by Zoe Blake
Gregor nodded. “Thanks, Jim.” He took the cup from Jim and closed the office door. Turning to me, he held out the goods. “Cafe Mocha with skim milk and extra whipped cream and an Egg McMuffin.”
The dark, rich smell of espresso mingled with the scent of sweet cream. I wasn’t even going to entertain the thought of refusing this gesture. I can’t remember a time I’d needed the comfort of my favorite drink more.
I should have been upset and alarmed that he knew what I liked to drink, but for some reason I wasn’t. It gave me a soft flutter in my stomach to think this big scary man had taken the time to learn what I liked or to care what I ate. After years on the run, unable to trust anyone but Yelena, I got used to no one knowing the real me.
Stop it, Samara! For fuck’s sake, it’s just coffee.
Taking the cup, I played with the sip tab as I asked, “How did you know?”
Gregor raised an eyebrow. “Same way I knew about Gwen Stevens.”
“Are you going to tell me how you found out?”
Gregor took a step closer to me. He reached out to caress my cheek.
I hated my reaction to his touch.
The side of his mouth quirked up in a rare smile. “Not a chance.”
I sighed. I’d expected as much. If he told me how he’d found me, then I would learn what not to do next time I ran… and there would be a next time as soon as I had the chance.
“Are you going to eat that?”
The brown McDonald’s bag rested on a nearby table. The familiar scent of egg, cheese, and ham called to me, but I knew I was too nervous around Gregor to even think about eating. I shook my head.
“How about I give you a tour of the house?”
That seemed like a perfectly normal thing to ask someone… which is why I was immediately suspicious. Gregor and I didn’t do normal.
I stared down at the Persian carpet that only moments earlier I had been shamelessly crawling across.
Ivory Black.
Cadmium Gold.
Alazarin Crimson.
Gregor picked up one curl and ran it over his palm and through his fingers, with only the slightest tug on my hair. It shocked me to realize I wish he’d pull harder.
What the hell is this man doing to me?
He stormed back into my life less than twenty-four hours ago and already I was practically begging him to fuck me while he pulled my hair.
Breaking into my chaotic thoughts, he said, “The real art is upstairs.”
My eyebrow rose. The art was bait—a trap—and I was going to walk into it.
Not trusting myself to speak, I just nodded my assent.
Taking the now cooled mocha from my hands, he set it aside and enclosed my palm in his own.
Looking down, I marveled at how big his hand looked compared to my small pale one. The man had sexy hands. Strong and tan with a few faint scars over his knuckles hinting at his violent life. He had on an expensive-looking watch. It was chrome and black leather with an old-fashioned Roman numeral face. It suited him.
With a start, I realized this wasn’t the first time I had observed his hands.
Oh, my God.
My painting.
The one from Boston. The only one I’d ever sold.
Little Girl Saved.
The man’s hand clasped around her wrist, the one saving her, was Gregor’s hand. Without conscious thought, I had recreated it on canvas right down to the watch.
I was sure there were deep and dark Freudian revelations to be had from this newfound knowledge, but that would have to be for later, when I was tucked into bed going over today’s events in my mind.
I was just glad that wasn’t one of the paintings in my loft right now. I’d hate for Gregor to know of its existence. Who knows how he’d read into it?
With a resigned step, I followed him out into the hall and up the main staircase.
It really was a stunning home.
Located in Evanston right on the shores of Lake Michigan, it was a massive crimson red brick structure with gabled windows and the outside walls covered in ivy. I’d noticed that same ivy covered the many security cameras which surveyed the parameter beyond the tall, walled-in gates.
The artwork in the entranceway was tasteful but cold.
Two pieces from Rothko’s later period. The color blocks of blue and green were large and abstract, telling the visitor nothing about the personality of its owner.
Perhaps that was the way Gregor liked it?
The art showed he had money and taste but gave no other detail away about the man.
Despite the intensity of our limited encounters and our connection through Nadia and our families, I still knew very little about him while he seemed to know almost everything about me, right down to the coffee drink I liked.
It was unnerving.
The thick Egyptian Violet hallway carpet muffled our footsteps.
“Let me show you to your bedroom.”
“My bedroom? I’m not fuc—” I stopped myself before I cursed.
I tried to pull my hand free. He only tightened his grasp. I threw my weight back and pulled harder. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he relented.
I measured my words carefully, unwilling to get another dose of his discipline for dropping the f-bomb repeatedly like I wanted to. “What do you mean, my bedroom?”
“It means what you think it means.”
He placed a controlling hand on my lower back and pushed me through the first door on the right. At one end of the large room was a tester bed with a delicate cream lace canopy. The ash blue carpeting highlighted the golden undertones in the walnut furnishings placed around the perimeter.
In the middle of the room, there was a small pile of suitcases and boxes.
My belongings.
He must have had everything moved here after I left with the goons guarding me.
I rounded on him; claws bared.
Chapter 18
Samara
… but I stopped cold.
My mouth dropped open at what he held in his hand.
My small black leather portfolio with my fake passports and access codes for my offshore accounts.
I swiped at it but he raised his arm, keeping it out of my reach.
“That’s mine!”
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Someone’s been a very bad girl. You know it’s illegal to possess false identification.”
He was judging me on the criminal nature of my actions. That was rich.
“These types of off-shore accounts are notorious for their low-security. As your fiancé, I took the liberty of moving your money someplace safer.”
His calm, conciliatory tone belied the evil nature of his actions.
My money was gone and so was any hope of escape.
“You bastard,” I cried through clenched teeth.
I swung at him again, this time aiming for his face. He caught my arm in midair, his strong fingers wrapping around my wrist as he pulled me against him.
With no warning, his mouth descended to take possession of mine. His tongue swept between my lips and tasted and teased. My hands, which should have been pushing him away, came up to rest on his shoulders as I allowed him to plunder and take. He smelled of Bleu de Chanel and tasted like black coffee… and me.
My entire word tilted as I allowed myself to be swept under.
When I was breathless and disoriented, he set me aside. I opened my eyes to see him reach into his breast pocket for a linen handkerchief. He wiped my red lipstick off his mouth. After returning the linen to his pocket, he gave me a slow appraisal.
“You cannot win against me, Samara. The more you fight it… the harder it will get for you.”
There was no mistaking his meaning.
I backed away, taking a few steps deeper into the room, hoping distance from him would break the seething sexual tension.
I just needed to keep reminding myself that I hated him.
Taking a deep breath, I surveyed the room. That was when I observed th
e Degas over the bed. It was a depiction of one of Degas’ favorite subjects, ballerinas. This one showed several in the wings getting ready to go on stage.
Wanting to get a little of my own back, I tossed him a snarky smile over my shoulder. “You know this is a fake, right?”
“What?” said Gregor as he followed me into the room.
I took great pleasure in seeing the superior smile wiped off his face.
“It’s a fake.”
Gregor leaned his hands on the bed as he took a closer look. “You can’t possibly know that for sure. You haven’t even looked at the edges.”
A non-invasive way to tell immediately if a painting was counterfeit was to compare the edges of the canvas, the part not seen because of the frame, with the photographed edges kept on file by whatever insurance company insured the painting. This only worked if the forger didn’t also work for the insurance company.
“I know about the artist. He works out of Belgium,” I said appreciatively. I had read up on the infamous forger when the gallery I worked for almost got taken in by one of his works.
Gregor’s brow lowered. It was fun seeing the great Gregor Ivanov realize they had taken him in.
Gregor shook his head. “No. It can’t be. This painting had impeccable provenance.”
I nodded. “Yes, that would be his contact in the Ukraine. According to this article I read, no one beats her when it comes to creating a false paper trail for a painting.”
Kicking off my shoes, I crawled up on the bed. Kneeling in front of the painting, I pointed to one of the ballerina’s costumes. Buried in the hem of the tutu was what appeared to be an innocuous squiggle. “You see that? That is actually the forger’s signature.”
“Signature?”
“A lot of forgers can’t resist ‘signing’ their work. If you know where to look, you can find their mark.”
I turned to look at Gregor. I realized my position on the bed had me kneeling in front of him again. Only this time, I was eye level. I could see his platinum eyes darken as they drifted over my face and cleavage.
And just like that, all the sexual tension returned.
Gregor dipped two fingers into the bodice of my dress and pulled me closer. “I guess it’s a good thing I’ll soon be married to a skilled art consultant who’ll protect me from forgeries from now on.”
My breath hitched. Realizing where we were, I quickly scrambled off the other side of the bed. Shoving my feet back into my shoes, I walked across the room, away from his commanding presence.
“Where does this door lead?” I opened the door before he could answer.
Taking a step inside the room, I instinctively knew I was in his bedroom.
The rooms were connected.
Connected.
As in separated only by a door.
A thin piece of wood.
Ignoring the way my stomach flipped at the knowledge, I stepped further into the room.
Instead of carpeting, the floor comprised broad wooden floorboards stained a rich oxblood. Similar to his office, there were two high black-lacquered cabinets flanking the large poster bed which had rich gold velvet curtains on either side of the headboard. Leaning against one cabinet was a Gustav Klimt painting from the Block-Bauer series, the shimmering gold tones and unique style unmistakable.
In its place over the bed was the painting from my Little Girl Lost series. The one he had taken from my loft earlier.
Pointing, I whispered, “That’s my painting.”
My mind spun over what it could mean that he had hung it in such a prominent place over his bed, displacing a priceless Klimt, no less, to do it.
“It’s mine now,” said Gregor over my shoulder as he entered the bedroom and leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest.
I turned, my hands on my hips. “Do you always just take what isn’t yours?”
Stalking toward me, Gregor grabbed my chin and lifted my gaze to his own. Talking low and even, his words clipped and rife with meaning, he said, “I always take what I want, and I never let go of what is mine.”
In that moment, I couldn’t decide if I was more frightened or flattered.
With an anxious glance at the enormous bed that lorded over the entire room, I escaped back into my bedroom.
Gregor sauntered after me.
Reaching around him, I made a show of slamming the door shut.
Looking at the doorknob, I said, “There’s no lock. I want a—”
Gregor cut me off. “No.”
“I hate you! If you think I’m going to allow you to just waltz in here whenever you like and take—”
His hand clasped me around the neck and pulled me close, cutting off my threat.
Leaning down, his lips almost touched mine. I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin as he said with a fierce growl, “I know I’m the monster from your dreams, Samara. The beast lurking in the shadows waiting to snatch you away these past three years, but it doesn’t matter, malyshka. You can profess to hate me all you want. I feel your body tremble at my touch.”
Denying the raw honesty of his words, I tried to break away. Using his free hand, he pushed against my lower back, forcing me closer. I could feel the press of his cock against my stomach.
“It’s not true,” I spit out, trying to turn my head away, but his grip on my neck prevented it.
With a low curse, Gregor picked me up and carried me to the bed.
Tossing me onto the middle of the mattress, the heavy weight of his body quickly followed, pinning me down. My struggles were useless as he snatched my wrists and stretched my arms high over my head.
“You’re lying to yourself. You and I both know if I were to flip these skirts up, I’d find you wet and ready for my cock… just like earlier.” His hips ground into mine, emphasizing each word.
My cheeks flamed. I could already feel the proof between my thighs.
With his free hand, he grasped my breast and squeezed till my hips shot off the bed, rubbing against him. “Your virginity is safe from me… for now. Before I sink my cock into that sweet, tight pussy of yours, I’ll make you beg for it first.”
“Never,” I choked out as I tossed my head from side to side.
He leaned down and bit my earlobe, before whispering darkly in my ear, “Mark my words, love. You’ll scream my name.”
He twisted his hips between my legs one more time before releasing me.
I curled into the fetal position on the bed as he rose to stand over me, straightening his cuffs.
He turned and headed for the door, tossing over his shoulder, “I’ll leave you to unpack.”
Leaning up on my hands, I pushed my now tangled hair away from my face and asked, “So I’m to be your prisoner?”
“Think of yourself as a reluctant, honored guest with fringe benefits,” he taunted.
My mouth opened, and I had every intention of giving him a scathing retort when his shoulders tightened and his brows lowered.
A beast expecting a fight.
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
As he closed the door, I collapsed back onto the bed and cried tears of frustration and fear.
I was learning his mercurial moods, his temper, and what turned him on. At the same time, I was seeing a side of him I never would have expected. If I wasn’t more on my guard, I would mistake his manipulative actions as protective and almost caring in a strange, overbearing, arrogant sort of way.
The only thing I knew for certain was Gregor was even more dangerous to me now than ever before.
Chapter 19
Gregor
I was a fucking savage.
Instead of returning to my office, I walked inside my bedroom and headed straight to the connecting door.
She was crying.
I had done that.
Flattening my palm on the smooth wood, I bent my head and leaned my forehead against the door.
Fuck.
I fought the urge to go in there, ta
ke her in my arms, and promise her everything would be okay if she just trusted me. How could I expect her to trust me? I’d done nothing to earn it. Even if I marched in there right now and told her what her father was planning, explained to her that I was keeping her safe, there was no reason for her to believe me. And why should she? Her own parents had betrayed her. I’d done nothing but order her about and bully her. No wonder the girl didn’t trust anyone.
Taking my anger out on a defenseless girl, and for what? Because she had wounded my pride by running from me? Embarrassed the Ivanov name?
I had truly become my father’s son, and I hated myself for it.
I no longer gave a damn about my contract with her father. This wasn’t about business anymore. If I were honest with myself, it hadn’t been about business for a long time. Somewhere between reading her underlined passages in Dracula, smiling at her Cafe Mocha addiction, and appreciating her paintings, my search for her had become personal. I ached to know her as the woman she had become. She was no longer just the daughter of a Federov.
Now that I’d finally found her, she was everything I’d imagined and more. I loved her spirit and the way she challenged me, even when she feared me, and the way her eyes turned a startling green-gold when she was angry, turned on—or both—which was most of the time around me.
I turned and leaned my shoulders against the door. The painting over my bed caught my eye. I genuinely liked her work. Each canvas had an innocence and darkness which drew me in and perfectly captured Samara's essence. A beautiful, innocent soul who’d been corrupted by the evil actions of those around her. Corrupted by me.
As much as I liked this one, I liked the one I bought from that gallery in Boston better, Little Girl Saved. I had recognized the hand saving the little girl as my own. That was the moment I knew I was in Samara’s thoughts as much as she was in mine. And in that painting, I was the one saving her… not breaking her.
I almost had her back in my arms that time. I had come so close. I remembered breaking down the girls’ apartment door and finding it empty, her perfume still lingering in the air.