Chapter 32
S amara
Several scary men in black fatigues holding even scarier automatic rifles greeted us as we disembarked.
One man stepped forward with authority, and I recognized Mikhail Volkov, head of security for the Ivanov family.
I wondered if Nadia still had a crush on him.
I hoped not. I wouldn’t want her to share my same fate.
Parked inside the private hangar was a small motorcade of black SUVs. Gregor quickly rushed me into the backseat of the closest one. Before I could even buckle my seatbelt, the car lurched forward.
So, this was my life now?
Surrounded by guards?
Under constant surveillance?
I sat in silence staring at the engagement ring on my finger as Gregor received a status report from Mikhail on the various additional security measures that had been taken since they attacked me.
We raced through the familiar streets of Washington D.C.
and then Alexandria, Virginia. Through the window, I could see several tourists stop and stare.
A few even took photographs, assuming some big politician or celebrity was behind the tinted glass.
Soon we were in Fairfax. A sign announced we had just entered the grounds of George Washington’s former Mount Vernon Estate.
We passed several large homes before stopping before an impressive wrought-iron gate that was at least one story high and attached to a solid, two-story brick wall.
After the driver punched in a security code, the automatic gate slowly slid open.
I cast a nervous glance at Gregor, but he was still talking with Mikhail who was in the passenger seat, though he’d turned around to face us in the back.
He must have seen my expression, because without pausing or looking in my direction, he reached over and placed his warm hand over my chilled ones and gave them a reassuring squeeze.
It was an oddly affectionate, couple-like thing to do, and I was even more oddly pleased and comforted by the gesture.
As the car rolled down a wide, tree-lined driveway, I tilted my head to look out through the front windshield. When the house came into view, I couldn’t stifle my gasp.
It was gorgeous and massive.
A white clapboard, Palladian-style home with a grey slate roof, it must have been at least four stories high with large arched windows every few feet. Behind it, I could see the gentle rolling waters of the Potomac River. The house was set on a slight hill just above its banks.
As we pulled into the circular drive, beautiful evergreen wreaths with scarlet ribbons were visible on the front door and side windows.
There were also tiny electric candles in each window.
While American Christmas had passed several weeks ago, I realized with a start that Russian Christmas was tomorrow.
“Whose house is this?” I whispered to Gregor.
His lips stretched into a rare smile while his eyes shone with pride. “Mine.”
“ This is your house?”
“What? Did you think I lived in some villain’s fortress underground?” he teased.
My nose wrinkled as my lips twisted into a grimace. “Sort of.”
Gregor shook his head as he reached to unbuckle my seatbelt. “Let me show you inside.”
As we exited the car, the double front doors swung open. A tall, rather severe looking woman with a tight bun in her hair and pinched lips greeted us. “Welcome home, Mr. Ivanov.”
“Thank you, Matilda.”
Too busy staring at the spiral staircase that dominated the entranceway, as it spun around an elaborate crystal chandelier and seemed to head straight up into the heavens, I didn’t notice when Gregor moved to sweep me into his arms.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m carrying my bride over the threshold.”
I blushed. I could almost believe this was a proper marriage.
Striding to the base of the staircase, Gregor tossed over his shoulder, “We don’t wish to be disturbed, Matilda.”
“Yes, sir.”
I clung to his neck as he easily carried me up a dizzying three flights of stairs.
The glossy white painted wood panels and dark wood of the staircase gave way to rich cranberry walls cluttered with English fox hunt and landscape paintings in burnt mahogany frames.
An open loft space took up most of the upper floor, dotted by a pair of chocolate leather sofas and a few scattered upholstered barrel chairs .
Gregor headed straight for another pair of double doors. Turning, he pushed them open with his back. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was decorated in the cozy, colonial style which favored bold colors set off by thick white crown molding and dark wood furniture.
As he swung me around, my mouth dropped. The high ceiling allowed for a wall of tall arched windows which looked out onto the Potomac. The sky was a fiery orange and pink as the sun set, sending shafts of shimmering light over the blue-grey surface of the river.
When he finally placed me on my feet again, the first thing that caught my eye was the enormous four-poster bed. Just as my still reeling mind was about to conjure up all the kinky things Gregor probably had planned for us, I saw it.
I could feel Gregor’s eyes on me as I approached it. Grasping the cool railing at the bottom of the bed, I just stared. The bright emerald green of her dress shone brightly against the white wall backdrop. I stared at the firm masculine hand, Gregor’s hand.
My painting.
Little Girl Saved .
The one someone had purchased in Boston.
The only painting of my own I had ever sold.
Hung in a place of honor over his bed.
Of course, I knew he had hung my other painting over his bed in Chicago, but I had just assumed that was to taunt me, to prove his control not only over me but my belongings and my artwork.
This… this was different.
I sold that painting close to two years ago.
“It was you. The buyer in Boston.” It wasn’t a question, more a statement of fact. I kept turned away from him, my face averted. He had an uncanny way of reading my every thought, and in this moment, I didn’t want the intrusion. My emotions were too raw.
There was a slight shuffling of clothing and the scrape of a boot on the hardwood floor as he stepped behind me.
My stomach fluttered, and shoulders tensed slightly, anticipating his powerful arms wrapping around me.
He didn’t disappoint. His arms caressed my sides as he flattened his palms against my stomach and eased me back to lean into him.
“Yes,” he said simply.
No. No. This wasn’t happening. He would not pull me in to believing this had some deeper meaning.
I broke free of his arms and paced across the room.
Gesturing frantically at the painting, I asked, “Why? Why do you have that?”
“Because I have all your paintings.”
“What do you mean all my paintings?”
“The ones you stuffed into your closet at your parents’ house. The ones you left behind in your art locker at school. The one from the gallery in Boston and the ones from Chicago.”
My eyes widened as he ticked off all the different groupings of my paintings he had collected over the last three years.
I ran my hands through my hair as I paced again. “I don’t understand.”
Gregor crossed the room and tried to reach for my arm. I shrugged him off and backed away. He refused to relent, stalking me till I was trapped against the wall.
My eyes filled with tears as I slowly shook my head. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t do this to me. Don’t make me think… make me believe….” I couldn’t even force myself to form the words.
Gregor’s hands enclosed my jaw as the pads of his thumbs caressed my cheeks. “Force you to believe what, Samara? I want to hear you say it.”
I tried to shake my head, but his grip on my face prevented me. I reached up to clasp my small hands around his wrists. “No. I won’t.”
“Would it be so terrible?” His gaze burned a dark molten steel as it searched mine. He leaned in. Instead of claiming my mouth as usual, his lips skimmed over mine, caressing. The tip of his tongue flicked out to taste my tears.
I could barely choke out the words. “Don’t do this.”
His body leaned into mine, pressing me harder against the wall. “Do what? Say that I love you? That I’ve been collecting your paintings to feel close to you?”
“Stop,” I begged, but his lips muffled my protest.
I turned my head to the side. He then bit my earlobe as he rasped, “Admit it, Samara. You love me too.”
I groaned. “I don’t. I can’t. I can’t!”
“You can’t what? Admit you’ve fallen in love with a monster?
” His hips ground against mine, punctuating each word.
“Admit you love the feel of my hands on you? Admit that despite three years apart you never let another man touch you?” He kissed the column of my neck.
His hands wrapped around to my lower back and pulled me forward.
I inhaled the familiar spicy scent of his Bleu de Chanel cologne as my fingers clawed at his shirt, unsure of whether I was trying to pull him closer or push him away. “You can’t love me. You barely know me. This is all just a game… a sick, twisted game.”
“God dammit, malyshka,” he growled.
Placing his hands on my ass, he lifted me against his body and swung around.
Taking three long strides, he flung me back.
I sunk into the deep, downy softness of the navy blue coverlet on his bed.
His hard body quickly followed, pinning me down.
Before I could protest, his mouth claimed mine, his tongue sweeping in to devour me.
The inside of my lips pressed painfully against the sharp edge of my teeth as the five o’clock shadow along his jaw scraped my sensitive skin.
Each bite of pain only enhanced my awareness of him.