Chapter 7
S amara
Balancing the phone against my shoulder, I pinned the wig cap into place.
“I’m running a little late, but I’ll be there before Mr. Davidson arrives, I promise!”
I still refused to be seen in public without some kind of disguise, just in case. Yelena had stopped wearing one over a year ago. She was braver than I was.
Juggling the phone to my other shoulder, I pushed a bobby pin into place behind my ear.
“Yes. I had the boys pull the paintings I think he’ll like out of storage. I’m getting ready now. I’ll be there in twenty. I promise!”
Hanging up the phone, I ran over to the bed and dumped out my purse.
Rifling through the contents, I grabbed my makeup bag, unzipped it, and dumped that out, too.
Shifting through the various tubes of lipstick, eyeliners, and compacts scattered around my rumpled sheets, I searched for my favorite red lipstick.
It was a classic red matte straight out of the old femme fatale noir films I love.
Call me superstitious, but it was my good luck charm.
Taking off the lipstick top, I swung back to the mirror and smeared on a perfect cupid's bow. With my long auburn hair and bangs tucked up into the wig cap, I selected a neat blonde bob wig. It was a blunt cut just below my ears. I gave my head a shake to make sure it was secure.
Stepping back a few feet, I stared at my reflection. “Hello, Mr. Davidson. I’m Gwen Stevens. I’m Gwen Stevens. I’m Miss Stevens. I’m Gwen.”
I repeated the name a few times till I felt more in character. The key was to believe in the lie. I needed to become Gwen Stevens, Art Consultant.
Over my shoulder in the mirror's reflection, I could see who I truly was—Samara Federova, a failed artist and for all intents and purposes a fugitive bride.
My apartment wasn’t so much an apartment as a massive open-air loft.
It used to be an old pencil factory. I chose it for its high ceilings and massive windows.
Great for natural light. I dedicated most of the space to my painting studio.
I filled the place with stacked canvases, easels with half-finished paintings, several workbenches filled with brushes, paints, and rags.
I didn’t even have a sofa, and the bed was just a mattress on the floor.
It wasn’t for a lack of money; I had plenty of that in an offshore account thanks to Yelena and her racetrack betting schemes.
It was just I’d rather spend it on clothes and paints than something stupid like furniture, especially since we moved around so much.
Although after three years, we were finally putting down some roots.
It had been ages since we had a close call. The rumors of Gregor and Damien looking for us had all died down. It was time to build some kind of life. Which was why I got this job at an art gallery and my first apartment on my own.
My eye caught on the tarp-covered canvas in the center of the room.
Underneath it was my latest painting in a series I was calling Little Girl Lost .
This one had a girl dressed in a magenta dress tumbling down a hill into a black void as she reached out in vain for help.
I thought the series was some of my best work.
Unfortunately, I had only sold one of my canvases so far—my favorite.
It was a girl dressed in an emerald green dress and, like the others, she was tumbling through a void, but unlike the rest, a firm masculine hand had latched onto her wrist… saving her. I had titled it Little Girl Saved .
We were hiding out in Boston at the time, and I was so thrilled when a small gallery agreed to showcase my work. I couldn’t believe it when they contacted me and said they had a buyer for the painting, and they wanted to meet me. They bought one of my paintings.
Yelena was furious when she learned I had used my actual name.
It was stupid and rash and I shouldn’t have done it, but I selfishly wanted my actual name on my art.
She made us leave town that night. She was right, of course.
I had put us both in danger. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if we had stayed in town a little while longer.
If we had risked it. Would I have sold more paintings?
Would it have been the start of my career as an artist?
Shaking my head, I focused. It didn’t serve any purpose to dwell on what wasn’t.
If I couldn’t sell my art, at least I could be around it and help other artists sell theirs.
I’m Gwen Stevens. Gwen Stevens. Art Consultant. Gwen.
Sweeping my arm over the bed, I shoved all the contents back into my purse and ran out the door.
Never noticing, in my haste, I had left behind the one thing Yelena warned me to never, ever be without—a small leather portfolio with my extra fake IDs, passports, and cash, in case we ever had to leave and weren’t able to return to our apartments.
Little did I know just how much I would come to regret it.