He opens the doors and we enter an elegant, many-windowed drawing room. It has fine carpets, antique furniture, and stunning period designer wallpaper. It smells of lavender polish. My eyes glance around the numerous beautiful paintings adorning the walls.
‘Take a seat," Mr. Muscle barks from the side of me, and I jump. His tone is that of a Sergeant major instructing one of his recruits. I think it would be safe to assume from his walk and his voice that he must be some type of ex-military guy. I take a seat on the brocade covered settee closest to me. He leaves the room without another word. His footsteps die away in the hallway outside.
Alone in the vast room, I gaze at the paintings. Unlike other fine houses that display the ancestors of the current owners, all the paintings are modern works of art. One painting, the main one, positioned above the fireplace, and artfully lit up, catches my attention.
I rise from my chair as if in a trance and walk towards it. It is of a child, a well-dressed, blond boy sitting on a chair. There is something strange about his face. I walk closer to him. His face is dirt streaked, his enormous green eyes dare me to pity him.
I glance at the name of the painter embossed into a piece of metal on the gilded frame. It is a Russian name I do not recognize. Why would a man who owns all this splendor have a painting of such pain? My curiosity for the Russian increases. Instinctively I sense I've just had a glimpse of a complicated personality.
I'm so engrossed by the painting I do not hear the footsteps heading towards the door. Suddenly the door opens. My stomach tightens. I do not turn around instantly. Instead, I take a deep breath.
"Hello, Star," a man's deep voice says. There is supreme indifference in his voice.
A vague recognition flashes inside me. I look at the face of the boy in the painting for another second, then I turn around, and my eyes widen in shock.
"You," I gasp.
Chapter Fourteen
Star
Three Weeks Previously
"You are the most beautiful woman in this room, Star," Nigel says, looking into my eyes.
"Oh yeah? And that brunette I saw you looking at just now?" I tease.
"What brunette?" he asks innocently. The candlelight falls on his cheeks making him look even more irresistible than he normally does.
I lift my wine glass and take a small sip. "Look. I really don't mind if you look at a beautiful girl. I would look at a beautiful man too. There's no harm." I grin. "Looking at the flowers in other people's gardens is allowed. You just can't pick them."
"You would look at a beautiful man?" Nigel asks. He is still smiling, but there is a slight tension in his jaw.
I shrug. "Just the same way I would look at a beautiful piece of art. I wouldn't want to take it home with me."
"But if you're looking at a man, you must be thinking sexual thoughts about him," he insists. I can see that he is getting a bit annoyed.
I look deep into his eyes. "I swear that from the day I met you I have never had a sexual thought about any other man. Not one. Ever."
He grins happily. "Good. That's the way it should be."
"Bet you can't say the same," I challenge. I know men are different than women. They have sexual thoughts all the time about random women they meet on the street. I once read in a magazine that men will pass a woman in the street and get a hard-on thinking about having sex with her. Incredible!
"Believe it or not, I haven't thought of another woman like that since you seduced me at that party."
"I didn't seduce you," I protest. "You came on to me."
"Only after you batted your eyelashes outrageously at me."
"I did not," I say with a laugh.
He reaches for my hand. "No, you didn't. That's why I liked you. You were so innocent you blushed when I came up to you." He pauses. "Look at you. You're blushing now."
A waitress comes to our table. "Would you like to have a look at our dessert menu?"
Nigel doesn't let go of my hand. "No, I'm having my wife for dessert," he says.
"Nigel," I gasp, and look up apologetically at the waitress.
She smiles politely. "How about some coffee then?"
"Nothing for me and a black coffee for my wife," Nigel orders.
The waitress moves away.
"Why do you do that?" I scold. "It's embarrassing for me and her."
"Why should either of you be embarrassed? It's the truth. I'm having you for dessert."
"There is no hope for you," I say.
He grins and looks at his watch. "I have to make a quick call to New York. Can you amuse yourself for ten minutes?"
I smile. "I have to go to the Ladies, anyway."
"Good girl," he says, and leaves the table.
I stand up and start to walk in the opposite direction he went. As I get to the corridor that leads to the toilets I turn back to see if I can still see Nigel and suddenly I slam into a wall. My head snaps back and I nearly die.
It's not a wall.
It's a tall, broad man with raven black hair, an arrogant mouth, sensual lips, and a square jaw. His clothes are expensive and yet his shirt is unbuttoned casually. His throat is brown. His shoes are immaculate.
He is beautiful, not the way a male model is, but the way a sleek, shining panther stalking its prey is. His hooded silvery-gray eyes look down at me without any expression in their depths. There is something cruel and indifferent in his mesmerizing eyes.
His presence is so powerful that I feel a shiver go right through me. He stares down at me with those strangely impassive eyes. Eyes that should belong to a predator cat. I stare back unable to look away. Something alive and electric sizzles between us.
My lips part to apologize, but I am so shocked by him, no words come out. My tongue comes out to lick my dry lips, and his eyes drop to my mouth. My knees feel as if they will not support me. I realize then that his hands are curled around my upper-arms. What the hell am I doing? I should break away.
"Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," I whisper.
"No problem," he says, his voice deep and velvety, and supremely indifferent. He is foreign.
His hands leave my upper-arms. He steps away from my body and the strangest thing happens. My body misses him. The way it has never missed Nigel. The desire for him is so strong, my hands claw: I want to reach out and press my body into his. I want him inside me.
He nods distantly, and walks away.
For a few seconds, I can do nothing. Shaken to my core, I draw deep, even breaths. Then, I take a step towards the Ladies. In that briefest of encounters, I have learned something about myself. I am not as pure as I imagined. Nigel is not as safe as he would like to believe.
My resistance is nothing more than a house perched at the edge of the cliff top. One bad storm and the raging sea will tear my house to smithereens.
Chapter Fifteen
Nikolai
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWOTdt9Bovk
Me And Mrs Jones
She stares at me in shock, her beautiful eyes wide, her mouth parted, and a river of primitive possessiveness rushes through my veins. I've got her. She's mine now.
"Did you … are you Nikolai?" she gasps.
"If he's not me, then he's one lucky bastard," I say.
Her mouth snaps shut and she squares her shoulders.
"Would you like a drink?" I ask.
"No thank you," she says stiffly.
I smile and walk to the liquor cabinet.
"Sorry, but can we please get on with this?" she shoots. Her eyes are combative. She wants to take control of a situation where she knows she has none.
"We already have. You are here under my roof, are you not?"
Her eyes regard me with hostility. "Why did you bring me here?"
"I wanted you," I say simply, watching her.
Her dowdy appearance cannot disguise her unique beauty. Her long golden hair tightly pulled back only serves to highlight her flawless skin. Even in this most intimidating scenario her eyes sparkle like brilliantly cut blue diamonds as she calculates her situation.
"And if you want something you just reach out and take it." Her voice drips with scorn.
"That's the general idea, yes."
"Even if that person is already married?"
"That does complicate things a little, but where there is a will there is always a way."
"So you'd have a woman who doesn't want you," she asks derisively.
I place a short glass tumbler on the polished wood of the bar and look up at her. "Are you trying to imply that you don't want me?"
Her face floods with pretty color. She's as delightful as a butterfly. "Did you somehow get the impression that I do?" she asks.
"Yes, I got the impression you wanted to be in my bed."
Her eyes widen. "Is that why you went to all this trouble to get me here?"
I hide a smile. "Yes."
She shakes her head, her forehead creased in a frown. "I'm so sorry. There has been a terrible misunderstanding. I don't want to be in your bed. Not at all. I'm very much married. I love my husband with all my heart, and he is the only man I want."