All the Secrets We Keep (Quarry Book 2) Read online

  “It’s not at all inevitable, Theresa. And it’ll make me feel better.” He sipped from the glass with a grimace and set it down before leaning back in the chair to link his fingers behind his head. His grin was hard and didn’t soften his expression at all.

  Theresa drew in a slow, calming breath. “They’re not going to offer you more money or any kind of guarantees beyond what they already have. You’re coming across as greedy.”

  “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. In fact, that winding thread of incestuous entanglement was exactly why she wasn’t just laying out to him why, exactly, she was so desperate to make this deal happen. Whether she liked it or not—and she definitely didn’t—her connection with Ilya’s family had in many ways directly led to the mess she was in right now.

  “Of course,” he said, with one 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 out lucky.”

  Lucky was far from what Theresa would’ve considered herself, but she shrugged, dipping 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 slamming it on the table.

  “You’re buying, aren’t you?” He waved over the waitress for another. “One for me. Not for her. She doesn’t drink. Right?”

  Theresa rolled her eyes. “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 majority 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 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 was . . . 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 he’d decide 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 onto 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 sensed him looking at her but kept her eyes on the road.

  “Was your hair always that curly?” Ilya asked.

  Theresa’s brows knit. “Huh?”