When Zoya got home, Roman's motorcycle was nowhere to be seen. She didn't know if she should be happy or sad. Glad not to face him or depressed about postponing the inevitable. She knew his attitude concerning her living there, but she couldn't leave. Not yet.
Once inside, she released the cats and cleaned the laundry room. At least Roman had followed her instructions, right down to hanging the dishcloth over the faucet. She needed to make him understand how easy it would be for them to live together. If he followed her directions, she'd stay out of his way.
She removed his clothes from the dryer, placed his shirt and jeans on hangers, and then neatly folded his underwear and socks. They didn't look new, so that made her think he'd been out of prison for a while. Probably on the run. No, that couldn't be right. Nobody had shown up looking for him, so maybe he'd finally admitted his crime and gotten paroled.
Taking the package of meat she'd placed in the fridge that morning to thaw, she laid it on the counter. Next, she washed two potatoes and got them ready to bake. She could use the microwave, but Charamel convinced her they were better slow cooked.
Fifteen minutes later, while the steak fried, Zoya made a fresh salad. She'd be happy to get the garden planted. She'd never appreciated homegrown vegetables until Miss Charamel taught her the art of gardening.
Her phone buzzed, and the screen read Mariana. Zoya placed it to her ear. "Hello."
"Why didn't you call me about Roman?"
Zoya turned the meat and lowered the flame. "I'm sorry. Was his escape on the news?"
"No. He'd always claimed to be innocent, and the real criminal finally came forward. So his record has been cleared. He came into the store today."
Zoya smiled and removed the meat from the pan. Mariana was her first real friend in years. Most of Zoya's life, girls made fun of her. Name calling. Eye rolling. She had experience with people not wanting her around, and as much as she hated the treatment she'd gotten in school, she'd learned from it.
"Thanks, but I'll be okay."
"If you say so, but if not, call me."
Zoya clicked off. Roman was right; he was twice her size, but just because a man was big, didn't make him mean. He reminded her of Dad. Tall and strong, but with a gentle soul. She had to believe that about her new landlord. He'd listen to reason. He had to. From what Charamel told her about how he basically raised Ophelia, he had to have a gentle soul somewhere.
She took plates from the cupboard, silverware from the drawer, and set the table. From the backyard, she clipped some small twigs from a redbud tree and stuck them in a vase Charamel kept on the hutch. On the bottom, carved into the pottery, Roman, 1995. A Bible school project when he was a kid. It was one of his grandmother's most treasured possessions.
Zoya brought the pitcher of tea and set it next to the glasses. Outside, the motorcycle's rumble died. Her heart accelerated. Showdown time.
By the time Roman finished his business at the building center, he'd arranged for delivery of supplies and gotten the names of a plumber, electrician, and concrete company. He contacted each of them and made appointments to go over his plans and get estimates.
He brought the Harley to a stop. The girl's car was in the drive, so now he had to decide either to confront her about the money or not. If she agreed to leave, he'd let it slide. With her gone, it was none of his concern, and he didn't want to borrow trouble. He took the carton of cigs and a bottle of Jack from his saddlebag.
As he stepped onto the porch, a scent he'd not enjoyed for years floated to him. Damn. Could it be? Charamel's chicken fried steak? He salivated at the memory. He stepped inside, and the aroma enveloped him like a warm blanket on a cold night.
The girl stood at the stove, stirring what looked like gravy. She glanced over her shoulder. "Wash up. Dinner is almost done."
She spoke as if she belonged there, but she looked out of place. It dawned on Roman how careful he needed to be. She could frame him just like Grimald. Come up with some abuse story or worse. Who'd believe an ex-con over a pretty girl with innocent eyes? His stomach churned.
"We need to talk."
"I know. We will. Over dinner. Wash your hands and take a seat."
He went to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. The stomach spasms eased. He reminded himself to stick to the plan. He had enough bad habits to drive her away. All he had to do was play those up a bit. Soon, she'd be so disgusted, she'd burn rubber getting out of there.
Seated at the dining table, he barely looked at her as she slid onto the seat across from him. He covered his steak with gravy and cut into it with a vengeance. The first bite sent his taste buds to Heaven. While he chewed, he loaded his potato with butter, cheese and sour cream. The only thing missing—fresh onions from the garden.
Even the food he'd gotten in cafés across the country couldn't compare to this. If she had Buko pie for dessert, he'd forget about running her off and marry her instead. He fought a smile. Wouldn't want her to know she'd done something he liked. It'd only encourage her.
Her voice brought him to the problem at hand.
"I can't leave. I have nowhere to go."
She picked at her food and his chest tightened with guilt. Damn it. He couldn't let her sob story affect him. He'd looked forward to having the whole place to himself, not share it with some runaway. "You can go back to where you came from."
"If that was possible, I wouldn't be here."
She looked at him with those big brown eyes and his breath strangled in his throat. According to Mariana, it was the girl's birthday. So what? He'd had plenty of special occasions without anyone giving a damn. "Look, kid. You're in trouble, and I want no part of it. I don't know why Charamel took you in. I'm sure she had her reasons, but that was an arrangement between the two of you. It doesn't concern me."
"I'll cook. Do the laundry. Keep the house clean."
"I can do all that for myself." Yeah, he could, but after this meal, she had a good selling point. No, he had to scare her away. He swallowed, already feeling disgusted with himself, but... "I'm horny as hell. Guess you could help me with that."
She swallowed hard and for a minute he thought she might faint, but she pulled herself together. "I guess if that's my only option, I could try."
Holy hell. Not the response he expected. Then he looked at her. Really looked at her. This sly little fox was baiting him. She might be odd, but she wasn't dumb. "That's good news. I mean, I've already seen the merchandise and talk about convenient, doesn't get better than having an available girl living right in the house with me."
She drew a shallow breath.
He'd called her bet, raised the wager, and backed her into a corner. Her face had lost all color. He pushed away from the table. "So, you ready to go, or do you want to clean up the kitchen first?"
She glared at him. "You're not serious."
He leaned forward and rested his arms on the table and gave her his best evil grin. "I am."
She stood, reached for the hem of her shirt, and pulled it over her head. "If I have to screw you to stay, I will. But first, you need to take a bath and brush your teeth. You smell like an ashtray." She turned and disappeared down the hallway.
Roman froze in his chair. She'd called his bluff. Now what?
Zoya didn't know how she said those words and not fallen to pieces, or how she removed her shirt without passing out. But the important part was she'd agreed to, and either had to follow through or run. The one thing she couldn't do.
She walked to the window and stared out at the shed. No water, heating or cooling, but the roof didn't leak, so she could make do. But even a counter offer to move into it probably wouldn't satisfy him. He wanted her off the property.
Most likely the sex would only be one time, because she wasn't any good at it. Her only experience was a single encounter, and that was with a girl.
She moved to the edge of the bed and sat. Any minute, he'd come in headed to the bathroom, unless he decided not to shower first. Her heart kicked up a notch.
He wasn't ugly, not by a long shot. His eyes were big and when he widened them, he looked downright scary. She might like his mouth if he ever smiled. She liked his freckles. It made him seem softer, somehow.
Who was she kidding? She couldn't do this. Rising from the bed, she rushed to the door and locked it, then pulled her suitcase from the closet. Once Charamel died, Zoya knew her luck might run out. She just never imagined it'd be over sleeping with a horny jailbird.
As she put the first pair of jeans in the bag, the motorcycle came to life. She zipped back to the window in time to see Roman speed down the road toward town.
She needed to work fast, so she dashed to the kitchen and cleaned the table, packaged the leftovers, put them in the fridge, then loaded the dishwasher and started it.
Returning to the bedroom, she grabbed her flashlight and ran out of the house and into the woods. Within a few minutes, she arrived at Mariana's where she found her friend milking goats. Out of breath, Zoya bent over, gasping.
Mariana jumped up and came to her. "Oh my gosh, is he after you?" She craned her neck toward the forest.
Zoya gulped for air. "No."
"Then what's wrong?"
"I agreed to sleep with him so he'd let me stay, but then he rode off. I don't know what to do."
"Okay, let's take a breath," Mariana guided her toward a stool. "First, Happy Birthday." She pushed a gift basket of goat products toward her and then her dad's watch. It was working now.
Zoya looked at it as if she'd just gotten an expensive piece of jewelry. She thought Mariana had forgotten. Tears welled up behind Zoya's eyelids, and she hastily swiped at her eyes. "Thank you."
If Mariana had seen her crying, she dared not to mention it. From the little she knew about Zoya's life, she knew her dad had died a few years ago, and that the watch was her most prized possession, even if it hadn't worked before Mariana got her hands on it. "You're welcome. Now sit. Tell me what happened."
She told the story then finished with the last detail. "It's probably true. He's been locked up a long time."
"He's not going to do anything. He's an ass. Roman's just trying to scare you."
Zoya stood and crossed her arms under her breasts. "He's a jerk."
"Yeah, well, maybe so, but he also owns the house. You have to decide if you're willing to put up with him or not. I haven't been around him in a lot of years, but I don't think he'd try anything. But after what you just told me, I'd say he plans to make you miserable."
"He's rude. I cooked for him and he inhaled it like it was his last meal and never even thanked me."
Mariana laughed. "That may be the key, if you really want to stay. Do everything you offered—well, everything but that. Cleaning. Laundry. Cooking. And have as little interaction as possible. If you give him space, then maybe he won't force the issue. But don't take any shit from him either. Oh, and tomorrow, bake him a Buko pie. I remember it being his favorite."
Rockin' The Boat sat directly across the street from Tikka's gift shop where colored umbrellas filled the window displays. A sign advertised IT'S RAINING BARGAINS ALL WEEK.
If I have to screw you to stay, I will. Roman sucked down his first beer and thought of Zoya. She had balls. He'd give her that. He should have pushed the limits just to see how far she'd go. But as much as he wanted her gone, he couldn't mistreat her. He had a feeling she'd had plenty of that. He felt sick to his stomach at the thought.
He glanced around the room. The aroma of beer and Buffalo wings hung in the air. Neon signs decorated the walls along with posters of past Arcadian festivals. Scarred wooden tables crowded close together with an open space at the rear for dancing.
The place was almost vacant, but it was barely six o'clock and most joints didn't come alive until the sun went down.
As it got later, Roman watched girls gather, all congregating in a group. One of them was eyeing him. He could join the group, but decided to let nature take its course. Eventually, she might leave the brood and head his way.
By ten o'clock, Rockin' The Boat was jumping and Roman had met Yasmin Brown. A curvy brunette with ample breasts and a pretty mouth.
As soon as she'd approached him and leaned against his arm, he'd limited their alcohol consumption. He didn't want it to affect boundaries, and he wasn't interested in drunk girls. Plus, he had to stay sober to drive.
As they danced, Yasmin stuck her hands in his back pockets and squeezed. A clear sign to take this party home. It was almost midnight when she parked her Chevy behind his bike. By the time they got to his bedroom, she'd stripped and started on him.
Yikes. Roman is pulling out all the stops.
TEASER: "Then why were you trying to spy on me?"