I found the safe in a bureau near the mini-bar. To my dismay, a cardboard sign rested beside the safe. The note read “Out of Order” and had additional writing below it, but the print was so small I had to lift the sign and bring it closer to my eyes to read it. It said, “Please call the front desk to secure your valuable items.”
I reached out to put the sign back in its place. A circle of shiny steel caught my eye. It was the slot for a master key to the safe, one that provided emergency access in case a guest secured a valuable and the locking mechanism failed.
Simmy had insisted I use the safe. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, especially given how he’d phrased the suggestion, reminding me that London could be a dangerous city.
Now his words sounded off.
I tossed the sign onto the bed and hurried to my bag, fumbled with my purse and pulled out the key I’d found hidden inside the Russian nesting doll.
Then I skipped back to the safe, placed the tip of the key into the hole and pushed. The key slid into its grooves, accompanied by a glorious metallic zipping noise. I turned the key in a clockwise fashion.
The door popped open.
A green velvet box beckoned.
I pulled it out and opened it.
A diamond ring shimmered inside. It was an Asscher cut, larger than your average marble and slightly smaller than the planet Mars. It scintillated like fire and ice.
My first thought was nil. I stood paralyzed by a completely alien sensation. My second thought was that there’d been some sort of mistake. This ring could not possibly be for me. My third thought was the recognition of the alien sensation for what it was, unfettered and boundless joy.
I ran to the bed, jewelry box in hand, grabbed my phone, and dialed his number.
“Did you find it?” he said.
I sniffed in the tears. “You’re a bigger fool than I am.”
“I want all of you. I want the intelligence, the will, and the passion. I want the irreverence, the scars, and all your insecurities. I want to be the father of your children. You are the bravest, smartest, sexiest woman in the world.”
I had to breathe deeply before I could answer in a manner that befit my whip mistress reputation. “And you are a man of impeccable taste.”
“You really think I have good taste?”
I glanced at my ring. It shimmered and sparkled, gaudy yet classy, outrageous yet desirable at the same time. Just like the man who’d given it to me.
“It has potential,” I said. “Add the right woman’s touch…”
“Speaking of your touch,” he said.
“Yes?”
“The meeting went faster than I expected.”
My joy was momentary. The dark cloud that hung over my existence reappeared and reminded me that I was still persecuted by my prior marriage.
“There’s something you need to know, Simmy,” I said. “Something about my past.”
“Whatever it is you have to tell me,” Simmy said, “if it’s about your past, then it’s in the past. It’s not going to change anything.”
“I don’t want it to ruin this day.”
“Then tell me now and set yourself free.”
I took a deep breath, and the memories came flooding back.
“My husband’s lover—the graduate student—came to his funeral,” I said. “She was breathtaking. If a cherry blossom were to turn into a woman, it would look like her. I wasn’t surprised he’d fallen for her. I never thought I quite measured up to his standards. When I walked up to her and told her I knew who she was and how dare she show her face, she expressed her condolences, for my husband’s death, and for how he’d deceived me. She did it very sweetly, with tears in her eyes, as though she was my little sister.”
“I don’t understand,” Simmy said.
I had to take a deep breath to continue, and much as I tried to fortify my voice, it crackled. “It turned out she wasn’t my husband’s lover. He wasn’t having an affair with her. He was having an affair with his male graduate assistant. He was gay all along. I was so fixated on having a Ukrainian-American husband, on pleasing my mother, on perpetuating Ukrainian-American culture the way my father had wanted, I lived in denial the whole time. I wasn’t his wife. I was just his beard.”
Simmy asked me to explain what I meant by that word. I told him.
“Your ex-husband was a coward,” Simmy said. “Unlike Iskra Romanova and Sarah Dumont, he didn’t have the courage to be his own man. I am very proud of you for sharing this with me, and I’m going to tell you something about myself and make you a promise.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m not fond of facial hair. So you can rest assured that I will never grow a beard, and my wife will never be one.”
I sniffed in some more tears and laughed.
“I like it when you laugh,” he said, “but tell me. Why are you still talking to me? I’m going to beat you to the bar. You’re going to be late for the beginning of the rest of your life…”
“Ha! We’ll see about that. “Come to me,” I said.
“I’m on my way, love.”
CHAPTER 30
I ended the call, wiped the tears from my eyes, and changed into a sleek but understated blue cocktail dress that hugged my body. Then I flew downstairs, determined to beat Simmy to the bar so that I could see him enter. So that I could watch all eyes turn his way while I sat there thinking that’s my man.
The tavern was dark, elegant and glorious, with paneled walls and gilded fixtures at the bar. Cliques of well-dressed folks drank in groups at small tables appointed with upholstered furnishings that were scattered around the room. Two grizzled bartenders tended to a bar area that buzzed with lunch activity. A television hung from a wall behind the bar.
My hunger for some tasty food was exceeded only by my thirst. I wanted a tall drink, the kind with no bottom. I walked to the far side of the room to an empty stool and took a seat, eyes glued to the entrance on the lookout for Simmy. After the bartender took my order for a glass of ice water, I glanced at the television monitor over the bar. Just as the image of Valery Putler appeared, I caught sight of Simmy entering the bar.
One of his bodyguards was in front of him, the other behind him. Simmy’s eyes found mine. They looked at me adoringly and he gave me the slightest nod. I fought the urge to slice my way though the bodies and jump into his arms. Instead, the television monitor seemed to draw me in as though it had a power of its own.
Putler was standing at a lectern next to the prime minister of Germany, surrounded by men in suits and overcoats. His lips were moving and he was gesturing with his hands.
“Putler Arrives in Berlin for Economic Summit,” the caption read. And in the bottom of the right corner of the screen, an additional word in italics informed the viewing public: “LIVE.”
I glanced back to Simmy. While his bodyguard cleared the way for him, a random customer beside me addressed one of the bartenders with a booming request for a black and tan. His mellifluous baritone drew my attention. When I looked over, an unremarkable bald man rose from his seat beside the man with the baritone.
The balding man left the bar and brushed by Simmy.
A mist formed in the air.
Simmy froze. His entire face seemed to seize up.
Our eyes met.
I saw only horror.
He fell to the ground.
The bodyguards fell with him.
I remembered what Simmy had told me, that when bodyguards fall it means the man they’re guarding has been assassinated, and that they too, have been poisoned.