Chapter Nine
Left to my own devices, I pour myself a fresh glass of wine and decide to take my chances exploring the outside of the house. A small glass door near the back of the kitchen leads onto a stone terrace surrounding the private pool. Beyond, stretches the waterfront lined by a rocky beach that conjures the potential for plenty of warm, fuzzy memories to be made. The more I take in the view, the more I feel for my beautiful, tormented Vadim. The poor man had to have envisioned the same images I am.
Magda, playing in the pool or skipping happily by the water. Her, fishing water toys from the boathouse or racing off to the stable in the distance. Him, showing her how to ride his white mare, Zzazza…
As if summoned by the thought, I sense the door open behind me as a looming figure steps onto the terrace. “I come with an offering of contrition.”
I turn to find Vadim exiting the kitchen, a wine glass in tow. Beaming, I gladly accept his token. “You are forgiven, peon,” I tell him, taking a sip.
He settles against me from behind, his hands capturing my waist. It’s such an intimate position—I should balk, I think. Maybe I’m too tired, lulled by the promise of wine? Or I’m lying to myself, desperate to escape the obvious. It feels so natural being with him like this, and my ever-present list feels further away.
“Thank you for staying,” he says against my scalp.
Gratitude nearly knocks me over, and I hastily take a second sip of wine to steel myself. “Don’t mention it.”
Together, we watch the sun scuttle across the horizon, each of us envisioning a million potential uses for the beautiful property. Will any of them ever come to fruition? Who knows?
I, for one, am willing to hope for as much.
Eventually, I bring myself to brush my hand along his forearm. “We should get ready for dinner,” I suggest, though a part of me wishes I could spend the night in his arms, just enjoying the vastness of his property.
As if to spoil the potential of that ever happening, we both turn as the sliding glass door is noisily wrenched open from the inside.
“I’m hungry,” Magda declares, her tone flat. She scans the waiting pool and the waterfront beyond with feigned disinterest. But her eyes linger over the bay, in particular, a rare gleam of hunger coloring her irises. Just as quickly, it vanishes, snuffed out with a surly pout. “I’m really hungry.”
“What would you like? Whatever you wish,” Vadim says, moving toward her.
She crosses her arms, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “The Robinsons never let me have pizza,” she says.
“Because of the carbohydrate content,” Vadim explains, following her into the kitchen. “We need to be careful about how much we consume and always make sure to cover our meals with enough insulin.”
“We?” She stares as he lifts his shirt, revealing the tubing of his pump. He uses it so rarely around me, I’ve almost forgotten the device’s existence.
“We,” he reiterates. “Luckily for us both, I know of a pizzeria that creates an amazing low carb pie. Name your toppings.”
She thoughtfully taps her chin. “Cheese and pepperoni.”
“Done.” He pulls a cell phone from his pocket and steps aside to phone in the order while I back into a corner and watch them both. There is something so beautiful in seeing them interact together, each cautious in their own right.
When he’s done on the phone, Vadim approaches the fridge and grabs a pitcher of orange juice. “Set the table?” he asks Magda.
She doesn’t agree out loud, but she gradually moves to the cupboard he indicates and accepts the three plates he gives her.
I don’t inch forward until the table is set, and Vadim is pouring three glasses of juice to place at each setting. “What else do you like in addition to pizza?” he asks her.
“Cake,” she says, and I get the sense she’s deliberately provoking him.
With an adept social grace, Vadim doesn’t even seem to notice the bait. “I know of a bakery as well that makes a delicious cake. What else?”
She proceeds to play a devious game of naming foods that are not diabetic-friendly, while he patiently counters each one with a sugar-free alternative. It’s as if he studied the list of foods a child may crave and ensured that he had a ready supply of options for her.
In fact, I’m sure that’s the case.
Finally bored, Magda proceeds to tap her slender fingers along the table. Noticing the act, Vadim asks, “Do you play any instruments?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe.”
“I loved playing the piano when I was your age,” he says softly. “When I could find one.”
“The Robinsons didn’t have a piano.” She folds her arms, her chin jutting.
“I can get you one.” He makes it sound as simple as snapping his fingers. “And lessons, if you’d like.”
She mulls it over, and I half-expect her to refuse. I think a part of her wants to. But like him, she’s too curious, drawn to an opportunity to tackle something new. While Vadim chooses to research BDSM, she’ll warily accept his offer of musical training.
“Okay.”
“I’ll make the arrangements first thing in the morning.”
We sit in awkward silence until the pizza arrives, courtesy of a gruff Ena who manages up what I think might be a smile once he spots Magda. We eat together, saying nothing until finally, Magda sets her plate aside.
“I’m tired,” she says.
“Do you need someone to tuck you in?” Vadim starts to stand, but she shoots him a look so withering he falters.
“I’m not a baby,” she says, her nose in the air. She flounces from the room and up the stairs. Predictably, the door slams.
“Give her time,” I say, approaching Vadim from behind. I run my fingers over the muscles of his back, sliding around to his front. When I toy with the
