Chapter 5
5
Mak
T he elevator doors slide open to reveal a suite that takes my breath away, and that’s saying something when I’m already accustomed to the best. The space is elegantly appointed with sleek modern furniture in neutral tones, accented with subtle artwork that speaks of wealth without ostentation. A massive sectional sofa faces both the view and a fireplace clad in what appears to be rare Italian marble. To one side, a doorway reveals the edge of what must be a bedroom.
We’ll see in due time…
Willemina steps into the room with cautious curiosity, her eyes widening as she takes in the surroundings. "So, this is what it's like to own a nightclub. Quite the perk."
"One of the few worth having." I follow her into the space, observing her carefully while gauging her reaction to this glimpse of wealth and privilege. Unlike most who enter my orbit, she seems more interested than impressed, studying the art on the walls with genuine appreciation rather than calculating its value.
She approaches a large abstract canvas, her head tilting slightly as she considers it. "This is stunning. Rothko?"
Her recognition surprises me. I didn't even know the painting was here, so I'm slightly startled that she recognizes the artist. "Yes. You know his work?"
"I minored in art history before committing to nursing." Her fingers hover near the canvas without touching it. "I've only seen his pieces in museums, never in someone's private collection. Is it real?"
"Should be,” I reply. “My father used to like Rothko." The admission surprises me, because they usually don't bring up my father if I can help it. I clear my throat and add, “I have one of his paintings in my apartment.”
“It looks like you have one here too.” She looks at me over her shoulder, sensing the weight behind the statement but respectfully not prying. "Your father had excellent taste."
"In some things." I allow the ambiguity to stand between us. "Can I get you something to drink? I'm sure there's a full bar." I don't need to have seen this place before to intuit that it has all the expected amenities.
"Just water for now, thank you." She wanders toward the windows, drawn to the view. "I think I've hit my limit on alcohol for one night."
I move to the bar nestled in the corner, selecting a crystal tumbler for her water. "Sparkling or still?"
"Sparkling, please." She presses her palm against the glass, leaning closer to look down at the street below. "This view is incredible."
I pour San Pellegrino for her, and a neat vodka for myself, before joining her at the windows. The city spreads below us. From this height, the chaos appears orderly, and the danger distant. We stand side by side, not quite touching, but the electricity between us almost physical.
"It's beautiful." Her voice softens. "I've lived in New York my whole life, but I never get tired of this view."
"What part of the city?" I hand her the water.
"Queens originally. Astoria." She takes a sip, her gaze never leaving the vista. "Now I share an apartment in Washington Heights with my roommate, the one who dragged me here tonight. The rent is brutal, but the location works well for both our jobs." She gestures to the expanse before us. "Nothing like this, of course."
"And does your roommate make a habit of abandoning you in nightclubs?" There's a faint edge to my tone, but she doesn't seem to notice my disapproval.
She laughs. "Gisele? Absolutely. She's the social butterfly to my homebody hermit. I love her, but our ideas of fun rarely align."
"So what is your idea of fun, Willemina?" I study her. "If not nightclubs and dancing with strangers, I mean."
She considers the question while taking another sip of her water. "Quiet things, mostly. Reading on my fire escape with a cup of tea. Discovering hole-in-the-wall restaurants with incredible food. Walking through the Met when it first opens, before the crowds arrive." She glances at me, a hint of self-consciousness crossing her expression. "Boring, I know."
I shrug a shoulder. "Not boring. Authentic. Genuine pleasures rather than manufactured experiences."
"That's a generous interpretation." A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "What about you? When you're not acquiring nightclubs and rescuing out-of-place nurses, what do you enjoy?"
The question catches me by surprise. Few people ask about my personal preferences. Most either assume I share the stereotypical tastes of wealthy men or don't care about the person behind the power. I consider my answer carefully, wanting to offer something real despite my habitual caution. "I sail," I finally say after a moment of thought. "There's a clarity on the water that I don't find anywhere else. Everything unnecessary falls away."
"I've never been sailing." She turns from the window to face me fully. "I'm not sure I'd have the sea legs for it."
"I could take you sometime." The offer escapes before I consider the inferences. The suggestion of a future beyond tonight is dangerous territory.
She raises an eyebrow, a playful smile curving her lips. "Forward of you, Maxim, assuming I'll want to see you again after tonight."
"Hopeful, perhaps." I enjoy the subtle flirtation. "Or simply confident in my abilities to ensure you have a memorable evening."
"Confident or arrogant?" Her tone remains light despite the challenge.
"There's a fine line." I move closer until barely inches separate us. "Which side I fall on depends entirely on whether I can deliver on my promises."
Her breathing changes subtly, quickening as I enter her personal space. "And what exactly are you promising?"
"That depends on what you want." I maintain eye contact, letting her see desire normally concealed. "Conversation? Company? Something more?"
She breaks eye contact first, moving away from the intensity of the moment to settle on one of the low couches. The distance is deliberate, a recalibration rather than a rejection. I follow, sitting close enough to maintain connection without crowding her retreat.
"Let's start with conversation." She tucks her legs beneath her in a casual pose that contrasts with the elegance of her dress. "Tell me something about yourself that isn't related to business or nightclubs. Something more."
I consider deflecting, falling back on charm and surface details, but something about her directness deserves reciprocal honesty. "I have a younger sister. She's everything good that remains in my life."
Her expression softens, sensing the significance without pressing for details I won't provide. "Is she like you?"
"Not at all." Genuine warmth enters my voice. "She's brilliant and is currently working toward her PhD in literature. She sees beauty where I see strategy and possibilities where I see risks."
"She sounds wonderful." Her face animates with genuine interest rather than polite conversation. "You must be proud of her."
"Beyond words. She's the one pure thing I've managed not to taint."
Something in my phrasing catches her attention, tilting her head slightly as she studies me with renewed intensity. "That's an interesting way to put it. What is it you think you'd taint her with?"
I realize my mistake immediately. Speaking about Zina has lowered my guard, allowing glimpses of truths I normally conceal. I take a small sip of vodka, using the moment to recalibrate. "It’s all just family politics. Complications that come with certain names and histories. She deserves a future unburdened by all of that, and she’s pursuing it admirably."
"I understand that." Her response surprises me. "Names can carry weight, even when we don’t get to choose them."
"You sound like you’re speaking from experience," I reply, grateful for the shift away from my own revelations. I lean forward slightly. It’s an excuse to get closer to her.
She sighs, absently tracing the rim of her glass with one finger. "My father was a well-respected surgeon, brilliant by all accounts, who died when I was young. His reputation created certain expectations. Excellence isn't optional when you're Dr. Graham Lamb's daughter."
"Is that why you became a nurse? Following in his medical footsteps?"
"Partly." Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. "From what I remember of him, I think he would have preferred I become a surgeon like him. Nursing wasn't prestigious enough in his worldview."
"But it suited you better." I recognize the slight defiance beneath her words.
"It did. I wanted direct patient care, not surgical distance." Her expression brightens as she speaks about her work. "In the NICU, I form real relationships with families during their most vulnerable moments. It's intimate in a way surgery rarely allows. Not that there’s anything wrong with any medical profession, but I’m allowed to have a say in what I end up doing.”
I find myself fascinated by her passion, the way her entire demeanor transforms when discussing her vocation. Unlike the crazed ambition I encounter in my world, her drive stems from genuine compassion, a quality I've learned to view with suspicion yet find undeniably compelling in her.
"You love it," I say softly, and it's a statement rather than question. "Your work fulfills you."
"It does." She meets my gaze directly. "Doesn't yours?"
The question strikes deeper than she could know. Does moving drugs and weapons, extracting payments through fear and violence, and killing when necessary to maintain power fulfill me? Once, perhaps, when I still believed in the necessity of my role, and the protection it provided for those under my care.
But now?
"It served its purpose," I say with a thin smile. That's more honesty than I've offered anyone outside family in years. "Lately, I find myself questioning its value."
"Then why continue?" Her question is so simple yet impossibly complex.
I laugh, though the sound is devoid of actual humor. "Some paths, once chosen, don't allow for easy exits. Bridges get burned, but that’s the only way forward sometimes."
She studies me with unexpected perception, as though seeing beyond the carefully constructed painting I present to the world. "That sounds like a poor rationalization."
"Perhaps it is." Her directness is surprising, but maybe it’s because she doesn’t know who I really am. Other people are more cautious with their words.
I cock my head to the side, looking into her pretty green eyes. "But tonight isn't about my professional dilemmas," I say, my voice deepening.
"What is it about, then?" She sets her empty glass on the coffee table, a gentle curiosity in her eyes.
I lean forward, close enough to catch the sweet floral scent of her perfume. It’s like bubblegum and flowers. "Tonight is about the unexpected connection between two strangers. About what happens when we set aside our usual roles and simply... exist together."
Her eyes darken slightly, pupils dilating in response to my proximity. "That sounds suspiciously like a line, Maxim."
"Not a line. An observation." My voice drops lower. "You feel it too, this current between us. Something beyond the usual attraction. Something clicking into place."
She doesn't deny it while dropping her gaze briefly to my lips before returning to meet my gaze. "I don't normally do this. Any of this."
"Neither do I." That's the absolute truth. Despite countless women over the years, I rarely allow genuine connection. Physical release, yes. Strategic liaisons, certainly, but this vulnerability? Never.
"Somehow, I doubt that." A hint of playful skepticism flashes across her face. "I imagine women are quite susceptible to your particular brand of intensity."
I smile at her perception. "You're deflecting."
"So are you." She matches my directness.
The challenge hangs between us, acknowledgment of mutual attraction and shared hesitation. For different reasons, perhaps, but equally real. I reach out slowly, giving her time to withdraw, and brush a strand of hair from her face. The gesture is gentle, almost tentative which is unfamiliar territory for a man accustomed to taking what he wants without question.
"I haven't enjoyed a genuine conversation like this in longer than I can remember." My fingers linger against her cheek. "Most people want something from me. Position, protection, or power by association. Their words are premeditated, and their interest is performative."
"And you think mine isn't?" She leans subtly into my touch.
"I know it isn't." Certainty fills my voice. "You have no idea who I really am, or what I control. Your interest is in the man before you, not the name or the resources."
She catches my wrist lightly, not pushing me away but holding me there, her skin warm against mine. "And if I did know? Would that change things?"
"Inevitably." The honesty surprises us both. "Knowledge brings complications, expectations, and even fear sometimes.”
"Are you afraid of being known, Maxim?" The question cuts to the heart of something I rarely examine.
"Perhaps." I turn my hand to capture hers, intertwining our fingers. "Or perhaps I'm afraid of what knowing me would do to someone like you."
The confession lingers between us like the smoke from candles. In her eyes, I see understanding dawning, not of specifics, but of the essential truth. Whatever I am, whoever I am, carries danger in its wake.
"I'm stronger than I look." Her voice softens as her thumb traces patterns against my palm.
"I don't doubt it." I bring our joined hands to my lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. "Tonight isn't about strength or weakness. It's about choice and presence. It's about staying in this moment without the past or future complicating it."
"Just now." She reaches up to stroke the line of my jaw, her touch exploratory and tentative.
"Just now." I lean into her touch. "And what do you want in this moment, Willemina?"
Her breath stills for a second, and her eyes darken as she makes her decision. "Right now, I want you to kiss me."
With the essential permission granted, I close the remaining distance between us. Our lips meet gently at first, a question rather than a demand. She responds with surprising eagerness, moving her hand to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. The kiss deepens naturally, hunger building as the world around us fades away.
She tastes faintly of alcohol, but not in an overwhelming way. Her lips are soft and yielding beneath mine.
I cup her face in one hand while settling the other at her waist, moving her curvy body closer. I need to know more about those curves, about her. Not just what’s on the outside, but what’s inside…
And how good it feels.
What begins as exploration quickly transforms into something more urgent as she presses against me, her curves fitting perfectly against my rigid muscles.
I trail kisses along her jaw to the sensitive spot behind her ear, feeling her shiver in response. Her hands explore the breadth of my shoulders and the muscle beneath expensive fabric, learning my body as I learn hers. When I find the pulse point at her throat with my lips, she makes a soft sound of pleasure that sends heat through me like fire.
I pull back for a moment to look at her face again. Her lips are slightly swollen from our kisses, her cheeks flushed with color, eyes luminous with want. She has never looked more beautiful than in this moment of undisguised desire.
"Willemina." My voice is gritty and raw. “I think the bed would be more comfortable for what I’m about to do to you.”
In her eyes, I see desire battling with caution, spontaneity challenging responsibility. We balance on the edge of something neither of us anticipated when the evening began, something that could change us both in ways we can't predict.