19. Nina #2
“You nearly sounded proud.”
“I was being accurate.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“I’m trying new things.”
I glance up at him, and for one moment, the room fades a little around the edges. He’s looking at me in a way he should not be looking at me here, not in public, not when I just told him how much secrecy matters.
Then his gaze shifts past me.
His face changes.
It’s subtle, but I feel it in the hand at my back before I see it in his expression.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
He looks back at me.
I lower my voice. “Ground rules. If it concerns my safety, you tell me.”
“It does not concern your safety yet.”
Across the room, near the bar, a man in a grey suit turns away before I can get a proper look at his face. Luka’s attention follows him for half a second, then returns to me.
“Stay near me,” he says.
“That sounded like an order.”
“It is.”
“Luka.”
His hand settles more firmly at my back. Not enough for anyone to notice. Enough for me.
“I will explain later,” he says. “For now, smile.”
“Why?”
“Because the photographer is coming.”
I turn just as a woman with a camera approaches, smiling brightly. “Mr. Kazan, may we get one?”
I open my mouth to say something, but Luka’s hand shifts from my back to my waist and draws me closer.
The photographer lifts her camera.
“Lovely,” she says.
The flash goes off.
For one second, I stand in Luka’s arm under the bright light, my pulse racing, his body warm beside mine, and I think about all the nights I arranged this for someone else.
I look up at Luka just as the second flash goes off.
He’s not looking at the camera. He’s looking at me.
“Beautiful,” she says. “Thank you, Mr. Kazan.”
Luka’s gaze finally moves away from mine. “Send the approved set to my office before publication.”
“Of course.”
She leaves quickly.
I look up at him. “Approved set?”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t thank you.”
“You were going to when no terrible photos of you appear online tomorrow.”
I hate that he’s right, so I drink my champagne instead of answering.
The room keeps filling around us. People move in practiced circles, stopping Luka every few steps.
A trustee thanks him for his donation. A surgeon from the pediatric wing speaks to him about equipment funding.
A politician with very white teeth tries to shake his hand too long.
Luka handles all of them with the same controlled attention, polite enough to be respectable and distant enough to remind everyone that access to him is temporary.
I stand beside him and listen.
At first, I feel like decoration.
Then Luka keeps doing something that makes it impossible to stay annoyed.
He includes me. When the surgeon mentions procurement delays, Luka says, “Nina has been reviewing the vendor file.” When the trustee asks about the upcoming expansion, he says, “She can speak to the schedule better than I can.” When a donor makes a lazy joke about assistants running the world, Luka looks at him until the man stops smiling.
By the time we reach our table, I’m still irritated with him, but it has become difficult to enjoy properly.
A server replaces my champagne with sparkling water before I ask. I glance at Luka.
He does not look guilty.
“You arranged that?”
“You were holding the champagne like a weapon.”
“I was using it for confidence.”
“You had enough.”
“You are very bossy for someone on probation.”
His mouth almost curves. “Probation?”
I resist the urge to stick my tongue in front of him.
His eyes shift over the room again, and the small change in his face reminds me that he is not here only for the gala.
He’s watching.
The guests, the entrances, the service staff, the bar, the men speaking too quietly near the far wall.
I don’t know what he sees, but his body changes each time his attention catches on something.
It is subtle, a tightening in his jaw or a pause in his hand at my back, but I’m learning to notice those things.
I wish I weren’t.
A man approaches us and leans close to Luka’s ear. One of his security people. Dima, I think.
Luka listens without reacting.
Then he looks at me. “I need to speak with someone.”
“Okay.”
His voice lowers. “Please.”
That stops me.
He says it like the word costs him, and because I’m apparently weak to basic manners from dangerous men, I nod.
“Fine,” I say. “But I’m not a decorative plant. If anyone asks, I’m networking.”
“You’re better at it than half the people here.”
“Correct answer.”
He looks like he wants to touch me. He doesn’t.
He leaves with Dima, moving toward a cluster of men near the trustee entrance.
Almost immediately, he’s absorbed into conversation.
Even from across the room, he is impossible not to notice.
Tall, composed, tuxedo sharp, his face calm while the men around him look like they are trying to guess which version of him they are speaking to.
I stay near the side of the ballroom with my sparkling water and try not to look like I’m waiting for him.
The music changes.
Soft conversation shifts as couples begin moving toward the dance floor. A few older men lead their wives out first, then younger guests follow, laughing as if dancing at charity events is a normal thing people do instead of an elegant form of public surveillance.
I take one step back to stay out of the way.
Then a voice says, “May I have this dance?”
I turn. And nearly have a heart attack.
The man standing in front of me is the man from Alina’s video.
I know it before my brain catches up.
Dark hair brushed back. Hard jaw. Expensive suit. Cold expression disguised as charm. In the video, he had been half blurred, only a profile in bad lighting, his hand near Alina’s wrist.
Standing close enough that I can smell his cologne.
My fingers tighten around my glass. “You,” I say.
His mouth curves faintly. “Me.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you want?”
“Just to talk.”
“Then talk.”
His gaze moves once around the room. Not obviously. He’s smoother than that. But he checks the exits, the guards, the men near the bar, and the corner where Luka disappeared.
“I’d rather do it while dancing,” he says.
“I’d rather not.”
“That is understandable.”
He says it politely, which somehow makes him more irritating.
I fold my arms, forgetting for a second that I’m holding a glass. The sparkling water sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
His eyes drop to it. “Careful.”
“Don’t care about my drink.”
“I care about the scene you will cause if you throw it at me.”
“Then you know me already.”
“A little.”
That makes my skin prickle.
I look around for Luka. He’s nowhere near me.
I can see Dima near one column, but he’s facing the other direction, speaking into his earpiece. Sergei is at the far entrance. Pavel’s not visible. Luka is still caught near the trustees, partly blocked by a group of men in black suits.
Roman watches me process that. “Two minutes,” he says. “In public. On the dance floor. I’ll keep my hands exactly where they should be.”
“How noble.”
“Practical. I assume you bruise easily, and Luka Kazan appears attached to his possessions.”
My face goes hot with anger. “I’m not his possession.”
Roman tilts his head slightly. “No?”
“No.”
For some reason, that makes his smile fade.
“Good,” he says. “Then prove it. Dance with me because you want answers, not because you are waiting for his permission.”
I hate that the line works.
I don’t trust him for one second. But I also hear Luka’s voice in my head telling me to stay near the table, and suddenly I feel like everyone is moving me around a board I never agreed to play on.
I place my glass on a passing tray. “Two minutes,” I say.
Roman offers his hand.
I look at it like it might be poisoned.
But then I take it.
He leads me onto the dance floor with the ease of a man used to being allowed into rooms where he is not wanted. His hand settles at my waist exactly where it should, no lower, no tighter. His other hand holds mine lightly.
Annoyingly, he’s a very good dancer.
He moves like he hears the music and the room at the same time, guiding without making it obvious. I keep my spine straight and my face calm because I refuse to look frightened while dancing with a man Luka clearly hates.
“Talk,” I say.
Roman’s eyes remain polite. “You are direct.”