Page 16

16

TASH

I check my watch; it’s eight a.m. exactly. The door opens, and Dmitri strides in, impeccably dressed in a charcoal Armani suit that catches my breath. I force myself to focus on the stack of papers before me.

“Good morning, Mr. Ivanov.” My voice comes out steadier than I expected. “I have the authentication reports you requested.”

“Excellent.” He closes the door with a soft click that echoes in my ears. “Walk me through them.”

I clear my throat and begin shuffling through the documents. “The carbon dating confirms the pieces are from the correct period. We also completed spectroscopic analysis on the pigments...” I pass him the first report.

His fingers brush mine as he takes the paper. The brief contact sends electricity through my veins and memories of those same fingers on my skin flood back unbidden. I clench my jaw and continue.

“The certification from the International Art Registry came through last night. Everything matches the provenance documents.” I slide another report across my desk, carefully avoiding touching him this time.

“And the export permits?” His arctic blue eyes study me over the top of the papers.

“All in order.” I tap a blue folder. “Though getting the Russian Ministry of Culture to expedite was...” I trail off, remembering the countless calls and favors I had to call in.

“Challenging?” A hint of amusement colors his voice. “I imagine so.”

I straighten my spine and meet his gaze directly. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. The collection will be ready for installation next week, assuming the board approves.”

“They will.” He sets the papers down with precise movements. “You’ve been very thorough, Ms. Blackwood.”

The way he says my name makes my pulse quicken. I grip the edge of my desk, anchoring myself to its solid wood. “Just doing my job, Mr. Ivanov.”

“Is this why you wanted to meet before the board convenes?” I gather the papers into a neat stack, trying to ignore how his presence fills my office.

“No.” Dmitri moves closer, his cologne teasing my senses. “The reports could have waited for the meeting.”

I freeze, my hands still on the papers. “Then why?—”

“I want to apologize for my behavior at the gala.” His voice descends in pitch. “I was... unnecessarily harsh.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He leans against my desk, so close that I can see the subtle scar near his temple. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

My stomach flips. “Dinner?”

“At L’Artisan. Eight o’clock.”

I shake my head, even as part of me thrills at the invitation. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re Sofia’s brother-in-law. Because you’re on the museum board. Because—” I stop myself from adding “because I can’t trust myself around you.”

“Those sound like excellent reasons to clear the air.” His perfect smile appears, the one that never quite reaches his eyes. “Purely professional, of course.”

I snort. “Nothing about you is purely professional, Dmitri.”

“Is that a no?”

I should say no. Every instinct screams that dining with Dmitri Ivanov is like walking into a tiger’s cage. But the words that come out are: “I’ll think about it.”

His smile widens fractionally. “I’ll take that as a yes. A car will pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“You’re so arrogant.” I can’t muster real annoyance behind the words. “Most people wait for an actual yes before making dinner arrangements.”

“Most people aren’t me.” Dmitri steps closer, his tall frame casting a shadow over me. My heart speeds up as his masculine scent wraps around me.

“That’s exactly what an arrogant person would say.” I mean to sound dismissive but my voice comes out husky.

He moves closer until I tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The temperature in my office seems to spike. His presence overwhelms my senses—the subtle scent of his cologne, the crisp white of his shirt that hides countless tattoos you’d never expect a man like him to have, and how his suit jacket pulls across his broad shoulders.

His fingers dance across my cheek, making my breath catch. “What are you really afraid of, Tash?”

I swallow hard, my heart thundering against my ribs. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“No?” His thumb traces my bottom lip. “Then why are you trembling?”

“I’m not—” The lie dies in my throat as his other hand settles on my waist, drawing me closer. The heat of his palm burns through my silk blouse.

I should step back. Should put distance between us. Instead, I sway toward him, caught in his gravity like a helpless satellite.

His arctic blue eyes darken as they fix on my mouth. The air crackles between us, heavy with possibility. I tilt my face up, pulse racing as he leans down?—

A knock at the door makes me jump. “Ms. Blackwood? Your eight-fifteen is here.”

I stumble back, nearly tripping over my chair. “Just—just a minute, Jenny!”

Dmitri’s expression hardens for a fraction of a second before his perfect mask slides back into place. He straightens his already immaculate tie. “I look forward to seeing you at the board meeting in half an hour, Ms. Blackwood.”

“Yes. The board meeting.” I smooth my skirt, trying to collect myself. “I’ll have the full presentation ready.”

I take several deep breaths to steady myself before opening the door. Jenny stands there with Mr. Patterson, one of our most generous donors. For decades, his Monet has been the centerpiece of his private collection.

“Mr. Patterson, thank you for coming.” I gesture him into my office, hyper-aware of the lingering scent of Dmitri’s cologne. “Please, have a seat.”

“Always a pleasure, my dear.” He settles into the chair across my desk, his bow tie slightly crooked. “Though I must say, you look a bit flushed. Are you feeling alright?”

“Just rushed this morning.” I smooth my hair and take my seat, forcing thoughts of Dmitri from my mind. “Now, about the Monet...”

“Ah, yes.” He leans forward, eyes twinkling. “I hear you’re putting together an Impressionist exhibition for next spring.”

“We are.” I pull out the proposal I’d prepared. “And your ‘Water Lilies’ would be the perfect centerpiece. The lighting in the main gallery would really bring out those twilight purples.”

Mr. Patterson picks up the proposal, adjusting his reading glasses. “My late wife always said that painting belonged in a museum where everyone could enjoy it.”

I hold my breath, not daring to hope it could be this easy. The Monet would transform our exhibition from impressive to extraordinary.

“Tell me more about your security measures,” he says, flipping through the pages. “And the environmental controls. Canvas this old needs precise humidity...”

I launch into the technical details, pushing all thoughts of ice-blue eyes and dangerous promises from my mind. I have a job to do, and I’m damn good at it. Dmitri and whatever game he’s playing can wait.