Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(8)

“Most of the time, yes.”

“That must be fun.”

“Not really.” He takes a sip of his drink, watching the crowd milling around. Most of them are cutting glances at us, but when they catch Roman looking, they quickly turn their heads.

“Tell me, Nina, if there wasn’t this deal between us, would you have come when I nodded?” he asks.

“Nope.”

I don’t expect him to ask me to elaborate, but he does, and his question surprises me. “Why not? Is it because of the wheelchair?”

He says it conversationally, but there is some hidden undertone that I can’t quite define. I abandon watching the crowd and look him right in the eyes. “It’s because I’m not a poodle, Mr. Petrov.”

He laughs and takes another sip of his drink, shaking his head.

“What happened?” I nod toward his legs.

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you, Nina?”

“Do you want me to?”

“It was a car bomb. Shrapnel hit my right knee and shattered it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Like a bitch,” he says curtly and throws back the rest of his drink.

“You have money, I’m sure there’s some surgery that would help.”

“Well, it looks like there are things that no amount of money can buy.”

“Yeah. That sucks. At least you can buy a wife.” I shrug. “For three million you could have gotten a whole harem, not just one.”

Roman cocks his head to the side, observing me with interest, and then leans in to whisper in my ear. “You, Nina Grey, are one strange woman.”

Even his voice is sexy, damn him.

“My mother thinks so, too. She says I’m never going to find a man who would want to deal with my type of crazy, in the long run at least.”

“What an optimistic, supportive parent.” He reaches out with his hand and traces a line on the inside of my forearm from the elbow to the base of my palm. “Is there a boyfriend in the picture?”

It’s almost impossible to concentrate while his finger continues tracing the lines up and down my forearm. His touch is feather-light, but still, it feels like he’s branding me. “Why do you ask? Would you reconsider releasing me from our contract?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter, I guess.”

Keeping his eyes on mine, he takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips, one corner of his mouth curves upward in a barely-there smile.

“I googled you yesterday,” he says, still keeping my fingers in his hand, just an inch from his lips.

“Who would have thought that such a delicate little hand could create such . . . disturbing art.”

I smile, trying to hide how much his touch and nearness impact me. Roman Petrov, I come to

realize, is impossible to ignore, especially when he turns on the charm. “You don’t like it?”

“Oh, on the contrary, Miss Grey. I love it.”

His lips brush the tips of my fingers and stay there for a few seconds before he lowers my hand, but he keeps holding it in his. He is playing his part so well, this devious, dangerous man.

“Would you paint something for me?”

I look up at him, surprised by his question. “I don’t do commissions.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t like to be pressed into doing things I don’t want to do.”

Roman’s lips widen in a smile. Yup, he understood the double meaning.

“How about a trade, then? You paint something for me, and I give you something you want.”

“Anything?”

“Money, jewelry, anything you want.”

Tempting. It’s not a thing that I want from him, though. “I want an answer to a question,” I say. “Is that an option as well?”

My choice surprised him. I see it in the way his eyes widen just slightly. And he’s not happy.

“Depends on the question.”

“In that case, I’ll have to decline, Mr. Petrov.”

He looks at me and then bursts out laughing, making several heads turn in our direction. “You drive a hard bargain, Miss Grey.” He leans his head and whispers in my ear, “Ask.”

I find it hard to believe that he accepted. Petrov doesn’t seem like a man who would agree to anyone’s terms. He must really want that painting. I lift my head and look into his calculating dark eyes, while several possibilities run through my head.

“Why do you need a temporary wife, Roman? You’re handsome, rich, powerful. I’m sure there are dozens of women who’d be happy to marry you. Why waste three-million dollars when you could get a wife for free?”

“Because I don’t want a permanent one, and the current business situation requires me to have a wife for the next six months.”

“Why six months?”

“Well, that’s a second question.” He smiles. “And you bargained for only one.”

Touché.

He had answered without revealing anything at all. I should have expected it and phrased my

question differently, but there’s no going back now.

“So, what do you want me to paint for you? A landscape? Your dog? Apples, cheese, and dead