His lips pulled into the slightest frown as he slid the key into the lock and pushed the door open. Naturally, I followed him inside.
“It’s okay to show your feelings, Igor. We all have them.”
He dropped my bag near the queen-size bed.
“Not to mention, men who cry? Hot.”
The disgusted look on his face was comical, and I bit my lip to stifle a smile as he passed me on the way to the door.
“Will I see you later?”
He grunted and slammed it shut behind him.
With a sigh, I turned to take in the room. The alarm clock near the bed said it was only nine in the morning. All of a sudden, the jet lag and everything else hit me like a semi-truck. I needed to let Ivan know I was okay—and I kind of missed his voice—but I was too tired to figure out how to dial out on the hotel phone, so it would have to wait.
I took a shower and scrubbed my skin raw. In a towel, I padded back into my room and dug through my bag for some clothes. A muffled commotion on the street drew my attention to the window. Outside, a bicyclist argued with a disgruntled taxi driver, who threw his hands in the air when the teenage delivery boy hurled a newspaper at his car. I started to turn away, but something else caught my eye.
A black car sat parked on the side of the street. Tattooed fingers hung out of the window ashing a cigarette before the unfamiliar man brought it back to his mouth. I’d never met a man with inked hands before coming here.
Must be a Russian thing.
Lethargy pulled on my limbs, so I fell into bed without a stitch of clothing on and was dead to the world for a solid three hours. When I awoke, it was with a groan and a piece of still-damp hair in my mouth.
Removing the tags from a new pair of bell-bottom jeans and a vintage T-shirt, I smiled as I slipped them on. They fit me well, caressing my body with a cotton form of freedom. Next, I dried and straightened my hair, applied some strawberry lip gloss, and donned the heavy cardigan I wore in place of a coat on the way here.
The cold sucked the air from my lungs as I headed across the street to the nearest convenience store to buy a disposable phone. Maybe it was the lack of winter apparel, but I stuck out like a sore thumb. Eyes followed my movements, and I got cat-called twice. Not an odd thing growing up in Miami, but I thought someone even took my picture.
The attention made me wonder about my mother—if she really was so famous here, and why my papa hid it from me. He didn’t like to talk about her. I assumed it hurt too much, so I never had the heart to press the matter. But one would think he could share something with me. The fact she was a well-known opera singer maybe . . .
With a new phone in hand, I dialed Ivan’s number.
He answered immediately, his voice cautious. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ivan. It’s me.”
“Mila,” he breathed. “Gde ty, chert voz’mi?” Where the hell are you?
I had an apology on my tongue, but the fact the relief in his voice was so palpable like he had no faith in me at all—even though he was annoyingly accurate in this case—stopped it from escaping.
“Relax.” I shivered and tightened my cardigan around me. “I’m fine.”
“I have been worried sick about you,” he snapped.
“I don’t know why. Obviously, I’ve been doing just fine.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“Where are you staying?”
A clothing store’s window display drew me in. A bell dinged as I stepped inside, and I sighed in relief at the warmth.
“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I can’t read Russian, Ivan.” I headed to a clothing rack to peruse the dresses. I didn’t know if there was a performance at the opera house tonight, but I figured I should dress for one. Better to be overdressed than under in my learned opinion. “Besides, I stayed at a restaurant last night. I didn’t catch the name.”
Slowly, he asked, “Why did you stay at a restaurant, Mila?”
Well, crap.