She'll forgive you. She always does.

This thought brings me no comfort as I step outside, my head still pounding a steady rhythm. It'll take the painkillers at least twenty minutes to kick in. If I make it that long.

Nicholai is leaning against a sleek black vehicle, parked haphazardly in our shabby little parking lot—made noticeably less shabby by the presence of the foreign masterpiece and its impeccably dressed driver. He nods at my approach, a lazy smile curling his lips.

"You changed," he notes, popping open the passenger door. He gestures for me to crawl inside, which I manage with as little grace as possible.

"I wasn't going to wear my bar clothes," I mumble, palming the hem of my dress. Nicholai slides into the driver's seat and immediately starts fiddling with one of the dials on the dashboard of his...I frown. "Which car is this?"

"Lamborghini." He sounds bored. "Not as fun as the Ferrari."

"Whoops."

"Whoops," he mutters with dark amusement, pulling out into traffic with a startling jolt. I quickly do up my seatbelt, balking at the speed.

"She's new," I muse, running a finger against the edge of the leather seat, inhaling the smell of it.

"She is."

And that's the extent of our conversation. Nicholai likes his music loud, which is fine by me. I try to relax as we speed across the city, to the palace he calls home, my eyes lingering on the watery horizon and the man at my side. I watch him as discreetly as possible—watch the way his fingers tap the gear shift between us, hands gliding smoothly across the steering wheel.

Distracting. Everything about him is distracting.

He glances at me, our eyes catching for the barest hint of a second. Thoroughly caught, I pretend to squint against the harsh glare of the sun and rifle around in my purse for my glasses, shoving them on unceremoniously.

Subtle, Amara. Real subtle.

Nicholai gets us to our destination in record time. The house looks just as it did the day before: ostentatious, he called it. Exhausted—the morning's already been far too eventful for my liking—I stumble out of the car. The ocean breeze stirs my hair, offering a breath of relief. There, and then gone.

I ignore my misery, focusing instead on pulling at the hem of my dress—too short, your ass is out—and not snagging a heel on a stray pebble. I stare up at the glass behemoth overlooking the sea, thinking of iced water and blessed, blissful air conditioning.

"You didn't have to change, you know."

Nicholai is standing dangerously close. I crane my neck back to get a better look at him. "I wanted to." I shift from foot to foot, second-guessing my decision.

The movement draws his eyes down, lingering on my black plumps. "I like the shoes."

"Mr. Nicholai, sir."

A gentleman in a ball cap and a sleeveless t-shirt emerges from around the side of the house, carrying a pair of shears.

"Michael." Nicholai's smile is genuine. Warm, even. It's not the arrogant smirk I've grown accustomed to.

"Mr. Nicholai," Michael repeats, bobbing his head. "The palm trees are due for a trim. Figured me n' the boys could start out back."

"I trust your judgement. Michael, let me introduce you to my assistant." He draws a buzzing cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket. "Miss Amara Rossi. Amara, Michael will fill you in on the projects we're currently juggling." He dips his chin. "I'll be with you both shortly."

He answers the call and immediately starts shooting off rapid-fire questions in what is unmistakably Russian. I'm trying to make sense of it—a fruitless endeavor—when Michael clears his throat.

"Ma'am," he begins.

"Sorry." Nicholai's voice cuts off abruptly when he disappears into the house. "Nice to meet you."

And it is. Michael is the easygoing type, with the sort of good humor that manages to catch me by surprise time and again. He's been landscaping for over fifteen years, and his best clients are courtesy of the Ivanov family and their many connections. I find myself leaning against the Lamborghini as he walks me through the big project they're working on over on the west side of the house.

The big takeaway? There will be palm trees. Lots of palm trees. I've always had a shit imagination, so it's hard to picture how it will all turn out, but I smile and nod all the same because Michael's enthusiasm is infectious.

We shake hands before he leaves to begin work on the west wing. I watch him go with a smile on my face, ignoring the bead of sweat that trickles down the back of my neck. Water. I need water. The sound of the ocean is so close and so, so tempting—

A palm tree rustles nearby, drawing my eye. I tell myself it's just a strong breeze, but then the fronds jerk again. A quick, unnatural shake.

My tall glass of iced water will have to wait.

I step off the path and wobble across a bed of pebbles, eyeing scrubs of cacti at my feet. Damn the Ivanovs and their prickly nature and their prickly landscaping. I pray my ankles won't give out and plant a hand against the stucco facade just to be safe.

As I round the side of the house, I glance around, feeling both foolish and uncertain. Until I see what's causing all the ruckus.

"What are you doing?" I shout, alarmed.

There's a girl scaling the barrier that shields the patio from prying eyes. I can't see much of her face, but her hair is platinum and her nails are well-manicured. She's got one heeled foot braced against the palm tree for support, fingers straining for the barrier's ledge above.

My cry unbalances her. Cursing, she loses her footing and lands in a heap on the pebbled ground. Ouch.

Panting, she glares at me through a forest of faux lashes. I might have been intimidated, but then she speaks in a high, shrill tone, eliminating any and all fear. "Who are you?"

I stare down at her, unimpressed. "Uh. You were the one trying to break in. I doubt that wall is there to encourage unwanted visitors."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

She stands on trembling legs. Whoever she is, she's dressed to impress; tight jeans hug her slim figure, paired with a bandeau that shows off toned, sun-tanned skin. She has the kind of body I busted my ass in the gym for every morning before spring break my junior year of college.

Sure, it paid off. I looked a damn sight in that skimpy black one piece on the beaches of Cancun, and I have the pictures to prove it. But it was at the cost of near-constant exhaustion, pangs of hunger, and an attitude worthy of a real housewife of something-hills.

After that hell, I cancelled my gym membership, gained twenty pounds and never looked back. And I still look damn good in that one piece.

I cross my arms. "I'm calling security."

"You—"

"Tiffany?"

Nicholai. I almost lose my footing when I twist around to face him. He picks his way through the bed of pebbles, carefully avoiding the prickly vegetation at his feet. The heat is taking its toll on his impeccable sense of style; he's stripped off his coat in favor of a baby blue dress shirt. The top two buttons have been left undone, exposing a thin gold chain nestled at the hollow of his throat.

Tiffany. I've heard that name before. A memory comes to me: a crowded bar, loud music, a glass of vodka.

I used to run into my ex at work all the time. I stopped going to the office for a month, just to avoid her. We parted on bad terms.

I shoot the intruder a scathing look. One that she probably doesn't catch, considering the overlarge sunglasses on my face.

"That's Tiffany?" I ask.

She ignores me. "Nicky—"

"You need to leave," he says, brusque.

She brushes past me, wobbling over the pebbles. "Can we talk?"

"No."

He strides back to the path, shoulders tense. I follow. So does Tiffany. I rip off my sunglasses and shoot her a dirty look.

"Nicky," she tries again, jostling me aside.

He stops abruptly. "Stop that."

Tiffany stumbles over to him, eyes wide and beseeching. He assesses her warily, the way one might a spider or a snake. Only his hands give him away, worrying anxiously at the emerald ring at his middle finger. It's a brief glimpse at the frayed nerves beneath his otherwise cool exterior.

A swell of rage sweeps over me. Nicholai clearly doesn't want to see this woman, whatever her delusions. I clutch my purse to give my hands something to do—other than break her nose.

"Leave," he orders. I barely catch the word over the sea breeze.

"It meant nothing," she exclaims. Her fingers sweep over his chest. "You know that—"

"Leave."

Her next words take on a nasty twist. "Typical. You never listen to me. The only opinion that ever matters is yours."

He says nothing.

Tiffany forges ahead, practically spitting the words. "I fucked him just to get your attention, you know. And you still didn't care."

A muscle ticks in his jaw. There it is. The anger. "Get off my property."

"Your property?" A derisive laugh. "I thought this belonged to your daddy?"

He shakes his head, turning to go—conversation over. But Tiffany isn't finished. She lashes out, no doubt as a last resort to force some sort of reaction from him, her palm cracking across his cheek with impressive force. He stares down at her, stunned, as the stinging imprint of her hand blossoms against his skin.

I can't be sure who I see in that moment. Tiffany. Larissa. The two are suddenly interchangeable—both impossibly impulsive. Selfish. Toxic.

I step forward. "Excuse me."

Tiffany twists around to leer at me, a sneer on her lips. Before I can second guess myself—before my good nature has a chance to say, hey, girl, this is a terrible idea!—I punch her in the face.