Page 56
“You don’t like saunas?”
“And a hot tub overlooking the lake.”
I shrug, trying for casual. “I wanted you to be comfortable.”
She gives me a look. “How much did you pay for this place?”
“Enough.” My eyes narrow because money isn’t an issue, and Isla knows that. She’s pushing, and not just because the vacation rental is ‘too nice.’
“You’re insane.”
“You’re welcome.”
It’s almost easy. Almost. Until she leans across the table.
“You’re really not here because of your father?”
I roll my eyes, picking up the laminated menu. “Isla.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I told you, the last thing I would be doing up here is looking for him. And that was years ago. Decades ago. Why would he even be up here still?”
Her green eyes are soft and a little pitying as she looks me over. I hold still, trying not to get annoyed at being pitied, because not everyone can have a perfect family like Isla. Two older brothers and parents who are somehow still obsessed with each other.
“You’ve never been curious?”
“No.” The answer comes quickly enough that she looks surprised. “I don’t want to know anything about him. I don’t want to meet him. I don’t want to hear some dramatic story about why he disappeared. He’s not part of my life.”
Her expression softens. “Okay.”
“I’m here for a case. That’s it.”
A server approaches, and we order coffee, a ham-and-cheese croissant for me, and cheese-and-tomato for Isla. This would be normal back in New York City; jamming a coffee date into our packed schedules, Isla with pet hair on her scrubs and me trying not to spill coffee down a blazer. But here she’s wearing a light sweatshirt, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back, and her face free of makeup. It makes me wonder what I look like. Harried from staying up late? I haven’t been sleeping great, not since being pulled out of my room at 1 a.m. I’ve been telling myself it’s the paranoia of living with the Bratva, but there might be an edge of anticipation under there, too.
The first sip of coffee brings an immediate, unwelcome image to mind.
Vasily.
His office.
The endless cups scattered across his desk.
The smell of coffee clinging to his shirtsleeves.
I set my cup down and stare at the lacquered tabletop. What the hell? I’m supposed to be thinking about Mikhail’s defense. The invoice. Yuri.
Not Vasily’s coffee, or if his mouth would taste like it. Not his hands. Not the way he looks when he’s exhausted and still working.
I glance up to find Isla watching me.
“What?”
She smiles slowly.
“Nothing.”
I narrow my eyes.
