Painted Scars (Perfectly Imperfect, #1)(9)
flowers on a table?” Those are the usual requests when it comes to custom commissions, and the main reason why I hate doing them.
“Nope. I had something else in mind.” There it is again, that devious calculating half-smile. “I want your self-portrait.”
“A self-portrait?” I raise my eyebrows. What the hell is he going to do with my self-portrait? Why not a landscape?
“Yes. Is that a problem?”
“No. Any special requests? Pose? Background?”
He leans forward until his face is looming right in front of mine, takes my chin with two fingers, and tilts my head up a little.
“Just one,” he says and focuses his gaze on my lips. “I want you to be naked.”
My eyes widen at the realization of what he just said, and I’m so stunned that I can’t find a meaningful response.
“It looks like we’ve become a main attraction in the room,” he murmurs, still focused on my lips.
“Are you ready, Nina?”
His nearness is doing funny things to my already unsettled mind, and dear God, he smells amazing.
Trying to get back down to earth, I start chanting a new mantra in my head: He’s a criminal. He’s a criminal.
“Ready? For . . . what?” I mumble.
“To show me how good an actress you really are.” He smiles and crashes his lips to mine.
Erased. Every single coherent thought vaporized. One second, I was a thinking rational being. In the next, every single logical thought vanished, only to be replaced with one maddening need—more.
More of his lips, more of his smell, more of everything.
There is a sound of a glass shattering. Something wet splashes my feet. I open my eyes and start registering the reality piece by piece. Roman’s face is looming just an inch from mine, his hand on the back of my neck. My fingers are in his hair, clutching the silky black strands.
“That was an outstanding performance,” he says in low voice. “The glass was a masterful detail.”
I remove my hands from Roman’s hair and look down where my wine glass lays shattered in
pieces. Red liquid mares the pristine white marble floor, and some of it ended up splashed all over my right foot and shoe.
Roman grabs the wheels on his chair and in two quick motions repositions himself so he is in front of me. “Swap your legs, Miss Grey. Right one up.”
Regarding him through narrowed eyes, I uncross my legs, then cross them again so my right one is crossed over the left.
He bends, wraps his hand around my right ankle, undoes the clasp, and slips the strap from my heel. He removes the shoe, and I stare at his hands as he wipes the wine from my foot with a white napkin he took from the table. When he’s done, he puts my heel back on and closes the clasp. Holding my ankle, he slowly lowers my leg back down.
I’m only partially aware of the people in the room who had gone unusually quiet—every one of them staring at us. I’m trying and failing to process what had just happened. That was the most erotic nonsexual thing I’ve ever experienced.
“I think it’s time for us to leave,” Roman says and motions with his hand toward Maxim who’s leaning on the wall not far from us. “Go to your father, tell him you’re coming with me, and make sure a few people hear you say it. We’ll be waiting in the car at the front.”
He takes the wheels of his chair and guides it toward the exit with Maxim following him a few paces behind. People watch them leave, and then their eyes focus on me. I feel like I’m on display as I walk to my father and kiss him on the cheek. “Roman has asked me to join him for a private drink.”
Whispers break out around us. Father smiles, but it’s forced, so I pat him on the arm before I cross the hall toward the exit. The crowd’s eyes bore into my back. They probably think I’m a slut, but I don’t give a damn. With my head held high and a fake smile on my lips, I leave the room.
There is a big white car in the front as promised. Maxim is standing by the back door and opens it for me when I approach. As I get inside, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I am doing.
*
I knew Roman was rich. He had to be, with him being the head of the Bratva, so I assumed he would live in some grand house. What I was currently looking at, was not a house. It was a damn fortress, and it came with its own small army.
Tall concrete walls surround a huge estate on all four sides, and cameras are mounted on the top at every ten feet. The car drives through a big automatic gate with the guardhouse on the side, and follows a wide gravel road to a monstrosity of a mansion. A perfectly manicured lawn stretches all around, and there are only a few scattered trees placed here and there so they don’t obstruct the view.
Security measure probably.
Two men in black gear with guns on their belts are positioned along the front of the house, and a few more patrol the grounds. I’m sure there are more I can’t see.
“Do you have cameras inside as well?” I ask.
“If you want people to trust you and stay loyal, you have to reciprocate,” Roman says from next to me. “Placing the cameras inside would mean I don’t trust my men.”
The car stops at the front of the house and Maxim opens the door for me while the driver goes to the trunk to take out Roman’s wheelchair. I exit the car and look over the building. It’s only two stories high, but it expands at least fifty yards on each side. The thing is gigantic.