by Zoe Blake
Crossing to a small door on the other side of the room, I threw it open and pulled on the small chain to turn on the light. The narrow walk-in closet was filled with canvases. Her clothes were crammed into the corner to make room for the haphazardly stacked paintings.
Selecting one from the top of the nearest pile, I carried the canvas back into her bedroom where the light was better. It was actually a student’s study of Christina’s World by Andrew Wyeth. The original painting was famous for its realism juxtaposed with its surrealist tones. Wyeth meticulously painted each blade of glass invoking a profound image of the American pastoral landscape.
Samara had made the subject her own, giving it a more Impressionist slant. Instead of a realistic portrait of a field of grass, it was more an expanse of tawny gold with flecks of captured light.
It was the subject which most grabbed my attention. In the original, the viewer focuses on the sense of longing and isolation of Christina as she pulls her broken body across the field toward her home.
In Samara’s version, there was a haunting desperation to the figure. I couldn’t help noticing the subject’s dark brunette hair and slight body had been altered to more accurately reflect Samara’s auburn locks and curvy figure. She had painted herself into the portrait.
The raw despair and anxiety on display unsettled me.
It made me want to pull her into my arms and promise to chase all her monsters away.
That was impossible of course… since I was the monster chasing her.
Chapter 6
Gregor
Chicago, Illinois - Three years later
“You’re sure it’s them this time?” asked Damien as he flipped the knife he usually kept in his boot between his fingers. He was as anxious as I was to see this chase finished. The stakes had risen over the last few months.
“I’m sure.”
For the three years while I had been chasing my fugitive bride, Damien had been chasing her friend. Yelena Nikitina had gotten under my brother’s skin. Unlike with Samara, we weren’t the only ones looking for Yelena. The stupid girl had fucked up, badly. She had pissed off the wrong people, and if our source was correct, they were closing in. Since Yelena was on the run with Samara, that put my girl in the crosshairs, which made it my problem.
The good news was that same source gave up their location.
Chicago.
The moment we heard, Damien and I both dropped everything and ordered our private plane ready. We would not waste the best lead we had gotten in over a year.
We both had a mutual purpose, to find the girls and bring them back under our protection.
I cracked my knuckles and stared out the window of our private plane as they finally lowered the landing gear. Soon I would be in the same city as Samara. I still couldn’t believe it had taken me three years to find her.
Three years of searching.
Three years of wondering if she was safe. If she was even alive.
Three years of imagining the worse.
And I had no one to blame but myself.
There was no point in denying it.
Three years of searching had allowed for quite a bit of self-reflection. I had barreled into Samara’s life and ruthlessly laid claim to her. For all intents and purposes, I now owned her in my mind. She was mine to do with as I pleased. The wedding itself was a mere formality.
Besides, if I hadn’t taken the girl, who knows what her father may have done.
Her father was desperate, and desperate men did dangerous things.
Boris Federov was still a liability and could not be trusted.
Just another reason I was desperate to find Samara and bring her back under my protection… where she belonged.
As far as I was concerned, she was mine.
Bought and paid for.
I owned her.
It was now my job to protect her. If necessary, from her own father… just not from me.
Recognizing my fault in how I handled letting my bride-to-be know about her upcoming nuptials didn't change anything between us. She would still need to be taught a lesson. She could make choices in life, but those choices had consequences.
Samara would have to face those consequences.
I was, after all, still my father’s son… nothing had changed.
Not with my father’s death, and not now.
She was still mine.
I had every intention of making sure she knew her place and that I would not tolerate any disobedience from this point forward.
I wasn’t sure when a passing fascination became a full-blown obsession, but somewhere between tasting those sweet, innocent lips of hers and knowing she had run off, the single driving force of my life had become finding her and claiming her as my own.
It had robbed me of something precious and unique. She was there, in my arms one moment, and then gone the next. Even now, years later, a darkness rose inside my chest every time I thought about it. Any sympathy I may have had towards her hardened as the months went by. Months of having to rein in my anger and frustration over not knowing where she was… or who she may be with.
I was certain her father was hiding her from me, but as the weeks and months passed, it became obvious her parents were clueless.
Even putting my little sister under surveillance accomplished nothing except fracturing our already strained relationship. There was a good chance Nadia would never forgive me for chasing away her best friends.
Samara and her friend Yelena had vanished without a trace.
It helped they were bankrolled by some track winnings of Yelena’s but still. They were two young women. I had a powerful network of politicians, policemen, businessmen, and thugs at my disposal, and yet nothing.
For three years.
Nothing but mistaken identity leads and cold trails.
I had come close once in Boston. Breaking through the door of the apartment they shared, I could still catch the scent of Samara’s perfume, Coco Mademoiselle, in the air. Despite trying to catch them off guard in the middle of the night, they somehow knew we were coming and fled. I remember touching the pillow I knew to be Samara’s and feeling the warmth still clinging to the soft fabric.
Everything I knew about Samara came only from glimpses of her life through the belongings she was forced to leave behind every time I got too close.
A perfume bottle and a few dresses in Mexico.
A battered wooden case filled with oil paints and brushes in Los Angeles.
Three thoroughly read copies of Dracula found in New Orleans, Houston, and Vancouver. Obviously, her favorite book, and now mine.
Always Chinese chopsticks in the utensil drawer nestled among countless packets of soy sauce, but never a fork or plate.
My mouth quirked up at the corner… and countless McDonalds’ receipts for Cafe Mochas and Egg McMuffins.
All dead leads until now.
The girls had gotten complacent.
They must have assumed we had stopped looking for them and settled in Chicago.
And that’s when I finally found her.
They should have known better than to try to settle down in a city I traveled to frequently and where I had extensive contacts.
I flipped opened the file on the table in front of me. There was a stack of black and white surveillance photos.
Samara’s loft was barely more than an open space. The massive windows gave a perfect view even of the bedroom—which was little more than a mattress on the floor—and several metal racks for clothes. Most of the photos were of her painting. She typically wore dark jeans with wide cuffs, a paint smeared t-shirt, and her hair tied up in a messy bun with what looked like some kind of bandana wrapped around her head.
I continued to flip through the photos with interest.
One photo after another showed her eating Chinese food straight out of the container. Staying up late watching what looked like old black and white films. Living in an apartment with barely any furniture and generally
taking lousy care of herself.
What this little girl needed was discipline, I thought as I paused on a photo of her laying on her stomach on the bed. She was surrounded by what looked like art books and yet another half empty Chinese food container.
In another photo, Samara was dressed in some kind of vintage-looking dress. Her head was tilted back as she held a bottle of perfume close to her throat, Coco Mademoiselle by Chanel. I imagined what it would be like to lick her neck and taste the bitter sting of the perfume on her skin.
“Rockabilly.”
“What?”
I turned to Damien, trying to focus on what he just said as opposed to my rising cock.
“The dress. It’s a rockabilly style. Trim waist. Nice flare. High collar.”
I can’t help but give him an incredulous stare. “What the hell?”
I’m trying to rectify the image of my six-foot-three brute of a brother chatting about dainty trim waists and dress styles.
“What? You fuck enough models you learn about fashion. It’s obvious Samara is all about the vintage 50s look. Red lips, cuffed jeans, the whole nine.”
“Worry about your own girl, Versace.”
I returned my attention to the file in front of me. The final black-and-white photo was of Samara sleeping.
Only the window directly facing the mattress on the floor seemed to have a curtain, which on this particular night she had forgotten to close.
Despite the slightly grainy appearance, I could tell she had fallen asleep with her makeup on. The dark outline of her lips was unmistakable against her pale skin. No doubt it was a deep, crimson red. She slept on her back with one arm resting above her head. It was easy to imagine that delicate wrist wrapped with a leather restraint and secured to the end of the bed.
There was at once a surge of anger and possession.
Anger that she was so foolish and careless enough not to realize there was a camera recording her every intimate moment while she lived in this fishbowl she called an apartment. I would put a stop to that immediately.
And possession knowing that soon this wild little creature would be under my complete control.
Soon, I would once again feel her warm, soft skin under my hand and taste those sweet cherry lips as I swallowed her cries. My cock hardened at the thought.
Soon.
I checked my watch. We had just enough time to make it to the art gallery where Samara now worked under the assumed name of Gwen Stevens. I had made an appointment with her there today under the false name of Davidson.
After three years… the hunt was almost over.
Chapter 7
Samara
Balancing the phone against my shoulder, I pinned the wig cap into place.
“I’m running a little late, but I’ll be there before Mr. Davidson arrives, I promise!”
I still refused to be seen in public without some kind of disguise, just in case. Yelena had stopped wearing one over a year ago. She was braver than I was.
Juggling the phone to my other shoulder, I pushed a bobby pin into place behind my ear.
“Yes. I had the boys pull the paintings I think he’ll like out of storage. I’m getting ready now. I’ll be there in twenty. I promise!”
Hanging up the phone, I ran over to the bed and dumped out my purse. Rifling through the contents, I grabbed my makeup bag, unzipped it, and dumped that out, too. Shifting through the various tubes of lipstick, eyeliners, and compacts scattered around my rumpled sheets, I searched for my favorite red lipstick. It was a classic red matte straight out of the old femme fatale noir films I love. Call me superstitious, but it was my good luck charm.
Taking off the lipstick top, I swung back to the mirror and smeared on a perfect cupid's bow. With my long auburn hair and bangs tucked up into the wig cap, I selected a neat blonde bob wig. It was a blunt cut just below my ears. I gave my head a shake to make sure it was secure.
Stepping back a few feet, I stared at my reflection. “Hello, Mr. Davidson. I’m Gwen Stevens. I’m Gwen Stevens. I’m Miss Stevens. I’m Gwen.”
I repeated the name a few times till I felt more in character. The key was to believe in the lie. I needed to become Gwen Stevens, Art Consultant.
Over my shoulder in the mirror's reflection, I could see who I truly was—Samara Federova, a failed artist and for all intents and purposes a fugitive bride.
My apartment wasn’t so much an apartment as a massive open-air loft. It used to be an old pencil factory. I chose it for its high ceilings and massive windows. Great for natural light. I dedicated most of the space to my painting studio. I filled the place with stacked canvases, easels with half-finished paintings, several workbenches filled with brushes, paints, and rags. I didn’t even have a sofa, and the bed was just a mattress on the floor.
It wasn’t for a lack of money; I had plenty of that in an offshore account thanks to Yelena and her racetrack betting schemes.
It was just I’d rather spend it on clothes and paints than something stupid like furniture, especially since we moved around so much.
Although after three years, we were finally putting down some roots.
It had been ages since we had a close call. The rumors of Gregor and Damien looking for us had all died down. It was time to build some kind of life. Which was why I got this job at an art gallery and my first apartment on my own.
My eye caught on the tarp-covered canvas in the center of the room. Underneath it was my latest painting in a series I was calling Little Girl Lost. This one had a girl dressed in a magenta dress tumbling down a hill into a black void as she reached out in vain for help. I thought the series was some of my best work. Unfortunately, I had only sold one of my canvases so far—my favorite.
It was a girl dressed in an emerald green dress and, like the others, she was tumbling through a void, but unlike the rest, a firm masculine hand had latched onto her wrist… saving her. I had titled it Little Girl Saved.
We were hiding out in Boston at the time, and I was so thrilled when a small gallery agreed to showcase my work. I couldn’t believe it when they contacted me and said they had a buyer for the painting, and they wanted to meet me. They bought one of my paintings.
Yelena was furious when she learned I had used my actual name. It was stupid and rash and I shouldn’t have done it, but I selfishly wanted my actual name on my art. She made us leave town that night. She was right, of course. I had put us both in danger. Still, I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if we had stayed in town a little while longer. If we had risked it. Would I have sold more paintings? Would it have been the start of my career as an artist?
Shaking my head, I focused. It didn’t serve any purpose to dwell on what wasn’t.
If I couldn’t sell my art, at least I could be around it and help other artists sell theirs.
I’m Gwen Stevens. Gwen Stevens. Art Consultant. Gwen.
Sweeping my arm over the bed, I shoved all the contents back into my purse and ran out the door.
Never noticing, in my haste, I had left behind the one thing Yelena warned me to never, ever be without—a small leather portfolio with my extra fake IDs, passports, and cash, in case we ever had to leave and weren’t able to return to our apartments.
Little did I know just how much I would come to regret it.
Chapter 8
Samara
I took the train to the Bridgeport neighborhood and made it to the gallery with only a few minutes to spare.
“Hello boys!” I greeted Sal and Jimmy as I walked through the door.
Sal gave my ass in my black dress pants a once-over, which made me uncomfortable. “Hey ya, Gwen.”
“Let’s get this art on the walls. The client will be here soon,” I said pointedly, avoiding his blatant stare.
I directed where I wanted each of the paintings to go, then hustled over to my desk to check emails before Mr. Davidson arrived.
Most of these executives were posers. They didn’t understand what good art wa
s any more than they knew about fine wine. It was all just a shell game. They thought art made them look big and important to their clients and associates, so they were buying culture and class. It was one big con. I was just being a little more honest about it.
That’s why they hired someone like Gwen Stevens. She told them what to buy, and they acted like they knew what she was talking about and opened their wallets. They got to look good to their Forbes list cronies, an artist got a painting sold, and I walked away with a nice commission. Everyone was happy.
I got a nice one on the hook for today.
Julius Davidson. CEO of Brecht Industries. According to their website, they were looking to merge with some large Japanese company and soon, which was probably why he wanted to acquire some art for his building’s lobby and his office. He needed to make the impression of wealth and sophistication.
Which was why he needed Gwen Stevens, Art Consultant.
After looking around the gallery to see that all the paintings were in place, I straightened my cardigan before smoothing the back of my wig down. Finally, I checked my lipstick in the reflection of the glass door.
I’m Gwen Stevens.
I was ready.
A black Escalade rolled up precisely on time.
“He’s here,” I throw out over my shoulder. I don’t have to turn to know that Sal and Jimmy have made themselves scarce through the back door. They won’t return till they get the all clear text from me.
Composed, I watched as the back door of the Escalade opened.
I couldn’t see Mr. Davidson’s face. He was turned away and talking to someone still inside the vehicle.
Then he turned to face the gallery entrance.
And my heart stopped.
It’s him.
He found me.
Impossible.
No.
Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me.
It wouldn’t be the first time I had seen Gregor’s face in a crowd. Every man over six feet tall with black hair in a suit gave my heart a lurch till I got a closer look.
