Ivan 2 (Her Russian Protector Book 10) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © 2020 Roxie Rivera

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Also by Roxie Rivera

  About the Author

  IVAN 2

  Her Russian Protector #10

  By Roxie Rivera

  Copyright © 2020 Roxie Rivera

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Night Works Books

  3515-B Longmire Drive #103

  College Station, Texas 77845

  www.roxierivera.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  IVAN 2/Roxie Rivera—1st ed.

  ISBN

  Chapter One

  Step. Together. Step. Tap.

  Trying to keep my spine long and my feet nimble, I danced across the gleaming hardwood in the barre studio. We were halfway through our workout, and I was already sweating through my camisole and leggings. The mix of cardio and leg work was killing me.

  “And let’s add an arabesque!” Mitzi called out from the front of the studio, where she sailed side to side with the ease of a professional dancer.

  Step. Together. Step. Lift.

  As a little girl in ballet class, this had been one of my favorite movements, and I smiled through the exertion, lifting my arms high as if flying. My thoughts naturally drifted back to childhood recitals, the nervous energy and excitement of flitting across a stage in a poufy tutu and glitter-dusted bun. Memories of Ruby, terrific memories, came back as I mirrored Mitzi’s for the next sequence of movement. Plié. Relevé.

  Ruby and I had been in different dance classes. She had gravitated toward hip hop and jazz while I had been a ballet girl from the first time our mother walked me into the studio at four years old. While I had been a strong dancer, Ruby had been a star. Like every little sister in awe of her bigger sister, I loved to watch and imitate her. Back then, Ruby had welcomed my attention. We had been so close—two sisters who shared everything.

  Until the drugs.

  “Let’s move to first position,” Mitzi called out over the music. “And now, sauté!”

  Next to me, Zoya leaped like the most graceful Russian ballerina. I shot my friend an annoyed look as she performed every barre movement with the expertise of a dancer who had been classically trained as a child. My jumps weren’t nearly as high as hers, probably because I had about seven extra pounds of Christmas cookies and pies weighing me down. I grimaced at my reflection in the classroom mirrors, certain I could see the extra weight jiggling as I landed.

  I wanted to blame Vivian for hosting the best Christmas dinner I had ever had, but my willpower was at fault. I had given in to my feelings and crammed two servings of stuffing and sweet potato casserole in my gob before hitting the dessert table and knocking back hot toddies and spiced wine. Two days later, and I was still bloated. Some of it was probably from my period, but most of it was the alcohol and carbs wrecking my digestive system.

  When Mitzi directed us to the barre, I pushed loose strands of hair from my forehead and back under my headband. I had decided to let my hair grow out, and it was in that awkward stage where it wasn’t quite long enough for a ponytail or bun. Holly kept offering to put in extensions, and I was sorely tempted to schedule an appointment before the Denim and Diamonds fundraising gala on New Year’s Eve. Maybe I should ask Zoya what she thinks.

  “First position,” Mitzi announced. “And battement front. Two. Three. Four. Side. Two. Three. Four. And back. Two. Three. Four.”

  With the pattern of movement explained, I followed along while trying to maintain my form. I tended to tuck my hips in too far and round my back, so I made a conscious effort to keep straight and tall and point my leg correctly. After a few rounds, my thigh was burning from the exertion. I wanted to lower it an inch or two to ease the ache, but Ivan’s gruff voice was suddenly in my head, coaching me to keep going the same way he did his fighters.

  The image of him standing on the sidelines of a barre class, huge, tattooed arms crossed as he shouted in a mix of Russian and English, made me grin. His high-energy, extremely regimented style of coaching was a complete contrast to Mitzi’s friendly, nurturing methods. She enjoyed chatting with us as we wandered into class and slowly eased into the stretching phase. There was no way Ivan would accept his students trickling in and talking. He would be out in the hallway, clapping his massive hands while shouting, “Davai! Davai! Davai!”

  “What’s so funny?” Zoya asked as we switched legs.

  “Imagine Ivan as our barre teacher,” I panted.

  She snorted playfully. “He would have us swinging kettlebells at the barre.”

  We shared a private giggle and continued to dance. The burn lessened in my standing leg, but it would soon transfer to the other side. I tried to focus on the outcome, of firm but lean legs and a toned and lifted butt. I wasn’t ever going to be an athlete like Ivan, but I liked to stay in shape and look good. I also wanted to be healthy when we had a baby.

  If we ever have a baby...

  The black cloud of infertility hung over me as I followed Mitzi’s instructions for the new movement, combining a plié, coupé, and attitude. Because I was still in my mid-twenties, my doctor wouldn’t refer me to a specialist until we had tried for more than a year. This last failed cycle had ticked that box, and I had already secured a referral to my chosen clinic.

  My cycles came like clockwork, and Ivan was insatiable, so I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t working. It was hard to see my friends having babies so easily. Benny, Vivian, and Bianca hadn’t had any problems getting pregnant. I was so happy for them, and I adored Benny’s little girl and couldn’t wait for Vivian and Bianca’s babies to arrive.

  But it hurt. I hated feeling that way. The guilt of being so envious was hard to handle. Thank God I could always count on Lena for support. She never judged and always knew exactly what to say. She had even offered to be a surrogate.

  Ivan was just as sweet. He didn’t put any pressure on me, and I truly believed that he didn’t blame me in any way. Obviously, he wanted a baby as badly as I did, but he let me set the pace and make the decisions. He was willing to go as far as I wanted—even IVF—and had made it clear that he didn’t want me to even think about the cost. So, I wasn’t. I had picked out the best reproductive specialist in Houston and planned to have my current doctor refer me to him.

  “Watch
your form.” Mitzi placed her hand on my back and gave a gentle push to realign my spine. “Keep your chin lifted. Lungs open. Just like that. Good. Very good.”

  Pulled from my troubling thoughts, I focused on the remainder of the class. When we reached a passé, I made sure to slide my pointed toes along my calf until they rested just above my knee, all while keeping my weight off of my standing leg. After a few grueling seconds of holding the position, we moved from passé into a lunge. The deliberate pace had my thighs shaking and my abdominal muscles screaming by the time we were finished with all the reps on both sides.

  When it was finally time to end the session with slow and easy stretches and some yoga, I almost cried out in relief. Flat on my back, I breathed in deeply and then exhaled all the stress of the seemingly endless to-do list that never left my brain. I wanted to stay in the moment. I wanted to enjoy that surge of endorphins from a completed workout and a sense of accomplishment.

  “Ladies, what a good class we had today!” Mitzi clapped at the front of the class as we all rose to our feet. Her perky blonde ponytail bounced as she said, “Let’s give ourselves a big reverence. We earned it this morning!”

  After our graceful bows, the class ended. Zoya tugged her hair elastic from her sagging ponytail and wound her hair into a more tightly coiled bun. “You want to grab some coffee?”

  “Sure.” I rolled up my yoga mat, tugged on my sneakers, shrugged into the way too big hoodie I had stolen from Ivan’s side of the closet, and grabbed my flamingo pink insulated water bottle.

  We left the classroom together, stopping at the door to thank Mitzi for another great class. Out in the lobby of the studio, my gaze drifted to the bulletin board and a bright yellow flyer for a new class. I wandered over as Zoya talked to Mitzi about the pilates courses and read the information printed on the flyer.

  “Couples yoga?” Zoya read as she joined me at the bulletin board. “If you convince Ivan to go and get a picture, I’ll design a special commemorative plaque and frame for the photo evidence.”

  I laughed and snapped a pic of the flyer for later. “Deal.”

  “I’d love to design something other than engagement rings and bracelets for mothers,” she said as we headed for the double doors. “I lost count of how many last-minute pieces we sold for clients in the run-up to Christmas. On the one hand, it’s incredible to know that so many people want to wear my jewelry. On the other hand, I’m exhausted.”

  “So, take a vacation,” I suggested as we stepped out into the cold, rainy morning. I wrinkled my nose at the dreary weather. “Hop a flight to someplace tropical. Enjoy some sunshine and sand while the rest of us deal with this mess.”

  “I wish, but I can’t leave my dad here. He hates beaches,” she explained as we walked down the covered walkway of the shopping center. “He also hates taking any time off from the shop.”

  Knowing how close she was to her father, I decided not to point out that he was a grown man who could handle himself. She and her father had fled Moscow in the middle of the night when she was only a baby after her mother had witnessed a murder and been killed to silence her. From what Ivan had told me, they had barely escaped in time and somehow managed to cross into Estonia before making the journey to Finland and then the US to family in New York.

  “Well, maybe take some half days? Go to a spa? Get a massage? Do some self-care?”

  She lifted her hand and examined her chipped nail polish. “I do need a manicure.”

  “There you go.” I reached for the handle of the café we liked. “Schedule some time at Allure. Holly and her staff will take good care of you.”

  “I do need a trim before the gala,” she said, following me into the deliciously scented shop.

  “I’m thinking of extensions,” I admitted as we stepped into line at the counter. “What do you think? Should I?”

  She studied my hair for a moment. “I think you look gorgeous in short hair, and I’m sure you’ll look beautiful with longer hair.”

  “You really are the sweetest,” I said, smiling at her.

  “Not that sweet,” she laughed and cut in front of me to place her order. Before I could whip out my phone to pay, she tapped hers on the card reader and covered my sugary sweet coffee and giant chocolate muffin. As we took seats near the window, she eyed my extraordinarily carb and calorie heavy choices. “Weren’t you complaining about your holiday weight gain before class?”

  “Well, I mean, yeah, but the holidays aren’t over yet, right? We still have New Year’s Eve, so it doesn’t really make sense for me to start dieting now,” I reasoned before taking a huge bite of the decadent muffin.

  She snorted with amusement and sipped her blazing hot Americano. “Make sure you dust off all the chocolate crumbs before you get to the Warehouse.”

  Now, it was my turn to huff with amusement. “Are you kidding me? Ivan knows better than to say anything about what I eat.”

  “I assume he learned that the hard way?”

  “His heart was in the right place, but his brain?” I shook my head. “We agreed that as long as I’m eating a healthy lunch and dinner, what I do for breakfast and snacks is no one’s business but my own. And, anyway,” I said with a shrug, “his idea of a healthy breakfast is a dozen eggs, a blender pitcher full of some gross protein shake and, like, four gallons of water.” I made a face. “No, thanks.”

  “Gross! Does he really eat a dozen eggs every morning?”

  “No, not really,” I admitted. “He does a protein shake and tons of water before he goes for his morning run. Then it’s four or five eggs plus some salmon or steak and a pile of veggies like kale or tomatoes or sweet potatoes. He has some kind of Greek yogurt and fruit mid-morning. Then he has lunch, his afternoon snack, and dinner.”

  Zoya’s jaw dropped. “How much does it cost to feed him every month?”

  “An obscene amount,” I muttered and sipped my coffee. “But, every time I growl at him about the grocery bill, he finds ways to distract me.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said knowingly. “I bet he does.”

  We laughed, but let that topic end there. A busy coffee shop was not the place to discuss those sorts of salacious details.

  “So, I heard from a friend that works at certain PR firm that Ivan’s gym is being considered to be the host camp for the next season of that amateur fighting show,” Zoya said in a gossipy tone. “True?”

  I laughed. “For your friend’s sake, I hope Lena doesn’t find out someone is blabbing secrets. She’ll unleash her dragon lady side.”

  Zoya smiled. “I never reveal my sources.”

  “Uh-huh.” I sipped my pleasantly warm drink. “True.”

  “Exciting!”

  I shrugged. “It’s early in the process. Ivan still isn’t sure he’ll agree to let them use the gym. He’s so protective of the Warehouse and his fighters. Plus,” I sighed, “there’s that whole, well, you know, angle to his life. He doesn’t want to bring any attention to it.”

  “Understandable.”

  “I hate that choices he made as a kid—like a really young kid—are impacting him now in ways he could never have anticipated back then.”

  “Life sucks that way,” she remarked, not unkindly. “But, people are forgiving and the field he’s in doesn’t exactly shy away from troublemakers. It might make him even more popular as a coach.”

  “Maybe.” Without much else to say about it, I asked her about the upcoming Denim and Diamonds Gala and the pieces Zoya had donated for the silent auction. She was so modest about the fact her jewelry had been showcased in all of the promo for the event.

  “You can downplay it all you want,” I said as sorted our recyclables from trash at the bins by the door, “but Savannah used your jewelry for a reason. She knows it’s a draw, and she knows there will be heated bidding over each piece. You should use that to your benefit. Draw in more clients.”

  “We have a strong client base,” she remarked and pushed open the door. “I don’t know that I can
handle many more commissions.”

  “Have you and your dad considered expanding? Adding in more employees on the production side?”

  “We talk about it all the time, but he’s so hesitant to bring anyone else into our little company. It’s frustrating, especially when we’re swamped with work, but I understand why he wants it that way. He’s protecting what he built, and he’s ensuring that it stays something small and intimate. There’s a reason we can charge what we do for our pieces.”

  “That’s true.” I tugged the hood of my borrowed sweatshirt up over my head as a shield against the cold drizzle and made a face.

  As if reading my mind, she said, “At least it’s not sleeting.”

  “Thank goodness,” I agreed. “We are not cut out for winter driving around here.”

  “You should hear my dad when he’s driving and there’s ice. I’m always afraid he’s going to have a stroke yelling at the other cars.”

  “I can imagine.” A memory of Ivan going bananas came to mind. “During the ice storm last winter, Ivan was driving us to dinner, and the shit coming out of his mouth was astounding. I mean, seriously, there were so many Russian swear words flying out of his mouth in combinations I had never imagined. I wanted to take notes, but he forbade it.”

  She laughed. “I’m sure he did.”

  Doing my best deep, rumbling impression of my husband, I said, “No, don’t ever repeat that! Those words are too nasty for your pretty mouth.”

  Zoya giggled. “That’s a pretty good impression of him.”

  “My sister’s is better,” I remarked. “Of course, she’s usually doing it to make me mad.”

  Zoya smiled sympathetically. “When does she get out?”

  “A couple of days after New Year’s.”

  “That soon?”

  “It’s later than we had expected,” I explained. “She got into some trouble a few months back, and that meant she had to serve more of her sentence behind bars. She still has a lot of probation, though.”

  “Do you think she’s going to be okay now? Stay clean?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted reluctantly. “I hope so. I want her to be healthy and happy again. The way she was before the drugs,” I added, “but I know that may not be possible. I’ve been going to these meetings for family members of drug addicts. To prepare for when she comes out,” I explained, “and one of the things I’ve learned is that I need to let go of the idea that she’s the same person she was before the drugs. She’s been changed by the experiences, and I have to remember that and accept and love this newer, changed version of her.”