by Elodie Colt
Heaving another annoyed sigh, probably the tenth within the last hour, he grabs my upper arm and shoots me a warning glare.
“A good portion of Crawford Crescent’s profit goes to various NGO’s around the world,” he says, keeping his voice low. “We even have a partnership with the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. I’m happy to give you some insight into our charity projects. As for this,”—he flicks his credit card into the direction of the counter where the sales clerk pulls my new clothes over the scanner with a triumphant smirk on her face—“I suggest you stop making a fuss, or I’m going to drag you into the changing room and spank you raw.”
I try to take a step back as a flinty pair of smoky eyes burns into me, but I don’t get far with Nathan tightening his grip on my arm, assuring his words hit home this time. I haven’t encountered that dark and dominating side of him since the last time we were in the Room, but now that he pins me with a scorching stare, one that tells me he’s close to putting his threat into action, I’m struck speechless. And embarrassingly horny.
Not waiting for my reply, he turns on his heels and waltzes over to the counter.
Six-thousand dollars. Six fucking grand for a business dress, shoes, a scarf, and a set of underwear. Okay, I get that it wouldn’t have made a good impression to greet that uber-rich guy from Kazakhstan in a fifty-bucks outfit, but I could get myself a lot of things for that money. A car, for instance. Something that takes people a lot of involvement and research to even consider, not just a swipe of a credit card without so much as a blink.
I peek into the shopping bag as we leave the boutique. “You added that thin scarf on top just to reach six thousand, didn’t you?”
Nathan keeps his expression cool. “Nope, it’s just a nice accessory.”
“Uh-huh.”
Three hours later, my lips shine in fiery red, my lashes are twice as thick, and my nerves are in tatters. The inch-thick, black belt around my waist tightens with each of my breaths. I smooth a hand over the sash of my light-gray suit dress, making sure it sits straight. It looks like a two-piece but is actually only one. Classy and chic and maybe a little too showy for my liking.
At twenty to eight, Nathan—absolutely mouthwatering in a dark-purple three-piece—leads me into the gallery. A jungle of gold, silver, and glass spreads over the entire space with silk arrangements covering long, gray-veined marble counters. The place is so palatial, its exuberance makes me slow my pace as if walking too fast would break the spell.
Nathan takes my hand when we enter the grand hall where Brooke, Nick, and a red-haired woman that must be Nick’s fiancée are engaged in a conversation with no other than Susan McElroy. And talk about breaking the spell: Susan’s outfit fits the setting as much as Hugh Hefner belongs into a monastery. She looks as if she just stepped out of a Bollywood movie in her embroidered midi dress overflowing with pink tulips and golden accents.
“Wow,” I mumble, and Nathan chuckles under his breath.
“I think she just came from one of her retiree parties.”
Susan’s wrinkled face lights up with a beaming smile, and she immediately excuses herself to beeline for Nathan. Steel-gray ringlets bounce on her head as she scurries in our direction in a pair of weird shoes that look more like slippers.
“Nathan, my boy.” She opens her arms to embrace Nathan who bends at his waist to reach her frame. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too,” he says.
After two seconds, she pushes him away to focus on me, her eyes that look twice as huge behind her cat-eye glasses roaming down my appearance.
“Now, would you look at that stunning lady who’s turned my pretty boy’s head,” she chants with a knowing grin.
I pick up on her cheerfulness with an easy smile. “Ella Jenkins. Nice to meet you again.”
“Likewise.” She performs a weird, exaggerated bow, twirling a hand through the air. “I can’t believe you’ve waited so long to court her, Nathan. She’s absolutely lovely.”
“Susan…” Nathan grumbles in a threatening tone, but she just waves him off and flicks her fingers, gesturing for me to lean down. Brushing my hair away, I lend her an ear.
“Tell your boy to drop by at my shop. I’ve got a matching engagement ring for that,” she whispers, yet loud enough for Nathan to hear, and nods to my dragonfly pendant.
Nathan rubs two fingers between his eyes. “Jesus…”
Susan grins like a Cheshire cat, while I laugh the matter off. She squeezes my hand before she smacks a loud peck onto Nathan’s cheek. “I’m going to leave you to your noble guest, then. See you soon, boy.”
“Yeah, bye.”
I watch Susan shimmy out the grand doors before my gaze darts over to Nick. It’s odd—for the third time now, I’ve got this strange sense of déjà-vu tickling my synapses whenever Nick flashes one of his charming smiles or flicks his dark hair. Nathan and Nick don’t share the same bloodline, so why do I always feel that kind of deeper connection?
The red-head next to him notices me ogling, and walks over to us in a pretty emerald-green dress with matching, elbow-long gloves. She halts in front of me, extending a hand.
“Hi, we haven’t been introduced before. I’m Janice.”
I smile. “Ella. Nice to meet you.”
“That brooch is a great accessory for the outfit.” She points to the white gold brooch Nick gave me at the last fundraiser. “It’s my design, actually.”
“Oh, yeah? It’s beautiful. You really have talent.”
“Thank you.”
I like the girl with the freckles on her nose immediately. I don’t know why, but she’s got that humble air around her that makes me believe she wasn’t born with a fortune like the Crawfords. Also, a tattoo peeks out from between her glove and strap, one that shows a few scars on her skin. I’m already about to ask her what design it is when suddenly Nathan curses next to me.
I follow his gaze to a woman with Asian features prancing through the grand doors—her head held high, and a myriad of jewelry on full display. She’s gorgeous. Tall, slender, and with a mass of black hair twisted in an extravagant updo that you can only get from a star hairstylist. Her black pencil skirt is so tight, I’m surprised it doesn’t tear at her peach-shaped butt, and the ostentatious necklace glittering on her collarbone draws the eye to her plunging neckline.
Nathan goes rigid beside me, and I don’t miss him shooting his brother a sinister glance. Immediately, alarm bells go off in my head, but before I can ask who she is, two black Rolls Royce limousines with tainted windows slide to a halt in front of the entrance. The woman turns around, waiting for the occupants to exit the vehicles. Six bodyguards step out simultaneously to open the doors at the backside, all of them wired, with the anatomy of brick walls and don’t-you-dare-come-closer expressions on their faces.
The first guest coming into view is a man in his fifties buttoning his black suit—no doubt the mogul from Kazakhstan, Sanzhar Sharipova. He looks like a chubbier version of Jackie Chan with cute dimples. More people file out of the vehicles. Gathering from their interactions and facial similarities, he brought his entire family—wife, kids, cousins.
Brooke invites them in, and the Asian woman plasters a million-dollar smile onto her face as she shakes everyone’s hands. I straighten my spine, chancing a glance at Nathan. His jaw grinds as he throws daggers at her back. Good. Because for some reason, I want to rip her head from her pretty neck.
He moves a hand to my hip, squeezing it, and we both make our way over to them to greet our guests.
Nathan clears his throat. “Mr. Sharipova, welcome to Crawford Crescent.”
The man in question—two heads shorter than Nathan—throws him a grin that only deepens his dimples.
“Nathan Crawford. Long time no see.” They shake hands. “Thank you for the warm welcome. This gallery you’ve got here is truly amazing.”
Jesus, Brooke was right. His accent sounds like a chainsaw serrating against steel. If I ha
dn’t listened closely, I wouldn’t have recognized one English word.
“May I introduce,”—Nathan pulls me closer, and I stumble forward a step—“Ella Jenkins.”
“Ah, what a pretty, young lady.”
I extend a hand for him to shake. “Spasibo, gospodin Sharipova. Ya pol'shchen.” (Thank you, Mr. Sharipova. I’m flattered.)
His face lights up with a beaming smile. “Akh ty russkiy?” (Oh, you are Russian?)
“Da ser.” (Yes, sir.)
“Kakoy priyatnyy syurpriz.” (What a pleasant surprise.) He turns to Nathan. “Your wife?”
I still, waiting for Nathan to dig his way out of that one.
“Uh, no… Fiancée,” he says to my utter surprise.
“Is that so?” comes a female drawl from next to him, and I cut my eyes toward the Asian woman. Her gaze drops to my hand. “I don’t see a ring on her fingers.”
To make her point, she offers me her hand, flashing me a rock the size of a mountain (not on her fourth finger, unfortunately).
“Aiko Crawford.” An evil smirk stretches her features. “Senior curator.”
Crawford? Crawford?
Nathan’s ex-wife…
Fuck!
I shake her hand with a disgust I can taste on my tongue, but I keep my pokerface in place, if only barely.
“Mr. Sharipova hired me to organize the exhibition program for his first museum in Paris,” she singsongs.
Nathan’s fingers claw into my hip, but I can’t say if it’s an I-can-explain plea, or a don’t-say-anything-stupid warning. I don’t react to it but use a little more pressure to make the rock poke into her bone before I pull back my hand. A satisfied sneer lifts her glossy lips.
“Alright,” Nick cuts into our stare-down from behind me and elbows his way in front of me as if saving me from whatever he’s sensed coming down the pipeline. “Ready for your private tour, Mr. Sharipova?”
The man turns to me with a smile. “Vy prisoyedinites' k nam, miss Jenkins?” (Will you join us, Miss Jenkins?)
I lift my lips. “S udovol'stviyem, ser.” (With pleasure, sir.)
While Nick does an amazing job presenting the pieces in Crawford Crescent’s possession, I try my best to do his words justice and fill in the gaps whenever Mr. Sharipova struggles with the vocabulary. Aiko uses every opportunity to show off her knowledge on the matter, butting into Nick’s presentation every two minutes until the whole charade becomes too much for Brooke, and she hustles Aiko away to let us do our job. Making sure that Sharipova is busy ogling the facets of an insanely expensive necklace, I angle my body toward Nathan.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, Mister,” I hiss.
“I had no clue she would come. You have to believe me,” he whispers back. “No idea how she snagged that job for Sharipova, but I can hardly kick her out.”
Our private conversation comes to an end when Sharipova asks for my opinion on a particular piece. I decide to focus on my job and kick Nathan’s ass later.
Throughout the tour, I realize that the gallery features plenty of Russian jewelry. Siberian jades, amethysts, aquamarines—all sparkling inside fancy rings and bracelets. One particular gem draws my attention when Nick leads us over to the next section of colorful earrings. It’s an alexandrite—the same gem embedded in the ring Mom gave me, the ring from my real father.
“Emerald by day, ruby by night,” Nick tells Sharipova who leans down to inspect the earrings. “Due to its unusual light-absorbing properties, it allows for different colors to be seen from different angles. Discovered in the 1830s in the Ural Mountains, it was named after Czar Alexander the Second who emancipated Russia’s serfs.”
“A beautiful gem,” Sharipova says, folding his hands behind his back. “What’s it worth?”
Nick clicks his tongue. “One carat about fifty to seventy thousand dollars. They are quite hard and can resist every scratch. The mines in the Ural Mountains have ceased production which is why they are so rare. We have all the documents that verify their authenticity.”
Wait, what? Fifty to seventy thousand? And I’m storing that ring in a damn shoebox?
I angle my body to Nathan. “Is it really worth that much?”
A smile curls his lips, his hand moving to the small of my back when he whispers over my neck, “Yes. Beautiful, isn’t it? That gem has been my favorite since I was a kid. It’s the birthstone of June, by the way.”
Nick didn’t hear our quiet exchange, but I can feel the blush creeping up my cheeks when he says to Sharipova, “A unique gift for a bride-to-be born in June.”
To which Sharipova replies, “A pity my wife was born in July.”
The entire family breaks out in laughter while I try to school my flustered expression.
When the tour comes to an end, we round out the evening with champagne and delicious snacks. While I talk with Janice about how she came to work for Crawford Crescent, I notice that Nathan is nowhere in sight.
And Aiko isn’t either.
My fingers tighten around my champagne glass as I inconspicuously cast a glance around me. I find the two of them standing in front of the entrance. Judging from Nathan’s grim expression and the way he’s gesticulating, they are having an argument, one that ends with him pointing a warning finger at her before he marches back inside.
“Nu, bylo priyatno poznakomit'sya s vami, miss Jenkins,” Sharipova says, snapping my attention back to him. (Well, it has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Jenkins.)
“U menya vse udovol'stviye, gospodin Sharipova. Dlya menya bol'shaya chest' poznakomit'sya s vami.” (The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Sharipova. I’m honored to have made your acquaintance.)
He flashes me one of his cute grins. “Pozhaluysta, yesli vy kogda-nibud' posetite Kazakhstan, dayte mne znat'. YA khotel by priglasit' vas v moyu skromnuyu obitel'.” (Please, if you ever visit Kazakhstan, let me know. I would love to invite you into my humble abode.)
For real? Damn.
“YA obyazatel'no primu eto predlozheniye, ser.” (I will take you up on that offer, sir.)
We all say our farewells, and Brooke sees the guests outside. As soon as Sharipova slips into his limousine, Nathan grabs my hand.
“We’re going to call it a night,” he mumbles to Nick and hustles me into the elevator.
We both stare at the metal doors, waiting for our arrival on the twenty-second floor. The air is tense with unanswered questions and unspoken truths, but after peeking a glance at Nathan and noticing his locked jaw, I decide to remain quiet for now.
The elevator rolls to a stop. I tag along as Nathan crosses the empty hallway and opens one of the doors to the right. He switches on the lights, waiting until I’ve entered behind him to close the door.
I take in the spacious room. “Your office?”
He nods, crossing his arms, and I venture over to an art niche strategically positioned in the middle of the opposite wall, huge window panes showcasing the Manhattan skyline on either side. The niche consists of six nooks, each of them harboring an exclusive piece of jewelry.
Except for the last one.
“What happened here?” I point to the shattered glass in front of the empty nook.
Nathan heaves a sigh. “Long story.”
He looks distraught, rolling his shoulders and scratching a spot on his face. I amble over to his desk, leaning against it.
“Why did you call me your fiancée in front of Sharipova?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Girlfriend sounded weird and perfect match wasn’t appropriate, either.”
I pucker my lips.
“Listen…” He rakes a hand through his hair, making it look even sexier than before. “Aiko is in the past, okay? I hate it that she’s still bearing my name, and I hate it that she busted into my life—”
“Busted into your life? When?”
He exhales through his nose. “Before we came together.”
No. No, no, no. Please, tell me you didn’t screw your ex, or I’m going to puke out all
the champagne.
“It’s not what you think,” he adds when I just gawk at him, lifting his hands in surrender.
“You don’t know what I think.”
“I do.”
His smug undertone combined with the sudden cocky grin on his way-too-gorgeous face only ruffles my feathers, and my nails claw into the edge of the desk.
“And before you blow up, which I know will be any second gathering from that vein puckering in your neck,”—he takes slow steps toward me, his grin turning more evil with each one—“we didn’t have sex.”
I thrust up my chin, challenging him with a stare. “What did you have then?”
The tips of his shoes touch mine when he stops in front of me, slowly leaning his upper body forward. Pressing his chest against me, he pushes me backward until I have to support myself on my hands so as not to topple over. My knees make room for his as they nudge my legs apart. For a long moment, he looms over me, his eyes burning into mine with a mixture of anger, annoyance, and hot desire.
“You want the truth?” He places both hands right next to mine still propped on his desk, making my heaving chest move against his jacket. “Aiko showed up at my office three weeks ago to seal a business deal. She kissed me. I kissed her back.”
A roar builds up in my stomach, my face contorting. I try to shove him off me, but before I can move an inch, his right hand is on my neck, pushing my back down onto his desk. Something topples over next to me, but Nathan invades too much of my space to notice, my body, my air. I gulp, the motion bobbing my Adam’s apple beneath his fingers.
“I was desperate. I was furious. I was horny. She was available,” he says over my lips. “The kiss lasted six seconds before the image of your face exploded in my mind.”
He jerks his hips on the word ‘exploded,’ thrusting his hard-on in between my thighs.
“I haven’t fucked a single woman in the weeks we were apart. I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried…” he whispers as if the words hurt him physically, and he licks a path up my neck. I suck in air, squirming on the desk. “But I always saw you. No matter what random woman I wanted to screw, I always saw you, Ella.”
