Chapter 4
AMALIE
Ican’t sleep.
The house is way too quiet.
Finally, I reach the point where I realize sleep just isn’t going to happen. With a frustrated groan, I throw off the sheets and plop my feet on the floor. Moments later I slip into the hallway barefoot, wearing a T-shirt, sleeping shorts, and my oversized cardigan.
The mansion has a strange vibe at night, like wandering around a museum after closing. The parquet floor is cool beneath my feet. I spot small security cameras here and there along the way. I bet every inch of this house is covered. I wonder if I’m being watched right now.
I drift down a corridor, stopping short when I see the first painting.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
It’s a Rothko study. A real one, not a print. I can see the texture of the brush marks, the layering of the pigment.
I move to the next piece, a Chagall sketch. It’s whimsical and full of floating figures with that familiar dreamy blue I associate with his work.
“Huh,” I say to myself. “Just a casual hallway full of multi-million-dollar pieces. Sure. Why not?”
A little further down: Kandinsky. Bold lines, controlled chaos. Larionov. That gorgeous sunburst style, angular and bright.
This isn’t just décor. Even if a man like Roman cut a blank check to an interior designer and told them to go nuts he wouldn’t end up with a collection like this. What’s on these walls is a collection museums would go crazy to borrow.
And it’s all right here, for the single audience of me.
I follow the artwork like a trail of breadcrumbs until the décor shifts. The lighting becomes softer, with warmer colors. I realize it’s a more private part of the mansion and I should turn around. But I don’t. Something is pushing me forward.
I catch a faint sound in the distance—water. Steady and flowing.
Curiosity tugs me forward.
I turn the corner into a dimly lit room with cedar panels, candles flickering in recessed alcoves. The air is warm and humid. In the center of the space sits a massive, sunken hot tub, steam rising from the surface of the water.
Roman Barinov is in it.
Naked.
I freeze, my breath hitching in my chest.
He’s reclining against the far end, arms stretched along the edge.
Water beads on his chest, sliding over defined muscle and dark hair.
His shoulders are broad, his pecs cut. He’s all carved lines and quiet strength.
The water hides everything below his waist, causing my imagination to conjure up sinful images.
He lifts his head slightly when he notices me. “Amalie.”
Damn. The way he says my name does things to me. Embarrassment reddens my cheeks as every part of me goes hot.
“I–I’m sorry.” The words come out of my mouth in a stutter as I start toward the door. “I didn’t know this room was… I mean, I was wandering around and… Okay. I’ll just go now. I didn’t mean to—”
He raises one hand slightly. “Stay.” Quiet. Sure. A firm yet gentle command.
He doesn’t cover himself. He doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest. Instead, he just watches me with narrowed eyes, the rest of his expression unreadable.
“You’re wandering around the house at night. Why?”
I swallow. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He nods as if that makes perfect sense. “This house can be overwhelming.”
I hover near the doorway, unsure what to do with my hands or any other part of my body for that matter. “I was admiring the art,” I tell him. “You have an amazing collection.”
He says nothing at first, watching me. “You’re familiar with the artists, I assume?”
“Of course.” I point over my shoulder. “There’s a freaking Rothko out there.”
He chuckles. “Spoken like a true artist.”
I grin.
Silence stretches as the steam fills the air. Roman shifts slightly, water rippling against his chest. I’m still in awe at how unbothered he is.
He studies me for another moment. “I don’t mix women with my son.”
My breath catches. There’s a firmness to his words. He’s drawn a line, carved out a rule. Then a thought of what else that could mean reveals itself to me—whatever happens here, stays here. My stomach flips and I don’t quite know what to think.
Before I can figure it out, Roman reaches behind and lifts a bottle of vodka, pouring some into two glasses near his hand. I notice a sleek little silver bucket of ice nearby, and he drops a few cubes into each glass.
He holds one out to me. “Come. You look like you need to take the edge off.”
He isn’t wrong, but part of me feels like if I take that glass, I’ll be crossing a line I can’t step back from.
Screw it.
I move forward on uneasy feet and take the glass, my fingertips brushing his, causing fire to rush through me. Roman nods toward the bench next to the tub for me to sit.
There’s a bit of froth in the water from the jets, enough to obscure what’s under the surface. All the same, I keep my eyes locked forward, not wanting to look as if I’m looking.
Roman watches me as I take a slow sip of the vodka. “So,” he says, shifting his weight a bit. “Tell me what’s keeping you awake.”
I let out a shaky breath. Roman’s my boss, and there’s no need for him to know anything about my personal background, only what was on my resume. But there’s something about the tone of his voice, the tranquility of the room. Not to mention the fact that I’m tired of keeping everything inside.
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin.” I lower my eyes.
“That’s easy. At the beginning.”
That gets a humorless laugh out of me. I shake my head, then take another sip of vodka. I’m going to need it.
“How about you begin with your art. Tell me about that.”
“Well, that’s the real beginning. My mom was an artist.”
“What kind?”
“Clay. Both pottery and sculpture.”
He nods slowly, as if in approval and appreciation.
“But it was a small-scale thing, you know? She made stuff to sell at farmer’s markets, craft fairs. She does most of it through Etsy now.”
“No sculpture gardens in Chicago, you mean.”
“Right.” I take another sip. “And as an artist, that was tough for me.”
He says nothing and I can tell I have his undivided attention.
“So when it came time for me to put my art out into the world, I didn’t have any connections. And that’s when I learned a valuable lesson.”
“Which was?”
“Art is for rich kids—the ones who can live off a trust fund while they make art they’ll never sell.”
“More like a fashion accessory than an actual living.”
My eyes light up. “Exactly! I tried, even sold a few pieces. But there was no way I could live on what I made, not even close. So that’s when I turned to my other passion—children.
I went to college, got my degree, and worked with children in need with artistic talent but no guidance. And that’s what brought me here.”
I can’t tell if it’s the vodka or his presence, but the words just flow out of me. I make sure to check myself, a little reminder not to spill everything.
“That’s not entirely what brought you here,” he says. “Your mother.”
I nod, sadly and slowly. “Yeah. Mom. Dad passed away a long time ago, left her a little money. But she’s been living off her art as best she can and getting by, believe it or not. But then she had her accident.”
His gaze wordlessly encourages me to go on. So I do.
“A few months ago, she slipped on some black ice outside her house. She landed badly, fracturing her hip.” I sigh, memories of the last few months coming back in waves. “She needed a full hip replacement. Her insurance covered some of it, but not all.”
“And that’s really why you’re here.”
“Yeah. I have student loans to worry about and she needs some help. The problem is that Mom, bless her, is just too damn proud. She doesn’t want a dollar from me or my brother.
But he and I came up with a plan. We’re going to save, and then when we have a good amount, we’re going to pay as much as we can. She doesn’t have to like it.”
My plan earns me a sly half-smile. I start playing nervously with my hair, suddenly feeling very exposed.
“So, yeah, that’s why I’m here. I may not be a professional artist, but I can help kids like Sasha develop their talent. And I might not be rich, but I can and will look after my family.”
He slowly sips his drink, his eyes still on me. He’s thinking. Assessing. “What do you want?”
The question catches me by surprise. “I’m sorry?”
“Out of life. What do you want?”
A tinge of relief. “Oh. Um. To work, earn some money, help my Mo—”
“No. Not the practical answer. The accurate one.”
I pause. What the hell do I even say to something like that? No one has ever asked me that question before. I sip my drink. Nothing in Roman’s gaze or body language suggests he wants me to rush my answer.
Finally, I take a breath and speak. “I want to make something beautiful. Something that matters. Something that lasts.”
He nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. “Then you should do that.”
I look away, my cheeks burning. The steam swirls. The candles flicker. His attention wraps around me like warm hands. I’ve never had a man listen to me like this before, never had one care to hear about my dreams, about what I really want.
After a long moment, he leans lower into the water, his voice dropping. “Join me.”
I go completely still.
The water ripples around him, catching the candlelight. His eyes are darker now—not commanding but inviting.
My breath stutters. My pulse thunders. My pussy clenches.
“Roman…” I whisper.
I want to step in.
I know I shouldn’t, unsure if I’m ready for what happens next if I get into that water.