, Sweetheart. You sure you want to ask me that?”

“Yes. It’s personal because it looks like you came out here to drink by yourself. That’s never usually a good thing.”

He dips his head for a moment and looks out to the scenic view of the city lights. When he looks back at me he relaxes his shoulders and gives me a look of uncertainty.

“Something has happened. Not a good something, but I’ll deal with it.”

Instantly I wonder if Robert knows I’m alive and my nerves spike. “Does Robert know I’m alive?”

“No, I don’t think he does.” He studies the worry that’s probably evident on my face. “Don’t worry, you’ll know when he knows the truth.”

“Is that because you’ll tell me? Or, because you’ll use me as bait to reel him in?” I hold his gaze and try not to reveal how worried I am that he’ll do the latter.

The contemplative look in his eyes makes my heart speed up.

Would he really use me as bait?

I don’t know him enough and my instincts tell me I mustn’t try to know him. In my heart I’m just hoping he’ll be different and won’t just use me, because my strength is fading. That inner strength I had is leaving me and God knows what I’m going to be like when I bury my sister. It’s then the hard truth will really sink in.

“I’m not going to let him get to you, Summer,” Eric answers and the knots of tension twisting in my stomach loosen.

The conviction in his tone surprises me. He sounds like that’s a promise, or a vow. It’s different to when I first got here. Back then I would have bet my last cent he’d serve me up to Robert the first chance he got just to get a chance to kill him.

“Aren’t you?”

“No.”

When his eyes darken, the question comes to me again of what Robert did to him. The rage brewing within the depths of his stormy gaze is unmistakable and my soul shivers with fear from it.

“What did he do to you, Eric?”

A dark smile curls his lips, but his eyes remain the same.

“Question time over, Babydoll,” he states cutting off any further questions I might have about Robert. “And I was nice enough to answer more questions than I bargained for. I think it’s time we do something more interesting, don’t you?”

“Like what?” I already know I’m asking for trouble with that type of question but I ask it anyway. Better to know what your predator intends to do, than allow him to screw you over with his games and trap you.

He puts out his cigar and stares at me, this time with that smoldering desire that eats me up from the inside out. The same desire that makes me crave him despite myself. He lifts the bottle to me again and I take another sip.

The look, the irresistible vibe emanating from him, and the buzz of alcohol tantalizing my brain all lure me into what I know is going to happen next.

“Play.” He reaches for the hem of my top and tugs on it, pulling it down so far my breasts nearly spill out. “I want this off so I can suck your tits.”

When I lift the top over my head and he stares at me I don’t feel like the woman I was nights ago.

I feel like the woman who wants him. The one who wants him to help her escape reality.

“Fucking perfect.” He says and takes the wine and pours it over my head.

He smiles when the cool liquid runs down my breasts and lowers to lick it off.

“Tasting,” he mutters. “Come here.”

When he crooks his fingers I go to his lips and escape reality is exactly what I do when we kiss.

As our clothes come off and he picks me up to fuck me right there, outside on the balcony I accept the trouble I’m in when I realize that spark I’m feeling when I’m with him is more than just attraction.

And that’s the part that’s dangerous for me because I don’t have the strength to resist the temptation to be his.