Page 17
17
DMITRI
I check my Rolex again, noting it is eight minutes past our reservation. The ma?tre d' hovers nearby, ready to escort me to the private dining room I've reserved at L'Artisan, but I wave him off.
My phone buzzes. A text from Akim confirms he picked up Tash fifteen minutes ago. Traffic on Fifth Avenue. I drum my fingers on the polished marble counter of the bar, taking another sip of scotch.
The restaurant's crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across the intimate space, perfect lighting for what I had planned. I adjust my cufflinks—platinum with small sapphires that match my tie. Everything must be perfect tonight.
The door opens, letting in a gust of cool evening air. My breath catches.
Tash glides in wearing a vintage Valentino jumpsuit in deep emerald silk, the fabric clinging to every curve before flowing into wide-leg pants. The plunging neckline showcases a delicate gold body chain that disappears beneath the silk. Her dark hair is swept up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck and a pair of art deco emerald earrings I've never seen before.
But the back of the jumpsuit steals my ability to form words—it is completely open to her waist, crossed only by thin gold chains that match the one in front. The silk drapes perfectly from her hips, making her legs look endless.
She spots me at the bar, and those brown eyes lock with mine. A slight smile plays at her red lips as she approaches.
"Sorry I'm late." Her voice is low, meant only for me. "Traffic was terrible."
I still haven't found my voice. In all our encounters, I've never been struck speechless. But seeing her like this, confident, stunning, and completely unique, it takes me a moment to remember how to breathe.
The ma?tre d' appears. "Your table is ready, Mr. Ivanov."
I clear my throat. "You look..." I trail off, unable to find words adequate enough.
Her smile widens slightly. She knows exactly what she's done to me.
I guide Tash to our private dining room, hovering at the small of her back without touching the exposed skin. The waiter pulls out her chair, and I catch the subtle scent of her perfume as she sits.
"I assume you've already ordered the wine." She picks up the menu, but her eyes find mine over the top. "Something obscenely expensive to match your ego."
"A 2005 Chateau Margaux." I lean back, studying her. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"
"Perfect choice. Though I'm surprised you didn't go with Russian."
"I save that for special occasions." I let my gaze trail down to where the gold chain disappears beneath the silk. "When I want to savor something... properly."
The waiter appears with the wine, and I watch as she takes her first sip. Her eyes close briefly in appreciation.
"At least your taste in wine makes up for your personality," she murmurs.
"You weren't complaining about my personality the other night in your office."
A slight flush colors her cheeks. "That was a moment of temporary insanity."
"Is that right?" I reach across the table, running my finger along the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch. "Because I remember you being very... vocal about what you wanted."
She doesn't pull away. Instead, her foot slides against my ankle under the table. "I remember you being the one who couldn't wait to lock the door."
The waiter returns to take our order, and I'm forced to release her wrist. But her foot remains pressed against my leg, a constant reminder of the electricity between us.
When we're alone again, I lean forward. "Tell me about the earrings. They're new."
"My grandmother's. Art Deco, from Paris." Her hand reaches up to touch one, and the movement causes the chains across her back to shift. "I never wear them."
"Why tonight?"
Her gaze catches mine, lighter and more open. "They felt right. Special."
The tenderness in her voice when she mentions her grandmother catches me off guard. I find myself curious, wanting to know more.
"Tell me about her." I take another drink of wine, watching Tash's face soften.
"She was extraordinary. Lived through the London Blitz and worked as a nurse. Met my grandfather at a dance hall—he was Canadian military." Tash traces the rim of her wine glass. "After the war, they moved to New York. She worked at the Met until she was seventy."
"Ah. So that's where you get it from." The passion for art, the steel beneath the grace.
"She taught me everything. How to tell a real Monet from a forgery and spot brushwork techniques." A small laugh escapes her. "She'd drag me to every museum, every gallery opening. My father's family—the Blackwoods—they've been Boston aristocracy since the Revolution. When Dad married Mom, it caused a scandal."
"Scandal?" I prompt, intrigued by this glimpse behind the polished facade.
"The Blackwoods expected Dad to marry someone from their circle. Another old money family with the right connections and pedigree." Tash's expression turns wry. "Instead, he fell in love with my mother, whose family had new money—shipping and manufacturing wealth that exploded during the war, but no historical pedigree. My Blackwood grandparents considered it almost as bad as marrying a commoner. They never fully accepted her."
"That must have been difficult for your mother."
"It was. But she had her own mother—Gran—who was remarkably cultured despite her humble beginnings. Gran worked as a nurse during the London Blitz where she met my maternal grandfather, an American businessman supplying the Allied forces. After the war, they moved to New York where his family's manufacturing empire was headquartered." Her eyes take on a distant look. "Gran's passion was art, and through my grandfather's connections and donations to the Met, she secured a position as a docent, eventually working her way up to a curatorial assistant position."
"The Blackwoods were always too busy with their society functions, but Gran..." Tash pauses, emotion flickering across her face. "She made time."
Something shifts in my chest. I recognize that look—the weight of expectations, of never quite measuring up to what family demands.
"Your parents didn't approve of your career choice?"
"The Blackwood name opens doors, but it comes with expectations. They wanted me to marry well, host charity galas, be the perfect society wife." Her mouth twists. "Dad lost a lot of our family fortune in bad investments. They thought I could restore our position through marriage—finally make the Blackwood name 'respectable' again after Dad's unfortunate choice in wife."
"Instead, you chose to work."
"When my maternal grandfather passed, he left a trust specifically for my education and independence—Gran's idea, of course. She knew what it was like to be trapped by circumstances." Her fingers brush the emerald earrings again. "These were Gran's. My grandfather gave them to her after she was promoted at the Met. She said they reminded her that beauty and knowledge belong to everyone, not just the wealthy."
I study her face, seeing layers I hadn't noticed before. The determination beneath the polish. The passion behind the poise. For the first time, I underestimated just how deep those waters run.
"She sounds remarkable."
"She was." Tash meets my gaze. "She would have seen right through you, you know."
"I don't doubt it." I smile, genuine this time. "I think I would have liked her."
The warmth in her eyes makes me want to tell her everything. It's a dangerous feeling.
"What about your parents?" Tash asks, leaning forward. "You never mention them."
Ice fills my veins, replacing the pleasant buzz from the wine. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass.
"There's not much to tell." I keep my voice neutral, but memories flash through my mind of blood on marble floors and my mother's screams.
"Come on." She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. "Your mother must have been remarkable to raise four such... interesting sons."
I pull my hand back, adjusting my cufflinks. "She died when I was young."
"I'm sorry." Her genuine sympathy makes this harder. “And your father?"
"Car accident." The memories of that accident still haunt me, as I was in the car with my mom. I watched her die. "It was a long time ago."
Tash studies my face. I can see her curator's mind at work, cataloging the micro-expressions I can't quite hide.
"You don't like talking about them."
"No." I take a long sip of wine, buying time to rebuild my walls. "The past is better left where it belongs."
She opens her mouth to ask another question, but I cut her off by signaling the waiter. "More wine?"
The message is clear that this line of questioning is closed. I see the flash of hurt in her eyes, but I can't tell her the truth. I'm a mobster, and our family thrives on drug and arms deals.
Some secrets have to stay buried for both our sakes.
The waiter brings our entrees—Dover sole for her and wagyu for me. I watch Tash take her first delicate bite, appreciating how she savors the food without the affected mannerisms many society women display.
"The chef outdid himself tonight." I attempt to steer us back to safer waters. "Though not quite as good as that little place in Paris we discussed."
"Le Baratin?" Her shoulders relax. "No, but few restaurants compare. Their wine list alone..."
"Next time you're in Paris, try L'Ami Louis. The chicken is transcendent."
"Bold of you to assume I'll take restaurant recommendations from a man who drinks Stoli with his caviar." A ghost of her earlier playfulness returns.
"That was one time, and Nikolai dared me." I allow a small smile. "Besides, you're the one who paired red wine with fish tonight."
"Rules are meant to be broken." She takes another sip of the Margaux. "At least when you know which ones."
The conversation flows easier now, but something has shifted. The intimacy from earlier, when she spoke of her grandmother, has retreated behind careful words and measured responses. I've built walls my entire life but watching her construct her own makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
We discuss safe topics such as upcoming exhibitions and mutual acquaintances. She's brilliant and engaging, but I notice how she steers clear of anything personal. No more questions about family or the past.
The crystal chandeliers cast shadows across her face, highlighting the reserved set of her jaw. Even the gold chains across her back seem more like armor than adornment.
I did this. One moment of weakness, of refusing to let her past my defenses, and I've lost something precious I didn't even realize I wanted to keep.
The waiter clears our plates and brings the check. I slide my black Amex across the table without looking at the total. Money has never been an issue, especially not tonight.
Outside, the autumn air carries a hint of winter. Tash wraps her arms around herself, the silk offering little protection against the chill. She steps toward the curb, lifting her hand to hail a cab.
I catch her wrist, my fingers circling the delicate bones and yanking her away from the curb toward the building. "You're coming home with me."
She turns, eyebrow arched. "I don't think so. I'm not doing the walk of shame out of the Ivanov mansion tomorrow morning. Your brothers would never let me live it down."
A laugh escapes me. "While I keep rooms there, I live in my own place." I tug her closer. "A penthouse in Back Bay. Very private, very exclusive."
"Still as arrogant as ever," Tash says, pulling her wrist from my grip.
"You love it." I step closer, boxing her against the building. Her breath catches as I lean in. "The way I take control. The way I know exactly what I want."
She tilts her chin up, defiant even as her pupils dilate. "You're delusional."
"Am I?" My hand finds her hip, fingers splaying across the silk. "Your body gives you away every time."
The black Mercedes pulls up smoothly to the curb. Akim steps out and opens the rear door with perfect timing.
I gesture to the open door. "After you."
Tash hesitates, then slides into the leather interior. I follow, settling close enough that our thighs touch. As soon as Akim closes the door, my hand finds her knee.
"Dmitri..." Her warning lacks conviction as my fingers trail higher, brushing the silk aside to find bare skin.
"Shh." I nip at her earlobe, breathing in her perfume. My other hand traces the chains across her cleavage. "I've been wanting to touch you all night."
She gasps as my fingers slip beneath the silk, finding her hard sensitive nipples. "The partition..."
"Is up." I draw her onto my lap. "And Akim knows better than to lower it."
Her head falls back against my shoulder as my hands roam freely now. One slides up to cup her breast through the silk while the other teases between her thighs over the fabric of her jumpsuit. “Your choice in attire is inconvenient,” I muse, wishing I could get my hands on her pussy,
"Someone could see," she protests weakly, even as she grinds against me.
"The windows are tinted." I suck at her pulse point. "No one can see how badly you want this."
I hold her firmly in place, her back pressed against my chest. My fingers trace the delicate gold chains crossing her exposed skin, savoring how they catch the passing city lights.
"Stay still," I command when she tries to turn. My other hand splays across her stomach, keeping her exactly where I want her.
I brush my lips along her neck, tasting her pulse racing beneath the skin. The silk rustles as she shifts against me.
"You planned this," I murmur against her ear, following the path of another gold chain with my fingertips. "Wearing this tonight, driving me crazy knowing I can’t get to you without getting you home."
"Not everything is about you, Dmitri." But her voice catches as my hand slides higher up her ribcage over the fabric.
"No?" I trace the edge of the silk where it meets the bare skin of her breasts. "Then why choose something that leaves you so... exposed and yet inaccessible?"
She tries to turn again, but I tighten my grip. "I said stay still."
A small sound escapes her throat—half protest, half need. I smile against her neck, knowing I've won this round. My fingers dance along her collarbone, following the delicate chain down until it disappears beneath the silk.
"Your grandmother's earrings may be Art Deco," I whisper, "but this body chain is pure modern art. The way it frames you..." I trace another line down her stomach, making her arch. "Exquisite."
Her fingers dig into my thighs as I continue carefully exploring every inch of exposed skin. The partition remains firmly up as the car glides through the night, carrying us toward my penthouse, where I plan to take my time unwrapping this particular gift.
Table of Contents
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- Page 16
- Page 17 (Reading here)
- Page 18
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