Page 6

6

TASH

I slam another file closed, frustration building as I review the Petrov acquisition documents for the hundredth time. The board’s concerns about political sensitivities are valid. Still, this collection belongs in a museum, not locked away in some oligarch’s private vault.

The click of expensive shoes on marble makes me look up. Dmitri stands in my office doorway, his suit as impeccable as ever despite the late hour.

“The museum closed two hours ago.” I don’t bother hiding my irritation.

“But here you are.” He steps inside, uninvited. “Still fighting for the Petrov pieces.”

“Someone has to preserve art history, not hoard it for private collections.”

His lips quirk. “You think that’s what this is about? Private collectors versus public access?”

“Isn’t it?” I stand, gathering the scattered papers. “Your ‘concerns’ at the board meeting were crystal clear.”

“My concerns were keeping the museum out of an international incident.” He moves closer, picking up one of the collection photographs. “The Petrov family’s ties to certain political figures make this acquisition... complicated.”

“Art shouldn’t be political.”

“Everything is political.” His tone deepens. “Especially twelve million dollars’ worth of Russian artifacts during current tensions.”

I snatch the photo from his hand. “So we let priceless pieces disappear because we’re afraid of ruffling feathers?”

“No.” He catches my wrist, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse. “We find another way to acquire them. One that doesn’t put the museum at risk.”

"What other way?"

His eyes glitter with something dangerous. “Let me handle the negotiations. I have... connections that could smooth things over.”

“Why would you help?” I pull my hand free, ignoring how my skin burns where he had touched me.

“Perhaps I enjoy watching you fight for what you want.” He straightens his cuffs. “Even when you’re fighting me.”

“Curatorial independence means making decisions based on artistic and historical merit, not political convenience.” I circle my desk, putting distance between us. “The moment we let outside influences dictate our acquisitions-”

“Outside influences already dictate everything.” Dmitri’s voice is infuriatingly calm. “Do you think your current donors don’t have agendas?”

"That's different."

“How?” He follows my movement, matching each step. “Because they align with your worldview?”

“Because they don’t threaten the museum’s reputation!”

“No?” His laugh holds no humor. “The Richardson family’s fortune came from blood diamonds. The Weston grant? Money laundering. Your moral high ground is built on quicksand, Natasha.”

I whirl to face him. “Then why are you really here? To educate me on the corruption I already know exists?”

“I’m here because—” He closes the gap between us, backing me against the wall. “Because you fascinate me. Your passion. Your defiance. The way you pretend my presence doesn’t affect you.”

My breath catches. “It doesn’t.”

“No?” His hand brushes my hip, feather-light. “Your pulse says otherwise.”

“Dmitri...” The warning in my voice sounds weak even to me.

His fingers trail up my arm, leaving fire in their wake. He leans closer, his breath hot against my neck. “Tell me to stop.”

I can’t form words. His scent surrounds me—expensive cologne and pure masculine musk. His lips hover just above mine, and I feel myself swaying forward?—

“Ms. Blackwood?” A flashlight beam cuts through the darkness. “Everything okay in here?”

I jerk away from Dmitri as Carl, the night security guard, appears in the doorway.

“Fine,” I manage, straightening my blouse. “Mr. Ivanov was just leaving.”

Dmitri’s eyes never leave mine as he steps back. “We’ll continue this discussion another time.”

I sink against my office wall after Dmitri leaves, my legs shaky. That final look he gave me—I’ve never seen his perfect control crack like that before. His eyes were dark and hungry. The way his eyes flashed when he pulled away...

The drive home is a blur. I can’t stop replaying the moment of his body pressing mine against the wall, the heat of his breath on my neck, and the need in his voice when he told me to tell him to stop.

My apartment feels too quiet, too empty. I strip off my clothes and step into a scalding shower, trying to wash away the lingering sensation of his touch. It doesn’t help. Water streams down my body, and all I can think about is his fingers trailing up my arm, his thumb pressing against my pulse point.

“Damn him,” I whisper, letting my head fall back against the tile.

My hand slides down my stomach of its own accord. I should stop. I shouldn’t let him affect me like this. But I can’t help imagining what would have happened if Carl hadn’t interrupted. Would Dmitri have kissed me? Would those perfectly manicured hands have torn my blouse open?

I bite my lip as my fingers find their target. In my mind, it’s his touch bringing me pleasure. His voice is in my ear, telling me how much I fascinate him. How my defiance drives him wild.

The water’s running cold by the time I finish. Shame and arousal war in my chest as I dry off. This attraction is dangerous—he’s dangerous. But with him on the museum board now, I’ll have to see him regularly. Deal with those knowing eyes, that controlled smile that promises sin.

I collapse into bed, still damp from the shower. Sleep feels impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—the crack in his perfect mask, the hunger he couldn’t quite hide. And worse, I know he saw the same need reflected in my eyes.