3. Nikolai
3
NIKOLAI
T he afternoon sun casts long shadows through the gallery windows as I watch her move. I’m haunted by her—the graceful sound she makes when she laughs, the unconscious sway of her hips as she walks, the way her honey-blonde hair catches the light. Sofia Henley. Even her name feels like silk on my tongue.
I’ve seen countless beautiful women, but there’s something different about her—something that makes my blood burn. Perhaps it’s how she carries herself—that perfect posture or the deliberate precision of her gestures. Every movement is a symphony of controlled elegance that makes me want to shatter her composure.
The light catches her profile as she adjusts a painting, and my fingers itch to trace her jawline to test if her skin is as soft as it appears. I want to wrap that long hair around my fist and make her bend to my will. The urge to possess her, to own every breath, every gesture, consumes my waking thoughts.
It unsettles me. I don’t lose control, not over women, not over anything. I’m Nikolai Ivanov. I’ve built an empire on perfect discipline, calculated moves, and never allowing emotion to cloud my judgment. Yet here I am, watching her like some lovesick teenager instead of the feared man I am. Something about her breaks through every wall I’ve built, making me forget decades of carefully maintained control.
The sharp click of my designer leather shoes on marble draws her attention. Her eyes widen, green-gold irises darkening as she recognizes me. A slight flush stains her cheeks, betraying her composure. “Mr. Ivanov? I didn’t expect you today.”
“The Degas you listed this morning.” I approach her. “Three hours ago, to be precise.”
“The ballet dancer study?” Her head bobs. “I didn’t realize you monitored our listings so closely.”
I reach past her to adjust a crooked frame on the wall, my arm brushing her shoulder. “I monitor everything that interests me, Ms. Henley.”
That intoxicating scent of jasmine and vanilla floods my senses. My fingers linger on the frame longer than necessary, keeping her caged against the wall. She doesn’t step away.
“The Degas deserves a private viewing.” I watch goosebumps rise on the exposed skin of her collarbones. “Though I find myself more captivated by other works of art in this room.”
Sofia’s breath catches as her back presses against the wall. “Mr. Ivanov?—”
“Nikolai.” The correction is a growl. “We’re well past formalities, malishka .”
Her pupils dilate at the endearment. “Nikolai, this is highly unprofessional.”
“Is that why you’re not stepping away?” I place my palm flat against the wall. The flush spreading across her cheeks tells me everything her words won’t.
“I should show you the Degas.” But her eyes drop to my mouth.
“Should.” My finger follows the elegant line of her jaw. “Always bound by rules, aren’t you? Share your darkest cravings with me.”
She meets my gaze, that hint of steel I’d noticed before flashing in her eyes. “What I want isn’t always what’s wise.”
“Wisdom is overrated.” I lean closer, my lips a breath from her ear. “Safety is an illusion. But this electricity between us is real.”
Her hands clench, fighting the urge to touch me.
She takes a half-step back, bumping into the display case. “The Degas is in our private viewing room.”
I follow as she leads the way, noting how her fingers fidget with her sleeve. The viewing room is intimate—perhaps fifteen feet square, with track lighting that casts pools of warmth on the artwork.
“The piece shows remarkable detail in the musculature.” My hand settles on her lower back as we examine the sketch. “Notice how he captured the tension in her calves.”
“The technical precision is—” She breaks off as my fingers brush the back of her neck.
“Continue your analysis.” I lean closer. “You were saying something about precision?”
“The lines demonstrate his understanding of movement.” She tries to maintain composure as I trace where the fabric meets skin, but that hitched breath betrays her. “The dancer’s pose suggests both strength and vulnerability.”
“Much like you, malishka .” I turn her slightly, positioning her between the artwork and my body. “Explain the medium he used.”
I brush her hair aside. “Charcoal and chalk, with traces of graphite for definition.”
“Fascinating, and the asking price?”
“Three-fifty.” Her voice wavers as my thumb presses her pulse point.
“Done.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “You don’t want to negotiate?”
“I negotiate when necessary.” I trail my fingers down her arm. “The piece is worth every penny. Though I admit, the artwork wasn’t my only motivation for this visit.”
She shivers under my touch but doesn’t pull away. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—a nervous tell I file away for future reference.
“The paperwork,” she starts, then pauses as I step closer. “I should get the paperwork.”
“Of course.” But I don’t move back. “Your gallery has a reputation for authenticity. I trust your verification process is thorough?”
“Very.” She straightens her spine, professional pride momentarily overriding her nervousness. “We use the latest spectroscopic analysis, and I personally trace the provenance of each major piece.”
“Impressive.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, watching her eyes flutter shut at the contact. “I appreciate the attention to detail.”
Her breathing shifts from calm to ragged. “The contract is in my office.”
“Lead the way.” I step back enough to let her pass, noting how she steadies herself against the wall before moving.
The Degas is exquisite—the subtle play of light and shadow, the raw energy captured in simple lines. But watching Sofia’s hands tremble as she extends her hand toward the office door—that’s the true masterpiece of this transaction.
I follow her into her office, which is barely large enough for her desk and two chairs. The walls showcase smaller pieces —likely her personal collection. Her perfume fills the confined space, making my blood heat.
She moves behind her desk. “I’ll prepare the contract.” Her fingers tap efficiently on her keyboard.
I circle the desk, pretending to examine a small impressionist piece on her wall. “The light in here doesn’t do justice to the colors.”
“Mr. Ivanov.” Her voice carries a sharp edge as I step closer. “I’d appreciate maintaining professional boundaries.”
I pause, studying her profile. There’s that steel I glimpsed before. “You seemed less concerned about boundaries in the viewing room.”
“A momentary lapse in judgment.” She lifts her chin, meeting my stare with practiced authority. “One that won’t be repeated.”
My fingers curve possessively over her shoulder. “Are you certain about that?”
She stands abruptly, forcing my hand to drop. “Yes. If you’d like to proceed with the purchase, I need you to sign here.”She points to the contract with a steady finger. “If not, I have other appointments.”
“Feisty. I wonder how long you’ll maintain this professional facade.”
Her palm connects with my chest, pushing me back. “Long enough for you to either sign the contract or leave my gallery.”
Her resistance thrills me. Lesser women break or bargain, but Sofia meets the threat head-on—magnificent in her defiance, those remarkable eyes blazing with challenge.
I capture her wrist in my grip, not tight enough to hurt. “Careful, malishka . That fire in you is intoxicating, but don’t forget who you’re dealing with.”
I press her back against the antique desk, feeling victory in each rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my thumb. Those green- gold eyes go molten as I claim the space around her, her careful breathing fracturing.
“You think you’re in control here?” I thread my fingers through the hair at her nape, tugging gently. “Look how your body responds to me. The way you lean into my touch even as you pretend to fight it.”
For one exquisite moment, her carefully constructed walls shatter. Those golden-green eyes fall shut, her body betraying her as she surrenders to my touch with a sound that makes my blood burn.
“That’s it,” I murmur. “You need a man strong enough to handle that fire and care for you properly.”
That delicious submission vanishes instantly. She twists out of my grip with surprising strength.
“Take care of me?” Her voice drips with ice. “I’ve taken care of myself my entire adult life. I don’t need a man for anything, Mr. Ivanov, least of all you.”
She straightens her blazer, steel returning to her spine. “I don’t mix business with pleasure. This meeting is over. My gallery staff will deliver the Degas to your office by five once funds have cleared.” She gestures to the door. “I trust you can find your way out.”
I stride from the gallery, smiling. Her defiance only feeds the hunger growing inside me. Sheltered behind dark glass, I watch her gallery recede as Viktor guides the Mercedes into evening traffic.
“Her address.”
Viktor hands me a folder without comment. He’s a smart man. The dossier contains everything—the building layout, security details, and her daily schedule. Fifteen minutes later, we park in an alley behind her brownstone.
The lock yields in seconds to my picks, which proves amateur security, considering it will hold such valuable art inside. Her perfume lingers here, that intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that haunted me at the gallery. Like its owner, the space presents an artfully curated facade—sophisticated surfaces concealing darker undertones.
I explore her apartment like a ghost, noting the careful arrangement of furniture and the original artwork adorning the walls. A half-empty coffee cup sits on her kitchen counter. Still warm. She’d rushed out this morning.
The cameras are tiny and virtually undetectable. I place them strategically—in the living room, kitchen, and bedroom—each one offering a different view of her private world. The master bedroom draws me in. Her silk robe drapes across the foot of the bed. A book—Dostoyevsky in the original Russian—is on the nightstand. Interesting.
I open her closet, running my fingers along the row of designer dresses. The fabric whispers against my skin. Her scent is stronger here. I imagine her standing before this mirror, preparing for her day, unaware of my presence in her space.
The final camera goes above her vanity, angled perfectly to capture her morning routine. I test the feed to find it crystal clear. Every moment of her private life is now accessible at my fingertips.
I make one final circuit, ensuring everything is as I found it—almost. I adjust a small sculpture on Sofia’s bedside table—just enough that she might notice and wonder.
The lock clicks softly behind me as I leave. Inside my pocket, my phone displays multiple camera feeds of her empty apartment. Now, I wait.