Chapter 9
I think you will learn to be natural with me, as I find it impossible to be conventional with you. - Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre
Emma
“It says here, Russian women are known for being gorgeous,” called out Mary from the living room where she was curled up on the sofa with her laptop, a glass of white wine, and a bag of Doritos.
“What?” I shouted back from deep inside the narrow walk-in closet in my bedroom.
“Russian women are gorgeous!” she yelled even louder.
I came out of the bedroom holding up two dresses. “Which one?”
First, I held up the long black maxi dress I had gotten at Target last summer. Then I held up the purple A-line one I usually wore with my purple Doc Martens.
Mary pulled a face.
With a huff, I flopped down onto the sofa next to her. Pushing my bangs out of my eyes, I reached into the bag of Doritos as I bemoaned, “This is a terrible idea.”
Mary shrugged. “You’re probably right. I mean why on earth would you want to go out with a sexy, rich man on a night you have absolutely nothing better to do. Probably best to just cancel.”
Leaning over, I dramatically crunched down on one of her Doritos before saying, “Sarcasm isn’t a good color on you.”
She tilted her head while pretending to look in a mirror. “I disagree. I think it makes my blue eyes pop!”
“Seriously! What am I going to do?” I turned her laptop around to look at the images on the blog post she was reading about Russian women. “I can’t compete with that! Look at these women! They are all glamorous and… and… glamorous!”
“Well said,” Mary quipped as she pulled the bag of chips closer to grab a handful.
Grabbing the dresses, I stomped back into my room.
There must be something suitable in my wardrobe to wear tonight.
Unfortunately, after four years of college and almost two years pursuing a graduate degree, my clothes were decidedly broke student chic .
It also didn’t help that I favored plaid skirts and light sweaters.
Since I was a little girl, I had wanted to be a librarian, and I remembered my school librarian always wore plaid skirts, cardigan sweaters, and a single strand of pearls.
She wore that outfit so often I mistook it for her librarian uniform.
It was small wonder I also gravitated to that style, and until now it had always suited my personality.
Last night, I had barely slept a wink. I just kept playing the events of the last two days over and over in my mind.
It almost felt like it hadn’t happened to me.
As if I were reading this from the pages of a book.
All the passion, drama, and intrigue! The dashing, handsome man searches and finds the poor student he shared a chance passionate encounter with.
I kept thinking about Dimitri and the intense way he looked at me with those stormy grey eyes of his. It was overwhelming and a little confusing to be the subject of such single-minded focus. He made me feel as if I were the only woman in the world. It was silly, of course, but still.
Worse, he made me feel as if I were interesting .
It was impossible, of course.
What would a man like him possibly find interesting in a shy book nerd like me?
Standing in the doorway of my closet, I leaned my head against the doorjamb.
Across the room, the framed silhouettes of two elegant women, which hung over my bed, chastised me.
White calligraphy overlaid the black with an inspirational quote from Henry James: “It’s time to start living the life you’ve imagined” and another from Jane Austen: “If adventures will not befall a young lady in her own village, she must seek them abroad.”
Finally, I was experiencing a real-life romantic adventure worthy of one of my book heroines, and here I was second-guessing everything and desperately wanting to crawl back into the safety between the pages of a book.
Back inside the sheltered little bubble of work, school, repeat , which I had created for myself over the years.
Shifting my head to the left, I surveyed the rather naughty poster of a pulp fiction book cover I kept hidden on the interior of my closet door.
A blonde in glasses wearing black lingerie straddled a half-naked man as he grasped a book in his hand.
In bold gold type across the top it said The Nympho Librarian by Les Turner.
Closing my eyes, I remembered the sensually hypnotic look on Dimitri’s face as he’d gone down on his knees before me in the shower. The feel of his powerful hands as they’d forced my thighs open. And his tongue, oh, my God, the feel of his tongue.
That was quickly replaced by the image of him yesterday.
His white linen shirt stretched taut over his muscled chest. The dark stain of his tattoos bleeding through the paper-thin fabric.
Even the sight of his heavy black leather and silver wristwatch exposed by his rolled-up sleeves seemed to scream masculine energy and confidence.
Remembering the raw anger that flashed in his eyes when he mistook my Dewey Decimal tattoo for a brand, my hand crept up to claw at the now-stifling feel of my t-shirt collar.
I shimmied in my seat as I recalled the painful sting of his spanking.
It was wrong and dirty to allow him to take such liberties.
Too bad it was also hot as hell. It was just such a possessive, controlling, over-the-top caveman thing to do.
A modern woman like me should recoil from such aggressive male behavior.
Too bad it made me want to climb him like a tree as I licked the salty musk from his skin.
This was madness!
Especially after what I had learned today.
Crossing to my bed, I picked up the copy of Russian Criminal Tattoo, Encyclopedia Vol 1 that I had checked out of the Newberry Library while at work earlier. The pale pink cover with the black and white drawing of a crowned skull smoking a cigar mocked me.
This was definitely one instance where a little knowledge was a dangerous thing.
Apparently a dagger piercing the neck with drops of blood signified a murderer in Russian tattoo culture. Each drop of blood represented a kill. There were three drops dripping from Dimitri’s tattoo.
The card symbols on his knuckles indicated a gambler.
I also learned the colorful dragon tattoo on his back was actually a traditional folk art design called Khokhloma .
Unfortunately, I also learned that a dragon tattoo was a big deal in the Russian criminal world.
It meant you had been brash and bold enough to steal from the government or another powerful group.
The book had mentioned nothing about cartoon bears, which had seemed out of character for both him and the rest of his tattoos, but then so did the so-called meaning of his tattoos. Sure, Dimitri seemed like a big, scary Russian to me, but did that mean he was also a murderer and a thief?
Wasn’t I being just a little judgmental and worse… stereotypical?
Just because he was Russian didn’t mean he was a criminal, for heaven’s sake!
People got tattoos regardless of their meanings all the time. Look at all the people walking around with Chinese character tattoos, which they thought meant strength or courage but really meant soup!
Besides, wasn’t it possible I was using this as an excuse to back out of seeing him again because I was being insecure and frankly a big ol’ coward?
The only way to determine if my misgivings about Dimitri were valid, or came from my own timidity, would be to at least go on one proper date with the man.
It was just dinner.
What could happen at dinner in a public restaurant?
Mary broke into my scattered musings. Breezing into my bedroom, she held aloft her heavy metal makeup case, decorated in a bold leopard print with pink bows.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said with a wink.
* * *
Perched on the toilet seat with her laptop balanced on my knees, I winced as Mary pulled a brush through a section of my hair, smoothing it out before wrapping it around a neon pink Velcro curler.
“Ow!”
“Stop being such a baby!” she mumbled around the hairpins in her mouth before securing the curler.
“It will take a lot more than some curlers and lipstick to get me to look like one of these women,” I grumbled as I pointed to the collage of Russian women I had found on Pinterest.
“First of all, knock it the fuck off. You are a beautiful, intelligent woman that any man would be crazy not to want to date.”
“Yeah, but…”
“No buts… this makeup stuff is all just superficial icing on the cake. Those women have nothing on you.”
Yep.
Not a thing.
Except elegance, sophistication, confidence… not to mention killer boobs and big, pouty lips.
Wincing as she pulled my hair to put in the final curler, I asked, “What’s the second thing?”
“What?” she asked distractedly as she turned to dig around in her makeup case before holding up an eyelash curler.
“You said first of all, implying there was a second thing.”
Placing her palm against my forehead, she tilted my head back. “Second of all, knock it the fuck off.”
“You already said that,” I replied petulantly, sticking my lower lip out.
“It bore repeating, now look up and don’t blink.”
An hour later, dressed in one of Mary’s rockabilly pencil dresses, I was ready.
Although she’d wanted me to choose one with a bold animal print, I had decided on a simple black dress with a brightly embroidered line of red roses over each hip.
With its tucked-in waist, the dress hugged my every curve and the deep scooped neckline made my boobs look huge .
I mean, it wasn’t like I was flat-chested.
I had a modest B-cup, but in this dress I looked like a 1950s Hollywood starlet.
She had swooped my hair off my face and arranged it in some stylish liberty curls on top with the rest curling down my back. For my makeup she had done an exaggerated black cat eye with a classic matte red lip.
Staring at my foreign reflection, I couldn’t help but blink several times.
“Stop blinking!” admonished Mary as she walked into our tiny apartment bathroom carrying two pairs of black heels.
“I can’t help it. I’m not used to fake eyelashes.”
“Well, you better get used to it or he will think you’re flirting with every man, woman, and child in the restaurant or signaling to the waiter you are a hostage in need of rescuing.”
I looked back at my reflection. Mary had done an amazing job. I looked like one of the women in the photos. All polished and done up.
The problem was I didn’t look or feel like me .
Sighing, I shrugged. Maybe that was a good thing.
Let’s face it. Acting and looking like me hadn’t gotten me a date, let alone a boyfriend, over the years.
I wouldn’t even have this date with Dimitri if he hadn’t mistaken me for a high-end escort playing a saucy game of schoolgirl and the headmaster.
The simple fact was if I had met Dimitri under any other circumstances, he probably would have looked right past me. But the strange woman staring back at me in the mirror, she might have a chance with a man like him.
Looking over my shoulder, I quickly turned and held up my palms as I backed out of the bathroom. “No way.”
“Yes,” insisted Mary as she stalked after me into the living room.
“No. I can’t.”
Gesturing with her head, she said, “You are not wearing that dress with a pair of Doc Marten Mary Janes!”
I placed my hands on my hips. “I have other shoes. High heels even!”
She scoffed. “Kitten heels don’t count. Now choose. Stiletto or platform?”
After a brief argument I had no chance of winning, I chose the black suede platform shoes. Hoping that with the wider-based heel, I at least had a chance of staying upright and not falling on my face.
While Mary transferred the essentials from the front pocket of my backpack into one of her red clutches, which matched the flowers on the dress, I nervously reached for the Doritos bag.
As if she had eyes in the back of her head, she called out, “Don’t you dare get cheese dust on that dress.”
“But…”
“Drop it!”
“Fine.”
I wasn’t really hungry anyway. It was more nervous eating.
After she handed me the purse, I toddled toward the door, still uneasy in her heels. “I will wait outside. I’m too anxious to wait in here.”
“You mean I don’t get to see him?” whined Mary as she picked up her now lukewarm glass of white wine and took a sip.
“Peek through the curtains.”
* * *
I practiced walking in the four-inch platform heels by pacing back and forth along the sidewalk in front of my apartment as I waited for Dimitri to arrive. It also helped to burn off some of my nervous energy.
At precisely six p.m., a sleek black car rolled onto my residential street and swung into an empty parking space nearby.
Thinking I would just open the passenger door and climb into the car, it surprised me when Dimitri emerged from the driver’s side; slamming the door shut, he came storming toward me. His brow was lowered and his lips were tight as he grabbed me by the upper arm.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.