Chapter 18
S amara
… but I stopped cold.
My mouth dropped open at what he held in his hand.
My small black leather portfolio with my fake passports and access codes for my offshore accounts.
I swiped at it but he raised his arm, keeping it out of my reach.
“That’s mine!”
“Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. Someone’s been a very bad girl. You know it’s illegal to possess false identification.”
He was judging me on the criminal nature of my actions. That was rich.
“These types of off-shore accounts are notorious for their low-security. As your fiancé, I took the liberty of moving your money someplace safer.”
His calm, conciliatory tone belied the evil nature of his actions.
My money was gone and so was any hope of escape.
“You bastard,” I cried through clenched teeth.
I swung at him again, this time aiming for his face. He caught my arm in midair, his strong fingers wrapping around my wrist as he pulled me against him.
With no warning, his mouth descended to take possession of mine.
His tongue swept between my lips and tasted and teased.
My hands, which should have been pushing him away, came up to rest on his shoulders as I allowed him to plunder and take.
He smelled of Bleu de Chanel and tasted like black coffee… and me .
My entire word tilted as I allowed myself to be swept under.
When I was breathless and disoriented, he set me aside. I opened my eyes to see him reach into his breast pocket for a linen handkerchief. He wiped my red lipstick off his mouth. After returning the linen to his pocket, he gave me a slow appraisal.
“You cannot win against me, Samara. The more you fight it… the harder it will get for you.”
There was no mistaking his meaning.
I backed away, taking a few steps deeper into the room, hoping distance from him would break the seething sexual tension.
I just needed to keep reminding myself that I hated him.
Taking a deep breath, I surveyed the room. That was when I observed the Degas over the bed. It was a depiction of one of Degas’ favorite subjects, ballerinas. This one showed several in the wings getting ready to go on stage.
Wanting to get a little of my own back, I tossed him a snarky smile over my shoulder. “You know this is a fake, right?”
“What?” said Gregor as he followed me into the room.
I took great pleasure in seeing the superior smile wiped off his face.
“It’s a fake.”
Gregor leaned his hands on the bed as he took a closer look. “You can’t possibly know that for sure. You haven’t even looked at the edges.”
A non-invasive way to tell immediately if a painting was counterfeit was to compare the edges of the canvas, the part not seen because of the frame, with the photographed edges kept on file by whatever insurance company insured the painting.
This only worked if the forger didn’t also work for the insurance company.
“I know about the artist. He works out of Belgium,” I said appreciatively. I had read up on the infamous forger when the gallery I worked for almost got taken in by one of his works.
Gregor’s brow lowered. It was fun seeing the great Gregor Ivanov realize they had taken him in.
Gregor shook his head. “No. It can’t be. This painting had impeccable provenance.”
I nodded. “Yes, that would be his contact in the Ukraine. According to this article I read, no one beats her when it comes to creating a false paper trail for a painting.”
Kicking off my shoes, I crawled up on the bed. Kneeling in front of the painting, I pointed to one of the ballerina’s costumes. Buried in the hem of the tutu was what appeared to be an innocuous squiggle. “You see that? That is actually the forger’s signature.”
“Signature?”
“A lot of forgers can’t resist ‘signing’ their work. If you know where to look, you can find their mark.”
I turned to look at Gregor. I realized my position on the bed had me kneeling in front of him again. Only this time, I was eye level. I could see his platinum eyes darken as they drifted over my face and cleavage.
And just like that, all the sexual tension returned.
Gregor dipped two fingers into the bodice of my dress and pulled me closer. “I guess it’s a good thing I’ll soon be married to a skilled art consultant who’ll protect me from forgeries from now on.”
My breath hitched. Realizing where we were, I quickly scrambled off the other side of the bed. Shoving my feet back into my shoes, I walked across the room, away from his commanding presence.
“Where does this door lead?” I opened the door before he could answer.
Taking a step inside the room, I instinctively knew I was in his bedroom.
The rooms were connected.
Connected.
As in separated only by a door.
A thin piece of wood.
Ignoring the way my stomach flipped at the knowledge, I stepped further into the room.
Instead of carpeting, the floor comprised broad wooden floorboards stained a rich oxblood.
Similar to his office, there were two high black-lacquered cabinets flanking the large poster bed which had rich gold velvet curtains on either side of the headboard.
Leaning against one cabinet was a Gustav Klimt painting from the Block-Bauer series, the shimmering gold tones and unique style unmistakable.
In its place over the bed was the painting from my Little Girl Lost series. The one he had taken from my loft earlier.
Pointing, I whispered, “That’s my painting.”
My mind spun over what it could mean that he had hung it in such a prominent place over his bed, displacing a priceless Klimt, no less, to do it.
“It’s mine now,” said Gregor over my shoulder as he entered the bedroom and leaned against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest.
I turned, my hands on my hips. “Do you always just take what isn’t yours?”
Stalking toward me, Gregor grabbed my chin and lifted my gaze to his own. Talking low and even, his words clipped and rife with meaning, he said, “I always take what I want, and I never let go of what is mine.”
In that moment, I couldn’t decide if I was more frightened or flattered.
With an anxious glance at the enormous bed that lorded over the entire room, I escaped back into my bedroom.
Gregor sauntered after me.
Reaching around him, I made a show of slamming the door shut.
Looking at the doorknob, I said, “There’s no lock. I want a—”
Gregor cut me off. “No.”
“I hate you! If you think I’m going to allow you to just waltz in here whenever you like and take—”
His hand clasped me around the neck and pulled me close, cutting off my threat.
Leaning down, his lips almost touched mine.
I could feel the warmth of his breath against my skin as he said with a fierce growl, “I know I’m the monster from your dreams, Samara.
The beast lurking in the shadows waiting to snatch you away these past three years, but it doesn’t matter, malyshka.
You can profess to hate me all you want. I feel your body tremble at my touch.”
Denying the raw honesty of his words, I tried to break away. Using his free hand, he pushed against my lower back, forcing me closer. I could feel the press of his cock against my stomach.
“It’s not true,” I spit out, trying to turn my head away, but his grip on my neck prevented it.
With a low curse, Gregor picked me up and carried me to the bed.
Tossing me onto the middle of the mattress, the heavy weight of his body quickly followed, pinning me down. My struggles were useless as he snatched my wrists and stretched my arms high over my head.
“You’re lying to yourself. You and I both know if I were to flip these skirts up, I’d find you wet and ready for my cock… just like earlier.” His hips ground into mine, emphasizing each word.
My cheeks flamed. I could already feel the proof between my thighs.
With his free hand, he grasped my breast and squeezed till my hips shot off the bed, rubbing against him. “Your virginity is safe from me… for now. Before I sink my cock into that sweet, tight pussy of yours, I’ll make you beg for it first.”
“Never,” I choked out as I tossed my head from side to side.
He leaned down and bit my earlobe, before whispering darkly in my ear, “Mark my words, love. You’ll scream my name.”
He twisted his hips between my legs one more time before releasing me.
I curled into the fetal position on the bed as he rose to stand over me, straightening his cuffs.
He turned and headed for the door, tossing over his shoulder, “I’ll leave you to unpack.”
Leaning up on my hands, I pushed my now tangled hair away from my face and asked, “So I’m to be your prisoner?”
“Think of yourself as a reluctant, honored guest with fringe benefits,” he taunted.
My mouth opened, and I had every intention of giving him a scathing retort when his shoulders tightened and his brows lowered.
A beast expecting a fight.
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
As he closed the door, I collapsed back onto the bed and cried tears of frustration and fear.
I was learning his mercurial moods, his temper, and what turned him on. At the same time, I was seeing a side of him I never would have expected. If I wasn’t more on my guard, I would mistake his manipulative actions as protective and almost caring in a strange, overbearing, arrogant sort of way.
The only thing I knew for certain was Gregor was even more dangerous to me now than ever before.