Page 8

I turned around, and there he was, a few paces away, watching me in silence, surrounded by our guests. His impeccably tailored black suit and polished black shoes gleamed in the soft light. His striking gray eyes shone in a way that was both charming and mysterious.

Sergei.

What’s he doing here? I didn’t invite him, and I’m sure my sister didn’t, either, because I know all her friends. How did he know I’d be here?

These questions overlapped in my head, and before I could make any sense of it all, he stepped forward, heading in my direction.

He’s coming over. Shit, shit, shit.

I panicked on the inside while still maintaining a composed exterior.

I lifted the glass to my lips and shoved a good amount of wine down my throat.

“Careful, you don’t wanna choke on that,” he teased with a smile, his voice smooth and husky as he halted before me.

A little embarrassed, I lowered my head, wiping my mouth with the back of my palm. Honestly, I wasn’t sure why I rushed my drink. Perhaps I thought that if I had more wine in my system, this conversation would flow more smoothly.

I cleared my throat, slightly raising my chin to meet his gaze. “What, are you stalking me now?” The question was half-teasing, half-serious, and my eyes locked with his.

His lips curled into a shallow grin. “Would it bother you if I were?”

“A little,” I replied, struggling to suppress a smile.

His presence stirred up a flutter in my chest and butterflies in my belly.

Butterflies? Seriously?

Yeah, I was in deeper trouble than I thought.

“Well, it might interest you to know that I’m no creep or stalker,” he replied, retaining his smile.

I pushed some strands of hair behind my ear, my voice dropping to almost a whisper. “That’s exactly what a creep or stalker would say.”

He scoffed, catching the joke in my tone. “Fair enough.”

I chuckled lightly, easing into the way our conversation flowed naturally. Away from the crowd and under the moon’s ethereal glow, we talked for a little while. Small talk. Small things. Safe things. Nothing serious.

However, he was still as mysterious as ever, hard to read, never offering more than he deemed necessary.

As charming as his smile was, I couldn’t help but sense that there was something dark about him, something dangerous.

Yet, somehow, I still felt safe in his presence, unafraid of the darkness he carried with him like a suitcase.

Eventually, my peace was short-lived when I asked him the big question, and nothing could have prepared me for his response.

“Hey, uh…you never told me your full name,” I said, looking right at him.

He drew closer, an elbow on the railing. “You never asked,” he said, that sly grin deepening like he was anticipating the look on my face when he dropped the bombshell.

“Okay, this is me asking.” I held his gaze, my voice soft and tender. “Who are you? What is your full name?”

He hesitated for a moment as if savoring his words, then said, “Sergei. Sergei Tarasov.”

Shocked, I stood still, frozen in place as my heart pounded like a drum in my chest.

Tarasov.

Shit.

This was bad. This was really, really bad.

How the fuck did he get past security?

I’d heard his name flying around in the house a million times, spat out like poison.

Sergei Tarasov. My father’s worst enemy, the man stirring up quarrels with the Irish Mafia.

Fuck!

Cold sweat dampened my forehead, and my grip tightened around the railing for support. My lips parted, but no words came out. My throat was dry, my knees seemed like they could no longer carry my weight, and by now, my racing heart had sunk into my stomach.

Did he know who I was when he approached me at the gallery? Is this some sort of scheme to extract information from me?

No. That would be a low blow, even for a ruthless man like him.

What’s his game? What’s he playing at?

“Are you alright?” he asked, polite, like a perfect gentleman.

I snapped back to reality, swallowing subtly with a plastic smile on my face. “Yeah, yeah. Sure, of course.” I cleared my throat in a bid to sound more convincing.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re nervous,” he added teasingly.

I blew a raspberry. “Nervous? What? No.” Then I forced out a laugh. Not too creepy, but enough to sell my claim. I hoped.

“Good,” he said. “You looked at me like I told you I was Count Dracula.”

Well, there really isn’t much difference between you two, except for the fact that you can move in daylight.

Sergei drew a deep breath and straightened, glancing at his watch. “Shame. I have to leave now.” He paused for a moment, his lips curling into a self-satisfied grin. “Good talk, Ayla. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He beamed at me one more time before leaving.

“Fuck,” I muttered, placing a palm over my forehead as my pulse quickened.

My head was spinning; a million thoughts tugged at my mind at the same time. I set my flute on the nearest table and turned around to grip the railing with both hands.

Father would kill me if he ever saw me talking to Sergei Tarasov. And if he knew about these crazy little feelings growing inside me, he could disown me and kick me out of his life.

Sergei Tarasov was a dangerous man, yet I felt safe around him. And even after finding out his true identity, I wasn’t afraid. No. I was just shocked and worried about my family’s reaction.

I was still very much attracted to him, and that terrified me more than anything.