Page 33 of Scarred Ruin

“We all do, Isabel, whether you care to admit it or not. Since no one is perfect, black and white now colored in various shades of gray, there will always be someone somewhere who’d benefit from your failure.”

“That is perhaps the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard.”

He chuckled quietly as he studied the ocean water, which was mere yards away. “But truthful.”

I studied him from where I stood beside him, feeling small in comparison to his huge frame. I could call him intimidating if I hadn’t seen his vulnerable side.

“A snake.” I nodded toward his arm.

“Correction,” Maxsim challenged from beside me. “A viper.”

We were strolling down a long dock on the Isle of Palm, another unexpected pleasure. The tiny barrier island ran parallel to Sullivan’s Island where he lived, known for its beaches, picnic areas, and fabulous eateries. What I’d been interested in seeing from day one of moving to South Carolina were the sea turtles who frequented the location.

There was a casual comfort within the few miles, home to nearly forty-four hundred people with the rolling waves competing with tasteful island music coming from the outdoor speakers of several restaurants and the marina.

“In your mind, what’s the difference?”

Once again, he was wearing jeans, only this time black in color. Paired with a cobalt blue shirt, the easy dominance he conveyed had every person we passed taking longer than a few seconds to pay attention to where we were going.

He flexed his arm, which allowed a finer showing of his muscles, staring at the creature as if asking him to share his thoughts on my question. “Vipers are ambush hunters. They stalk their prey while typical snakes have no issues with being seen. That’s why so many of them are captured or killed.”

I thought about his answer. He wasn’t trying to either impress or terrify. He was simply stating a fact. “That’s the way you handle business. You strike without warning.”

While laughter coming from him was rare, every time he chuckled even lightly, as he was doing now, the sound affected me in mysterious ways.

Including making my nipples immediately harden.

“I never really put two and two together, but you’re correct.” He pointed toward a building less than a hundred yards away. “I hope you like seafood.”

“I do. The Islander Fish House and Raw Bar. Hmm…”

“Now, why would you say it that way?”

“Aren’t Russians more interested in eating borscht or something?”

He tipped his chin toward me. “Or something. I seem to be indulging all my secrets around you, but here’s another one. I can’t stand Russian food. Except for Pelmeni.”

“Pelmeni. I must admit. I haven’t brushed up on my Russian cuisine lately.”

“You’re missing out. They are the heart of Russian cuisine. Small, thin-skinned dumplings filled with the spicy meat of your choice. Delicious.”

“Can you find these dumplings in Charleston?”

Another moment of the powerful man being thoughtful. “You can at a couple delis, but they’re not nearly the same as I remember.”

“And you can’t cook.”

We were at the entrance where he stopped long enough to answer and to move close enough my breath was caught in my throat. “And I can’t cook. Some might consider that a true crime.”

“Some might.”

The air was suddenly oppressive, but we both seemed perfectly fine with standing where we were in the fading sunlight of the beautiful afternoon.

After his invitation-slash-demand, I’d tried to think of a decent excuse for getting out of having dinner with him. One reason I’d agreed to come was curiosity about how the evening would go.

The light breeze tickled my face with his aftershave, tonight’s selection a subtle yet powerful blend of exotic spices including cardamom and the zest of a deliciously ripe orange. And I was dissecting his scent way too often.

“Crab?” he asked, the question so out of the blue and so unexpected, my laugh wasn’t as guarded as before.