Chapter 11 #2
“I know for a fact, you do not use the same false identity twice, so no one here would have dealt with a Gwen Stevens since you haven’t been in Chicago that long.
I also know that you deliberately change your appearance with make-up, wigs for each new identity.
So, the chances of one of these self-involved pompous asses recognizing you as the person who sold them a painting a few weeks ago is slight. ”
With each statement of fact, I pressed in closer till I could feel the brush of her breasts against my chest.
“How could you possibly know all that?” she asked, not even trying to hide her alarm.
I refused to answer.
Tilting my head down, I breathed in her air.
I raised my hand and brushed the back of my knuckles over the soft rise of her breast, wanting to feel her heartbeat, knowing it would be fast and erratic. My malyshka could try to hide her emotions from me, but she couldn’t control her body’s reaction to my presence.
Samara licked her lips as her mouth opened just slightly in invitation.
I leaned in closer but was interrupted.
“Gregor Romanovich, you bastard. I thought that was you. I heard you and your brother were in town.”
A large hand clapped me on the shoulder as I turned. “Dimitri Antonovich!” I greeted him with both his first and middle name as well as was the custom in Russia.
I embraced my old friend, and we kissed on the cheeks.
“But what are you doing in Chicago, my friend? The meeting over the deal with Syria is not until next month. There is nothing I should know about, is there?”
Dimitri Kosgov and his business partner Vaska Rostov were two of the most powerful and feared arms dealers in the Western Hemisphere.
They based their operations out of Chicago, so naturally he would be curious why I was here unannounced.
Men of my caliber did not just show up. It rattled the other powers that be.
“Everything is going as planned for next month. I’m here on a brief trip with my fiancé. Dimitri, may I introduce, Samara Federova.”
I placed a controlling hand on Samara’s lower back and shot her a warning glare.
Her bottom pink lip stuck out in a pout, making me want to lean over and bite it.
Dimitri raised an eyebrow. Being the man he was, he would have heard of her abrupt disappearance and my search for her and her friend over the years. It was an embarrassment for both the Ivanovs and Federovs. All the more reason to showcase that Samara was now back at my side, where she belonged.
Dimitri extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Samara.”
Samara glanced down at Dimitri’s heavily tattooed hand and hesitated. She shifted her stance to sidle a little closer to my side. The small, probably unconscious, move pleased me more than I would care to admit.
Dimitri was as tall and powerfully built as me, which made him equally intimidating.
Before I could reassure her, a small brunette dressed in a floral dress and Doc Martens walked up and wrapped an arm around Dimitri’s forearm. “Dimitri, can’t you see you’re frightening her? I keep trying to tell you… you are a very scary-looking man!”
She leaned over and gave Samara a reassuring smile. “Hi! I’m Emma. Sorry if my husband came off like Caliban from The Tempest .”
Dimitri grabbed her around the waist. Leaning down, he nipped at her ear as she giggled. “I’ll show you a beast later, moya kroshka!”
Looking down, it surprised me to see Samara’s cheeks flush as she stared at them with rapt attention.
My brow furrowed, and I returned my gaze to my friend and his new pretty wife.
I had heard he had made an unusual choice in bride, picking a woman who had no money or influence, who wasn’t even a daughter of an important Russian family.
If I remembered correctly, she was a librarian.
His choice seemed foolish and short-sighted.
Why not simply fuck the girl and marry someone who would better further his business interests?
One had only to look at him to know the answer.
He looked happy.
“Pozdravlyayu so svad'boy,” I said as I shook Emma’s hand.
Samara finally found her tongue. Taking her cue from me, she congratulated the couple on their recent marriage as well.
His new bride turned back to us. “I love your outfit, Samara. I can’t wait for you to meet my friend Mary! You both have the same fabulous style.”
“Thank you,” answered Samara through tight, thinned lips.
It killed her to receive a compliment on the dress I had purchased for her and insisted she wear.
We both knew I had chosen perfectly.
I couldn’t resist an arrogant smirk as I looked down at her. She willfully kept her head straight ahead, denying me the satisfaction of gloating. Slipping my hand more securely around her waist, I gave her a little squeeze. In response, she stamped her ballet-slippered foot down on mine.
I couldn’t contain a bark of laughter. Dimitri gave me a quizzical look, but I waved his concern away. It was thrilling to know that spark of spirit I had seen in her three years ago had been flamed into a fire during her years away from me.
Looking down into her dark emerald eyes, I gave her wink, hoping it would piss her off.
It did.
Her eyes narrowed as she tried—and failed—to once more twist out of my embrace.
She really was an entertaining little spitfire.
Just then a server announced the Impressionist gallery was now open.
We followed Dimitri, Emma, and the other guests to the second floor.
Over the entrance to the Regenstein Hall was a massive banner announcing the new special exhibit, First Ladies of the Impressionists, and beneath that were portraits of Morisot, Cassatt, Gonzales, and Bracquemond.
Tonight, was the gala honoring the new exhibit, while tomorrow it would open to the public.
I didn’t want to read into my motivation for coming, knowing deep down I chose this specific event not just because of who would be in attendance, but because I thought it would please her.
From the corner of my eye, I watched Samara swipe another glass of champagne, hoping I wouldn’t notice. Soon she would realize nothing escaped my notice.
Using my hand on her lower back, I guided her to the Marie Bracquemond section of the exhibit, particularly a small self-portrait of the artist. As we stood before the painting, I asked Samara what she knew of it as I studied the burnt umber and ivory tones.
The artist stared serenely back through dark, resigned eyes.
“It’s a self-portrait of Marie Bracquemond. This is the only self-portrait in her collection.” Samara tried to step away from me, but my hand on her waist prevented it. “I think she looks sad and beaten down by the life choices forced on her.”
Surrounded by the glow of the dim gallery lighting, Samara looked luminous and beautiful as her gaze studied the painting before us, not missing a detail.
“Beautiful,” I murmured softly against her sweet-smelling hair.
I could tell by her deepening blush she heard me, but she refused to look up.
Nodding to the painting, she continued, “She’s not as well-known as say Cassatt or Morisot because her husband forbade her to pursue a career in painting despite being an artist himself. He was probably threatened by her talent. A real man would have encouraged her.”
The little minx was baiting me.
I wondered if this was one of the reasons why she ran from me.
Had someone given her the impression I wouldn’t support her art career?
She probably thinks I’m a neanderthal who wants a woman chained to a stove.
Well, I’m not.
Chained to my bed… that was different.
Making sure she could feel every inch of my body as I stood close behind her, I whispered in her ear, “ When you are my wife, I don’t care how you spend your days as long as you are in my bed with those beautiful legs spread waiting for me at night.”
I could tell my honest response startled her.
“I need to use the lady’s room,” she announced as she quickly turned. In her haste to get away from me, she bumped into another guest, spilling the rest of her champagne.
I watched for a minute as she practically ran through the gallery. Then I followed her.