Chapter One
Dahlia
I can feel the cold New York air turning my cheeks pink as I step out of the car, following my friend Genevieve up to the hidden front door of the exclusive, private Manhattan club we’re visiting for the evening.
I haven’t been here before. With my last name, I could probably finagle a membership for myself, if I tried. But that would link me back to my father, a prominent politician in Washington D.C., and I try to put as much distance between us as I can here in New York. I went to Columbia for a reason, and I stayed here afterwards for a reason too—and not just because I got a job at the Met. I want nothing to do with that world of politics and scheming, and except for my visits home, I do a good job of keeping separation between that life and this one.
So I try not to use that name unless I need to. The last thing I need is for my father to catch wind of his little girl going out to a private club on a Friday night, having a few drinks and maybe going home with someone. Especially considering the last conversation we had.
Genevieve flips open the small black box on the brick wall, punching in a code. She has a membership thanks to her boyfriend, some Wall Street hedge fund guy who apparently doesn’t mind her going out without him when he’s working late. It astonishes me, because looking at Genevieve, I’d be jealous as hell if I were him. She’s stunning, with a ballerina’s figure, long dark hair, and an easy laugh and quick wit.
“I still can’t believe Chris lets you out of his sight,” I tease her as we wait for the code to go through and the door to open. “He’s gotta know everyone is looking at you when we go somewhere like this.”
Genevieve grins. “He just likes the sound of it when he tells his buddies that he’s dating the New York Ballet prima . I’m a boost to his ego. He doesn’t actually like spending time with me that much.” She shrugs. “And that suits me just fine. I don’t like him, either. I like his money.”
I can’t argue with that, not when a stipend from my father every month helps to soften the blow of how little I’m paid for working at the museum.
Her smile widens as the hidden door in the wall swings open, a large man with hard eyes and a black suit standing there as he lets us in. Our heels click on the wooden floor as we walk through the dimly lit hallway, to the second door at the end of it, where a gorgeous, willowy woman in a slim black pencil skirt and sleeveless blouse is standing.
“Your name?” she asks Genevieve, and Genevieve holds out a slim black card between two elegant fingers tipped in slick nude polish.
“Genevieve Fournier,” she says. “Courtesy of Christopher Fairwell. And my guest, Dahlia Kennedy.”
I smile, resisting the urge to wave. The woman’s face doesn’t move an inch, whether from Botox or because she’s unimpressed, and she taps a few keys.
“Go right ahead, Ms. Fournier, Ms. Kennedy,” she says, and she taps another key, the click of a lock sounding as the door in front of us opens.
“This is impressive,” I whisper as I follow Genevieve, and she grins.
“Just wait until we’re inside.”
She’s instantly proven right. The moment we step inside, I smell a wave of a warm, welcoming scent—firewood, roses, and pipe tobacco. The interior has an old-world feel to it, like a smoking room at a European club, or a library at some rich person’s estate. There’s a huge fireplace with a a few velvet and leather wing chairs in front of it, and the bar is in the center of the massive room, shaped like a narrow oval and made of burnished mahogany, three bartenders busily holding court behind it.
There’s more seating to the right of the room, wing chairs and antique sofas arranged around a huge, faded pink velvet rug with cabbage roses worked into it. I also see a wood and iron spiral staircase that leads up to the second floor, where from the glimpse I can get as I crane my neck, there’s more seating in a dimly lit space. There’s a very worn, vintage feel to all of it, like it’s meant to feel as if you could have walked into someone’s house party two hundred years ago.
As someone who studied art history and works at the Met, I’m instantly in love.
“You can’t break up with Chris,” I tell Genevieve firmly as we walk up to the bar, waiting in line to order. “We have to be able to come back here.”
She laughs, the sound musical in the midst of the dull roar of chatter. “Well, truthfully, I think that’s up to him. He’ll get bored eventually. They all do. But for now…” She grins. “I have every intention of riding this gold-plated train to the end of the line…or at least unless he tries to propose to me. Then I’m running for the hills, exclusive memberships or not.”
The line opens up in front of us, and Genevieve looks at the menu on the bar. It’s on heavy, cream-colored linen paper with raw edges, the drinks printed in curling black script. They’re all very unique, and I try to decide what I might want as Genevieve orders a gin with lime and club soda.
“That’s not very exciting,” I tease her as I glance over the menu. “Look at all the themed drinks they have.”
“Unfortunately, my job doesn’t lend itself to sugary cocktails very well.” Genevieve makes a face as she glances at the menu, too. “Did I tell you that Mme. Allard measured us all again last week? And not for costume fittings, either…we’re already past that for the winter showcase. Just because she wanted to.” She rubs at her upper arms, her fingers skimming over the cashmere of her slim-cut, pristine white sweater. “She pinched my arm fat so hard she left a bruise.”
“What arm fat?” I roll my eyes, and Genevieve laughs. There’s not a spare ounce of body fat on her—she’s fanatically trim, as is expected of her.
“One day when I’m not dancing professionally any longer—when I’m a teacher, maybe, I can’t wait to put on a bit of muscle.” She looks wistfully at me as I order a hot apple toddy. “Ever since you started taking those martial arts classes, you look incredible. I’d be scared to accost you on the street.”
“It’s been worth it.” I’ve had a gym routine ever since college, mostly running and the occasional yoga or Pilates class for flexibility. But after I got my own apartment here in Manhattan, instead of living in the dorms, I started taking martial arts classes, too. I wanted to feel safe walking around the city alone, and it gave me that confidence—as well as the first real muscle tone I’ve ever seen on myself. And when my best friend Evelyn got tangled up with first a low level gang and then the fucking New York Bratva , eventually ending up in an arranged-marriage-turned-actual-romance with the pakhan of that same Bratva…I started to think maybe my secondhand association with them was reason enough to put a little more effort into that training.
I canceled my Pilates membership and got a full time pass at the martial arts center, and in the two months that I’ve been training multiple times a week there, I think I’ve made real progress. My trainer thinks so, too.
“Should we go upstairs?” Genevieve takes a sip of her vodka as the bartender hands me my drink, and I let out a small, happy sigh as the warmth of the pretty mug it’s served in sinks into my palms. “Or do you want to stay down here?”
I glance around. It’s wall to wall with people, and I don’t actually see anywhere we could sit. “Let’s try upstairs,” I suggest, and Genevieve nods, leading the way to the spiral staircase.
Carefully, I follow her up, not wanting to slip on the thin, spiked heels I’m wearing. Genevieve is wearing slightly sturdier ankle boots, black velvet that come up to the edge of her slim black cigarette pants. A twisted ankle would be the end of the world for her, so I don’t blame her. I’ve never seen her wear stilettos.
Upstairs, there’s more space. There’s another fireplace, the light coming from it supplementing a few vintage lamps that give off low, warm light. It’s dim and intimate, and Genevieve and I head towards one of the empty sofas, an antique one with scalloped, worn gilded edges and forest green velvet upholstery. It’s sitting against the iron railing that overlooks the floor below, so we can people-watch a bit.
“How was the trip to D.C.?” Genevieve takes a sip of her drink, tucking one leg under her.
I wrinkle my nose. “The usual. Actually— not the usual. Not entirely.”
“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “Spill. I need some gossip after the day I’ve had.”
I let out a slow breath. I got back into town this morning, and I still don’t know how to come to terms with what my father threw at me when I went ‘home’ this past weekend. “He wants me to get married,” I blurt out, and Genevieve’s eyebrows rise even higher.
“In like…the way all parents want their kids to settle down and get married, so they can have grandbabies, or…”
“Or,” I confirm. “He has someone in mind. The son of some other politician with really good connections and lots of money. He’s looking at it like an old-world alliance. The kids get married, the families join forces, his political career gets a fresh boost. He sees absolutely no flaw in that plan.”
“And I take it you see a lot of flaws.”
I nod. “There’s a lot of people coming in and out of D.C. from other places, but I actually grew up with this guy. We went to the same private school. He went to Georgetown for college like he was supposed to, and I ran off to Columbia. My dad is trying to pitch it to me as some kind of childhood romance come to life. Like I should be starry-eyed and falling all over myself at the idea of coming back home and marrying this guy.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Genevieve asks curiously. “I mean—other than the part where you’re obviously not in love with him, and this is some kind of weird cousin to an arranged marriage.”
I shrug. “He’s boring. Attractive enough, I guess, but in that very clean-cut, stock photo kind of way. He looks like a carbon copy of every other guy in D.C.. There’s nothing unique or interesting about him, and I can’t help but tune out as soon as he starts talking. But his family is the model of what my dad wants everyone else to view our family as—that real Norman Rockwell, all-American thing. He thinks that it’ll be good for our ‘public image’.”
“You said he has money.” Genevieve considers for a moment. “But so do you. And I assume you’d have to move back there. My feelings about that aside—because of course I don’t want you to move away—you’d have to give up your job at the Met. I mean, I’m sure you could get a job at the Smithsonian, but you shouldn’t have to switch jobs over a man. I don’t think you want to move back to D.C., do you?”
I shake my head emphatically. “I don’t. And even with the strings my dad could pull, getting a museum job, especially as a curator, isn’t easy. I’m not guaranteed one. And I can very easily see him and Jude—the guy he wants me to marry—telling me to just be patient, wait for a position to open up, and all the while they’ll be angling for me to get pregnant, stay home, and play housewife.”
Genevieve wrinkles her nose. “So tell him no.”
“I wanted to,” I admit, picking at a cuticle as I look down. “But the thing is…my dad not-so-subtly hinted that if I don’t do this, he’s going to cut me off. The money he sends me every month to help supplement my salary—that’s going to dry up if I don’t agree.” I give Genevieve a wry smile, taking a sip of my drink. “A curator’s salary in NYC definitely isn’t what I’m used to. I mean, I could manage, but it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”
I’m aware that makes me sound slightly spoiled. But I know Genevieve won’t judge me—after all, she’s dating a man purely for the zeroes in his bank account and his luxury Amex card. And while I know I’d be fine if I had to scale down, I like the little bit of luxury that extra money affords me. I know my father has it in spades to spare, and I don’t feel like I should have to marry this guy to keep it.
As far as I’m concerned, this is just me getting my inheritance while I’m young enough to enjoy it. I’d rather that than suddenly getting a few million when I’m fifty.
“You could move in with me, if you wanted,” Genevieve says with a smile. “I wouldn’t mind a roommate. But I know you love your apartment. And I don’t think it’s right that your father is trying to strong-arm you into this.”
“I don’t, either,” I admit. “But it’s not just the money. Yeah, being cut off would really suck. Hell, if he’s mad enough, he might cut me out of the will too, although I don’t really think he’d go that far. But—” I bite my lower lip. “My family isn’t the warmest bunch. They’re stiff, and overly formal, and I’m glad I don’t live right there next to them. But I do care about them. My mom always tried to give me a good childhood growing up, and my father does love me, even if he’s not great at showing it. He wouldn’t take care of me financially if he didn’t. I don’t want to disappoint him.” I take another sip of my drink. “I just wish that he wasn’t asking me to marry someone I barely know any longer and don’t really care about in order to not disappoint him.”’
Genevieve makes a small humming sound under her breath. “That’s a hard spot to be in,” she agrees. “I’m sure he’s not going to be easily talked out of it, if he’s trying this hard to get you to say yes.”
“He’s trying very hard. When I wasn’t very open to the idea, he hinted that if I wanted to continue to be a part of the family, I would do this. I don’t want to be cut off from my family entirely, even less than I want to lose the money.” I lean back, feeling heat prick at the corners of my eyes. Just the thought of not being able to go home at all makes me want to cry. “Honestly, it hurts that he would put me in this position. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
“It’s really shitty.” Genevieve looks at me sympathetically. “I don’t know if I have any advice. In your position, I might just go along with it. But I don’t know. If I had to give up ballet, or go to a different corps because of the marriage? I would probably fight it. Your job is here. Your life, your friends—it’s not reasonable for him to ask you to give it all up, for his aspirations.”
“That’s not how he sees it.”
Genevieve plucks my empty glass out of my hand. “I’ll go get us another round,” she says decisively. “I’ll be right back.”
She stands up in one smooth, elegant motion that gives away her long years as a dancer to anyone watching—and a quick sweep of the room as she walks away tells me that just about everyone else up here is watching. Genevieve inevitably draws eyes wherever she goes.
Except for one man. I notice him precisely because he isn’t looking at her. He’s sitting far back in the room, in a large leather armchair, in a corner shadowed by the firelight. There’s a glass in his hand, cut crystal filled with an inch of amber liquid, and he swirls it aimlessly, his gaze drifting off into the room without really looking at anything.
I notice him because of how detached he is, but I keep staring at him because of how unbelievably gorgeous he is. There’s plenty of attractive people here, but he stands out, in part because he seems to not quite fit in.
There’s a more rugged air to him than any other man here has. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, and he’s wearing dark jeans—I honestly don’t know how he got in here wearing them. They look nice, but there’s a dress code, and jeans aren’t on it. He has on a soft-looking black sweater under a leather jacket, and his hands are covered in tattoos, all the way up his fingers. I think I can see them on his neck, too, although I can’t be sure in the low light.
I can’t see his eye color, either, although his hair seems to be a sandy blond, made darker by that same lighting. And he looks fit. I can only imagine what his body must look like under those clothes.
I can’t help but imagine it. A rush of heat goes through me as I study him, my thighs subconsciously squeezing together. He’s inordinately handsome, but there’s something more to it, too. There’s an air about him, something that makes me shiver, tingles of desire running across my skin just from looking at him. Like I can feel the sparks, even from the other side of the room.
I’d been on the verge of telling Genevieve that maybe I should just agree to marry Jude. It’s not like my own dating life has been going all that well. I had one serious relationship in college that lasted eight months, before I got bored and decided that the guy I lost my virginity to wasn’t the one I wanted to be with forever. I wanted to get out there and try new things, and I did.
My taste in men is partially to blame. I like artists, musicians, men with an edge. The types of men that typically don’t settle down all that easily. My dating life ever since that first relationship has been a long string of one-night-stands and flings, peppered with a few men that stuck around for a couple months at a time.
I don’t think this guy would be any different. But with my father’s demands that I marry the J. Crew catalog cutout waiting for me back home, I can’t help but find the possibility of what could happen if I went and talked to him even more tempting. A last hurrah, maybe, before I give in to what my family wants. Men have been disappointing in terms of romance for as long as I’ve been dating, and a small part of my mind has been whispering since my father proposed the idea that maybe marrying Jude is the best option. That maybe holding out for some passionate, fairy-tale romance is foolish when I could have the stability of a good name, money, and my family’s support behind me.
Who knows. Maybe Jude would agree to live part of the year in New York, when Congress is out of session or whatever. Or maybe we could be one of those couples who live separately. I very much doubt he’s any more enthralled with the idea of marrying me than I am him.
The click of Genevieve’s heels jolts me out of staring, and my cheeks heat as I realize that at any moment, the man could have looked over and caught me. But he didn’t—too lost in his own thoughts, I suppose. Whatever it is that has him brooding in the dark corner, over a glass of what looks like whiskey.
Genevieve clocks me staring immediately, though, and twists around as she hands me my glass, following the direction of my gaze. She whistles under her breath as she sees the man, sinking back down onto the couch next to me.
“ Merde . Look at him.” She swears lightly under her breath in French, and it makes me giggle, because Genevieve almost never speaks French. Her accent is light, but it thickens just a bit, and I press my fingers to my lips to hide my laugh.
“Right? He’s gorgeous .” There’s a hint of wistfulness to my voice as I look over at him again, and Genevieve grins.
“Go talk to him.”
“What? I shouldn’t.” I bite my lip, looking again. He’s still staring off into the distance, periodically swirling that whiskey around his glass. “Should I?”
“I think you should,” Genevieve says decisively. “ Especially if you’re considering going along with this marriage that your father is trying to set up for you for even a second. Who knows how many flings with gorgeous men that you find sitting in corners are left in your life?” She shrugs dramatically. “You could be run over by a taxi when we leave. This is New York, after all. They never look where they’re going. Even if you don’t get married, you shouldn’t pass up a chance to sleep with him .”
“You think he’d be interested?” I bite my lip again. I’m not unaware of my own attractiveness, but this man feels out of my league. The kind of gorgeous that belongs to movie stars and male models.
Genevieve scoffs. “Please. Of course he would be. Look at you.” She waves a hand in my general direction. “Go talk to him.”
I still hesitate. “This is supposed to be our night out together. I can’t ditch you for a man…”
“I’d ditch you for him,” Genevieve assures me. “Go,” she adds, gently pushing at my shoulder. “If he doesn’t bite, I’ll be right here waiting. But for your sake, I hope he does.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively at me, and I suck in a breath, grasping my drink in one hand as I slowly stand up.
I can feel eyes on me as I walk to the other side of the room, my red-bottomed stilettos putting a sway in my step whether I mean for there to be one or not. But the man I’m focused on doesn’t seem to notice my approach at all, not until I stop nearly in front of him.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask, nodding to a low, flat leather chair just to the side of where he’s sitting. And then, finally, he turns his gaze towards me, blinking as if he’s been pulled back from a long distance.
“No,” he says, after a beat passes. “No, it isn’t.”
“Mind if I join you?” I give him a slight smile, the habit of flirtation kicking in. I’ve done this plenty of times, the fact that this man is the most stunning example of masculinity I’ve ever come across shouldn’t change my confidence in my ability to flirt.
Although what does shake it, just a little, is the look on his face. His expression is almost blank—it’s not even disinterest. It’s as if he was off in another world, and he hasn’t entirely come back to this one.
“Go ahead.” He lifts his glass to his lips, but his eyes linger on me as I sink down into the chair, the smooth leather brushing against my thighs just below the edge of my skirt.
“What are you drinking?” It seems like an innocuous enough question, but he pauses again, blinking.
“Scotch,” he says finally. “Lagavulin. Twenty-five years.”
His voice is rough, with the rasp of a Russian accent. It startles me a little—I’m not sure why, exactly, it just isn’t what I expected. But when I glance down at his hands, I recognize one of the tattoos on the back. It’s the same tattoo that I’ve seen on Dimitri’s hand—my friend Evelyn’s husband. A Bratva tattoo.
Does he work for Dimitri? I’ve never seen him anywhere around the Yashkov mansion, or near Dimitri or Evelyn—although I definitely don’t know everyone who works for Dimitri. But I feel like that’s not a question I should ask. In fact, I’m fairly sure that I should pretend not to notice the tattoo at all. I don’t think the tattoos are specific to one particular family, but if this man is going to be a one-night-stand, it’s for the best that I just ignore the significance of it, I think.
And if I ever run into him again, we’ll just pretend we don’t know each other. I can’t pretend that I haven’t been a little envious of Evelyn, getting to have a Russian gangster in her bed every night. I don’t think I’d want it every night, but once or twice…
I did flirt quite a bit with her bodyguard, Gus, but he seemed fairly immune to my charms.
“What are you drinking?” He nods at my glass, and I’m jolted out of my thoughts, wondering if I’ve been sitting here in silence too long. If he noticed me staring at his tattoo.
“Apple toddy.” I give him a wry smile. “It was on the themed drink list.”
“Ah, yes. This place does like their kitsch.” He looks around, and I stifle a laugh.
“This is an expensive place to call it kitsch .” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure the very large man at the door or the woman whose face doesn’t move would appreciate hearing you use that word to describe it.”
He shrugs, as if being in this sort of club is old news to him. As if he’s just as unimpressed as the hostess was. “Still, it leans hard into the theme, net ? Old-world luxury. Taking us back in time.” He gestures around the room with his glass, his lips pressed together in a line that makes me wonder if he disapproves of it for some reason. He looks as if he might disapprove of quite a lot.
But the thought of hearing him say something in that accent to me as he strips my clothes off sends a rush of electricity down my spine, and my thighs inadvertently press together again. I swallow hard, lifting my drink to my lips again to mask it.
“Do you come here often?” I manage, mentally kicking myself as the world’s worst pick-up line comes out of my mouth. This man has completely undone my usual charisma. I’m good at this, normally—I’ve been backstage with the lead singers of bands and guys here for Fashion Week before. I’ve always been confident in my ability to walk into a party and take my pick of the available men.
But this man has me tied up in knots, and all I can think is that I wouldn’t mind him tying me up in reality, too.
His gaze shifts fully towards me, and for a minute I can feel heat creeping up my neck, wondering if he’s going to laugh at me, if he’s going to get up and leave. I wouldn’t blame him. But instead, he just looks at me, his hazel eyes meeting mine.
“No,” he says simply.