Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(7)
I reach for the whiskey bottle to refill my glass when my uncle lets out a whistle, like the uncivilized pig he is, and motions with his cigar toward the entrance.
“Nice ass,” he comments.
I follow his gaze and my eyes land on a woman in a long emerald-green dress. Black embroidered
decorations accentuate the neckline and her tiny waist, and then flow along the edges of a high slit, revealing one slender leg. My eyes trail the slit upward until they stop at her face, and I almost fail to recognize her. She removed the nose ring. Her hair is different as well, pulled up on the top of her head in some complicated design. I can hardly believe that this is the same woman I met a few days earlier. The men at the table are mumbling between each other, and I wish they would shut up so I can enjoy the view in peace.
“Is that Samuel’s wife?” someone asks.
“Yeah, right.”
“Who is this Samuel guy?”
“He’s handling the real estate purchases for Mikhail. It must be his daughter.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind handling that for a night.”
They continue laughing at their stupid jokes, and it makes me so mad I want to break their necks.
“Shut up,” I bark and pin them, one by one, with my gaze.
They all stare at me for a second, and in the next moment, the conversation switches to another subject. I return to watching Nina. She is standing with her father and a few other men, smiling at something one of them said, and I feel this strange urge to shoot the man who’s currently on the receiving end of her smile.
“See something you like, Roman?” My uncle nudges me with his shoulder.
“Maybe.”
“She’s a cute little thing. Not exactly your type.”
“Leave.” I reach for my drink. “And take the guys with you.”
“What?”
“Go find another table, Leonid. Right now.”
He mumbles something but stands, and a few moments later the other three chairs screech. I lean back in my wheelchair, letting my eyes go back to the little hellion on the other side of the room.
There is this prickling feeling at the back of my neck. It started the moment we came inside, and I can’t shake it. It’s probably anxiety from being here in the middle of a wolf’s den, surrounded by men and women in expensive outfits. They smile and chat, and I wonder how many of them have blood on their hands.
I turn to take a glass of wine from a waiter when my eyes land on a man sitting alone at the table in the corner and my heartbeat quickens.
Casually leaning back in his wheelchair, Petrov is watching me with narrowed eyes, and the vain part of me revels in his attention. Well yes, Mr. Petrov, I clean up nice. The night when we met, the gloomy restaurant’s interior didn’t allow me to see him clearly, but here, with all the grand chandeliers illuminating the room, I can finally see him in all his glory.
He’s wearing black dress pants and a charcoal shirt with two top buttons undone to reveal the ends of a black tribal pattern on his chest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing a similarly designed tattoo around his right forearm. I’m not sure why, but he didn’t strike me as a type of a man who’d ink his skin.
I’ve met many beautiful men. We even had a few fashion models come to pose for us in my Painting Practice Class. Their perfect facial features were always a challenge to replicate on paper.
Roman Petrov isn’t anything like those men, and comparing them would be like comparing a gazelle with a rabid tiger. They are a completely different species. If I had to pick one word to describe the Russian Pakhan it would be devastating. Black hair a bit longer on the top, sharp cheekbones, and a nose slightly larger than perfect. Nothing that would stand out by itself, but together his is a face I could never forget. Maybe it was his dark and piercing eyes, still focused on me, that give off that devilish vibe or his gaze that makes me want to turn around and bolt. It must be a primal reaction, the prey’s unconscious knowledge of having been at the center of a predator’s attention.
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches for the empty chair at his side, moves it closer to him, and nods toward it. I should probably go there, but my legs are rooted to the spot.
“Miss Grey, Roman Petrov is inviting you to join him,” the man on my left says. “It’s not wise to keep the Pakhan waiting.”
So, it looks like the show is on. With a deep breath, I plaster a seductive smile on my face and start walking toward, probably, the most dangerous man in the room. I wonder if I’m heading to my demise.
I stop right in front of him and offer him my hand. “Mr. Petrov, you called.”
Instead of shaking it, he takes my fingers gently and lifts my hand to his lips, then places a soft kiss on my knuckles. It feels like fire just seared my flesh. He doesn’t let go immediately, and I can’t tear my eyes away, noticing how hilariously tiny my hand looks compared to his.
“Roman, please,” he says in a deep baritone, and a flock of mad butterflies attacks my insides.
I sit down next to him and quickly adjust the fabric of my dress to cover my trembling legs. When I throw a look toward my father, he’s still standing with the same group of people, and every one of them is looking in our direction.
“It always works for you this way?” I ask, a fake smile plastered all over my face. “You pick a woman, nod, and she comes running?”