“Oh,” Ilya said with a purposeful leer, “I’m very greedy.”
Theresa pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. This wasn’t funny, and though it was easy to see exactly how her former stepbrother had earned his reputation for being an alluring rogue, she wasn’t going to succumb. He could treat her the same way he treated every other woman in his life, but that didn’t mean she was like any of them.
She leaned forward. “You’re going to screw yourself over. That’s all that’s going to happen. They’re going to build that hotel and those condos up all around you and not put one cent toward developing the dive shop or diving area, and in fact, they will do their very best to make sure that you can’t do anything, either. Your business,” she said, “is going to wither and die and leave you with nothing.”
Ilya’s brows rose, and that tilting smile vanished. “Damn, that’s harsh. Why you gotta be so cold, Theresa? What do you have wrapped up in all of this, anyway?”
That was a good question. She had put her reputation on the line to get this deal together, gambling on all the pieces falling into place just right so that maybe she could come up for air instead of drowning in years of debt. She’d first convinced her former boyfriend Wayne Diamond to sign off on the offer to buy the dive shop and quarry Ilya and his ex-wife, Alicia, had owned together by telling Wayne the owners were eager to sell. Then, offer in hand, she’d encouraged Alicia to sell her 60 percent. Ilya was the only one she hadn’t been able to convince, and she was running out of both ideas and time.
“I mean, why do you care,” Ilya asked when she didn’t answer, “if my business crashes and burns or I end up in the hole, or what? What’s it to you, really?”
“Why wouldn’t I care? It’s not like we’re total strangers. You act like I should just sit back and watch you screw yourself out of what could be something really good for you.” The words slipped out of her, almost so low she couldn’t be sure he’d be able to hear her over the ambient noise in the bar, even with her leaning closer.
Ilya frowned and leaned across the table. “You don’t owe me anything, you know. If anything, my family’s the one that owes you. My mother’s the one who kicked out you and your dad without more than a few hours’ notice, then erased you from our lives like you’d never been a part of them.”
She couldn’t say anything about that; it was true, even if Ilya didn’t quite understand the entirety of what had happened back then. The truth was, Theresa didn’t, either. She’d given up trying a long time ago, even if some small part of her had always remained tied to the Sterns and that time when she’d been part of their family.
“Of course,” he said with another of those grins that had laid waste to women for years, “considering what a pain in the ass my mother is, maybe you guys got lucky.”
Lucky was far from what Theresa would’ve considered herself, but she shrugged and dipped her chin in response. They shared a look, longer than necessary. His gaze held hers, dropping for a second or so to her mouth, before his lips thinned and he looked away. Ilya sat back, raising his glass and draining it before setting it down even harder on the table.
“You’re buying, right?” He waved over the waitress for another. “One for me. Not for her. She doesn’t drink. Right?”
Theresa sighed. “Yes.”
Ilya shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
Theresa gathered the papers she’d spread out in front of them both shortly after arriving, before Ilya had waved them away and told her flat out he wanted more money and written promises regarding the plans for Go Deep and the quarry property. She put them neatly into the folder she’d brought along, then closed it and slid it across the table toward him. He gave her a look.
“I’ll take the requests to them,” she said. “But you should realize this isn’t a negotiation. They’ve settled with Alicia for her major share, and they’re going to move ahead with the project no matter what.”
“Screw them,” Ilya said evenly. “And you know what? You, too.”
That was it; she was done.
Theresa got out a pair of twenties—all the cash she had in her wallet. All the cash she’d have for the next couple of weeks until her commission check from the first part of the sale cleared. She tossed the money on the table and stood. She didn’t bother saying good-bye. Her heart was pounding, her throat closing, her eyes burning. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was give him the benefit of seeing her get upset—and how familiar did that feel? Years had passed, and the difference now was that instead of Ilya teasing her about the posters on her wall or stealing the last slice of pizza, holding it above her head so she couldn’t reach it, he was actively pushing the point of something sharp into her soft places in order to get a reaction out of her.
Outside in the parking lot, she gave herself a few seconds to breathe in the night air, fresh with the promise of spring. At her car, she opened the trunk to sort through a few of her bags, looking for her pajama pants. At the sound of a male voice behind her, she jumped, hitting her head on the edge of the trunk and letting out a cry.
Blinking against the pain stars blooming in her vision, she whirled. Pepper spray, dammit, where is . . . oh. “You scared the hell out of me!”
Ilya had backed off a step, hands held up. “Sorry. Shit, Theresa, ease up.”
She took in a breath and put a hand on her head, rubbing away the sting. “What do you want?”
“I was hoping you’d give me a ride home.”
“After what you said to me?” She laughed harshly. “You must be drunk.”
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t need a ride. And I’m sorry,” Ilya said in the tone of a man for whom apologies had always worked in the past. “I shouldn’t have said it. I didn’t mean it, really. I know you’re just doing your job.”
She hesitated, wishing she could tell him to screw off. There weren’t any ready cabs in this rural town. None of those phone-app car services. There was no way he’d be able to walk home, and that meant risking his deciding to drive himself if she refused. She didn’t want that on her conscience.
“I know it’s out of your way,” Ilya said while she was weighing her answer. He shuffled his feet in the gravel and had the grace to look at least a little bit embarrassed—that earlier put-on charm dissipating. “I’d owe you. Not enough to agree to that deal. But I’d owe you.”
Theresa sighed. “Fine. Get in.”
She realized too late that the passenger-side seat sported her cosmetics case, pillow, blanket, and—oh, there were her pajama pants. She bent across the center console to start moving things into the backseat so he could get in. Ilya helped, then slid into the seat.
“What’s up with all this stuff? Your landlord still fixing the ducts or whatever he was doing before?”
She’d forgotten she’d told him that lie a few weeks ago when she’d been staying at his house after Babulya’s funeral. She shrugged, not looking at him. “I’ve been on the road for a while. For work.”
When he snapped on the radio, she didn’t say anything. It was better than trying to make conversation. She felt him looking at her but kept her eyes on the road.
“Was your hair always that curly?” Ilya asked.
Theresa’s brows knit. “Huh?”
“Your hair.” Incredibly, he reached to touch it. “It’s so curly. And soft.”
She burst into laughter, shivering at the touch of his fingers and pulling away as best she could while keeping the car on the road. “You’re drunk.”
“It looks good,” Ilya said. “I like it.”
She frowned at that. “Okay, well, thanks. I’m glad to know that my personal appearance is up to your presumably high standards.”
Ilya laughed, low. “Salty.”
She didn’t answer that. Again, she felt his stare on her, but she didn’t look at him. They drove in silence for the next few minutes until she made the last turn onto Quarry Street.
“Still wigs me out sometimes,” Ilya said as they p
ulled into the driveway. “All the houses.”
Theresa peered through the windshield, turning on the wipers to swipe at the faint drizzle that had misted the glass. “Things changed, for sure. That’s what they do.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s what they do.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2014 Whitney Hart Photography
Megan Hart is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of more than thirty novels, novellas, and short stories. Some of them use a lot of bad words, but most of the other words are okay. Her work has been published in almost every genre, including contemporary fiction, horror, romantic suspense, and erotica. She can’t live without music, the Internet, or the ocean, but she and soda have achieved an amicable uncoupling. Find out more about her at www.meganhart.com, or follow her on Twitter @Megan_Hart and Facebook at www.facebook.com/readinbed.
Megan Hart, [Quarry Road 01.0] All the Lies We Tell
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