Chapter 15
G regor
An argument in the hallway just outside my door announced her arrival.
“I’m in the house now, you don’t have to keep following me!” said Samara, indignation giving her voice a deep, husky quality I liked.
My office door swung open, and Samara stormed in, head held high. The two men I’d assigned to guard her hovered on the threshold.
“Will you please tell your two goons to go away?” she huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest. The movement pushed her breasts up high over the scalloped neckline of her dress.
I nodded to the men who bowed their heads before closing the door behind them.
She had dressed carefully. I admired her trim waist and the sway of her hips as she walked a few more steps into my office.
Good.
It meant I was in her head, precisely where I wanted to be.
Selfishly, I wanted her to think of me as often as possible.
I couldn’t help but wonder if the crinoline underneath her vintage black with red polka dot swing dress was red or black. I would learn soon enough.
“Can I offer you some coffee?” I asked cordially, as if this were any normal morning.
I could see the play of emotions as they crossed her beautiful, expressive eyes. They really were the most startling shade of bright green. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she often used contacts when disguising herself since I cannot imagine anyone forgetting those eyes.
“No, thank you. I won’t be staying,” she responded primly.
“We’ll agree to disagree on that point… for now.”
I motioned for her to sit. The moment she chose a chair in front of me, I approached and leaned against the front of my desk. When I crossed my feet, my legs brushed her skirts. I could smell her Chanel perfume.
She immediately popped up and paced around my office. She stopped before a large bronze sculpture which was positioned in front of a pair of windows. It was of a man writhing with tortured emotion, each sinew of his muscles strained and defined.
“Szukalski,” she said.
I could tell she was trying to deflect the conversation. I would indulge her, for the moment.
“Very good. Few know his work. Have you ever heard the story of how he learned anatomy for his art?”
She shook her head.
I approached.
Standing so close behind her, I could see the sunlight play off the cranberry red highlights in her warm brown hair.
Art was common ground for us. She was probably unaware that I was actually a great admirer and collector of art.
It was just one of the things which intrigued me about her.
I was honest enough with myself to admit it would be pleasant having someone I could talk to about my passion for art.
“He was only a boy when his father was killed in a car accident. Szukalski carried his body to the morgue himself and then asked if he could be there during the autopsy. So, as he told it, he learned anatomy from his father.”
She shivered.
I placed my hands on her bare arms.
She quickly shied away. “What a dreadful story.”
“I could tell a far more pleasant one about the Turner hanging over the fireplace,” I offered with an amused smile.
Her head turned, and she walked the few steps to stand in front of the fireplace to observe the painting. It was a classic Turner of a storm at sea.
“This is real!”
I nodded.
“You have a real Turner in your house?”
Again, I nodded. I stepped closer before suggestively offering, “I also have a Klimt in my bedroom. Want to see it?”
Her pretty mouth opened in shock. For most women it was jewels, for Samara it was priceless art. I could tell she was tempted by my offer to see it. After all, not many people privately owned a Klimt. Most of his work was showcased only in museums.
She paced away from me. I watched as her mouth thinned and her shoulders straightened.
“Mr. Ivanov-”
So, we were going to play that game, were we?
“Gregor,” I corrected.
“Mr. Ivanov—” she stubbornly continued.
“Samara, I know what your pussy tastes like,” I teased. “Perhaps you could call me by name.”
I could see the movement of her slim throat as she nervously swallowed. “Gregor, I think we need to have a serious conversation about this ludicrous idea that I’m somehow obligated to marry you because of a loan you made to my father.”
“No.”
She continued to pace from one end of the room to the next, refusing to meet my gaze. “No? You can’t just say no. I was a na?ve and frightened teenager three years ago, which is why I ran, but things have changed. You can’t bully me into this!”
I shook my head as I leaned against the front of my desk, arms crossed over my chest. “Samara, you and I both know that I have the power to force you… if I must.”
“What are you going to do? Toss me over your shoulder and carry me down the aisle and then force me to say I do at the altar?”
I raised one eyebrow as she finally dared to look in my direction, letting her know that was precisely what I would do.
She paused in her frenetic pacing. Once more I watched the play of emotions cross her face. This time it was a blend of astonishment and genuine fear. “You can’t honestly fucking think you’d get away with a bullshit ceremony like that?”
“Language,” I warned. I did not answer her question.
She paused, hands on hips. “Of course! You’re Gregor fucking Ivanov. You can take anything you want with no one saying shit to you.”
I sighed. “Samara, I won’t warn you again about your language. If that sweet little mouth of yours utters one more foul word, I’m going to teach it a lesson.”
Samara raised her arm and pointed at me. “See? That right there! Your arrogant high-handedness! Who gave you the right to dictate to me what I can and can’t do?”
“No one gave me anything. I took it.”
“Well, I’m taking it back! I don’t have to listen to you! You don’t own me!”
God, it was fun watching her hips sway as she paced in agitation.
She really had a spectacular walk. Rising to my full height, I pushed away from the desk and stalked toward her.
She took a few steps back. I kept forward till I pressed her against the bookcase on my far wall.
With a determined hand, I reached for her skirts.
“No!” she cried out as she tried to grasp my wrist and hold her skirts down.
With one swift movement, I secured both wrists above her head, and once more, I reached for the hem of her skirt. Lifting it high, I leaned in close, my mouth only inches from hers. My fingertips shifted the soft fabric of her panties to the side as I flicked her clit.
Her red lips opened on a gasp.
“That’s where you’re wrong, malyshka. I do own you, and I’m going to prove it right now.”