8. Nadia
8
NADIA
I can’t seem to make this chiffon sit right. Cussing at it doesn’t seem to help. But, the impending date of my next show means I have to figure this shit out.
Where is my sketchbook? Maybe I had a moment of genius when I was designing.
It isn’t where I would expect it to be.
I’ve taken over one of the extra bedrooms as my new work studio. Trying to get things where I want them is a pain, but it isn’t as bad as last week when Roman’s goons just dumped everything and I had to spend two days sorting it all out.
I know it’s around here somewhere?
Moving piles of fabric, I search on the chair seats I’ve been using as makeshift racks.
“Dammit.” A little flurry of panic begins to percolate through me. That thing is more important than even a journal. It has everything in it.
Including personal notes.
But, more importantly for this dress, it has the layout in it.
Argh. This makes me want to pull my hair out. I’m stuck until I find it.
Getting a cup of coffee might help. It will give me a chance to step away and regroup. I need the caffeine. It’s going to be a long night until I get everything done for fittings.
Roman is leaning over the counter facing away from me when I come around the corner.
His dark slacks hug the tight curve of his ass and thighs, sending a quiver into my belly as I think about the strength he hides under those snug designer suits.
If I liked him more, I’d be tempted to swat him as I pass and beg for forgiveness.
My stomach drops as I get closer and see what has him so fascinated.
It’s my book, full of intimate musings and?—
Oh, fuck. Drawings of him.
I think I may puke.
“These are very good.” His voice is a growl as he turns the page.
“Um. That’s mine.” I lunge forward, but grasp empty air as he hoists my hidden secrets above his head and out of my reach.
“Wait, I want to show you my particular favorite.” His white button shirt tugs up, exposing his abs and a hint at another tattoo.
I’m torn if I should try and climb the trunk of his body, or stare at the art he’s revealed.
Well, the little trail of dark hair that leads below his belt is much more interesting.
He lowers his arm to show me my worst fear.
The picture of him.
“This one. Now I know you’ve been looking. But, this part is wrong.” He tosses the book onto the counter and begins to unbutton his top.
“What, um. What are you doing?” Snatching my sketches, I hug it to my chest.
Every flavor of embarrassment courses through me as his toned body is slowly revealed.
“Those tattoos, they’re all wrong.” Peeling the sleeves off, he bares himself. “See? This one.” He points at a cluster of skulls beneath a crown. “This one makes grown men piss themselves. You should put it in your drawing.”
He moves closer until I’m wedged next to the refrigerator and all I can see is him.
But, I can’t resist the beauty in the art.
“It’s really well done. What does it mean?” My fingers burn where they trace the ink.
He shrugs. “It means I built my empire on a pile of men. Many have tried to bring down the Petrov family. But, none have succeeded.”
His palm covers my wandering hand when I get too close to a smaller mark over his heart.
It’s just a date, from almost ten years ago.
“What is that one?” I look up, meeting his dark eyes that are pinched in pain.
“The day our enemies tried to destroy us.” He billows his shirt back up over his shoulders and begins to fasten it closed.
He turns away as he opens his belt to stuff the tails inside his waist.
I almost stand on my tiptoes to see what he’s hiding.
I’ve had a hard time sleeping most nights remembering the size of him pressing against my thigh that evening before dinner.
It makes my hands dive beneath my own panties to relieve myself before I can finally drift off.
He glances back and catches me looking.
Heat floods into my cheeks when I turn away.
“Do you want to help me?” He turns with a half smile, the obvious bulge in his open zipper is only covered by the end of the white fabric.
“No. Business, remember?” I let out a long breath. I have to say it to remind myself, even if he’s hot as hell and half unclothed.
The grin fades. “Fine. If you don’t want to, I’ll find someone who will.” He buckles his belt and pulls his suit jacket from the back of the chair. “I’m heading to the club. I won’t be back for dinner.”
“So, what, you move me in, then go out and fuck other women? Nice.” I knew he was an asshole from the beginning. I shouldn’t be surprised.
But, he’s my husband.
Weirdly, even though we aren’t like that , the thought of him with someone else makes me feel icky.
He pulls his sleeve down and adjusts his cufflinks. One eyebrow raises as he looks at me, his chiseled jaw clenches. “You can come. I have no objections to fucking my wife.”
I cling tighter to my book. “Pass,” I squeak.
How do I tell him I want him to stay? That I’m just starting to enjoy getting to know him?
But, I’m not ready to be one of his playthings, used and tossed aside.
“As you wish, lastochka.” Turning on his Italian shoe heel, he brisks out, leaving nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne.