Chapter 13
With the contents of her messenger bag on her bedroom floor, Sam was even more defeated than she’d been when she’d left Duval’s. Where was her damned sketchbook? Samantha sank onto the carpet in the midst of the mess and huffed. She knew exactly where it was. Now all there was left to do was to figure out how to get back into Maurice’s design studio without being seen by Oleg or any of his partners. And go figure, there wasn’t a search engine that had ever heard of Maurice and his ultra-chic atelier. She’d have to go unannounced and take her chances.
Maybe she could leave a note under his door with her phone number on Sunday morning. Surely Duval’s would be empty then, and she could arrange to meet him someplace on Monday. It sounded like a plan.
In the meantime, she had a meeting with Professor Milieu to secure a second chance on her exam. She’d taped the excuse to her mirror and gazed at it for about an hour in the moonlight before nodding off to sleep. An odd sense of pride filled her, and it was tied to that nearly illegible scribble on a hospital issue prescription form. She’d earned that piece of paper. The fact that it was a lie was wholly irrelevant as far as she was concerned. The truth behind how she got it was her secret. Really, it was their secret, and there was no point in pretending that wasn’t what thrilled her the most.
She loaded up her bag and grabbed the note.
“Good luck!” Marielle yelled after her as she left.
“Thanks,” was all she returned. She’d intentionally been keeping things short and sweet with Marielle. No way was she about to explain the events of the previous day to her.
Outside, the sun shone like it wanted to illuminate every dark corner of the city. Samantha tried to muster the same enthusiasm. But as warm as the rays felt on her skin as they cut through the late March chill, she worried there wouldn’t be a single spark of excitement in her future.
Get over yourself, she silently scolded. It was time to face the facts. Samantha Hunter was going to be an international lawyer, and that was the end of the story. Poor baby. She grumbled to herself. What kind of spoiled, entitled woman thought that was something to scoff at? It was important work, respectable work. The kind of thing that anyone would be proud to say they did. Only she couldn’t imagine it giving her more pride than lapping up her bowl of spiked milk. The feel of Dominant hands still ghosted over her spine with a tingle to remind her just how at home she’d felt beneath their approving strokes.
Her phone rang, and she didn’t recognize the number at first. It went to voicemail. Then in the middle of the winter-starved lawn of the university quad, she stopped. She did know that number.
One tap, and Henri’s taunting voice filled her ear. “Chérie, if you are feeling like something is missing. Call me. I have what you’re looking for.”
She dialed, because there was nothing else she could do, nothing else she wanted to do. If she wanted what was missing, all paths led back to the place where she left it.
“Ah-llo,” Henri said in his rich accent.
“Will you be at the club later?” Samantha asked, sounding way too hopeful.
“Later is a relative term, non?”
“Well, I get the feeling you all practically live there.” She rolled her eyes to reinforce her glib tone, though no one was there with her in the quad to see.
“At times we do all practically live here. There are apartments upstairs that we keep for appropriate occasions.”
“Can I meet you there this afternoon?”
“I’ll be working. Come now.”
“I have to speak with my professor.”
“Ah, yes, to deliver your excuse. Don’t you want to be free of excuses, chérie?”
She could picture his smoldering gray eyes and the quirk of his pretty mouth. She also couldn’t argue that point, so she didn’t. She didn’t say anything at all.
“Don’t you want to be free to be yourself?” he added for good measure.
This time, she found the word. “Yes.”
“So come…now.”
“Where?”
“To the club.”
*
Henri was waiting for her at the door when she arrived, lip quirked and smoldering away. Somewhere back on campus, Professor Milieu likely fumed over her hasty message that she’d need to reschedule. That class was all but failed. It wasn’t like Samantha to fail at anything, at least not anything she wanted. She couldn’t think about that now. The only two thoughts consuming her at the moment were whether Henri had her sketchbook, and more importantly, what he was going to require in order to hand it over.
“So I’m here. Do you have it?” she asked.
“Have what?”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “More games, I see.”
“No games. Just the truth. Tell me what you came here for.” He looked her up and down in a slow, leisurely fashion. “Do you even know?”
Samantha knew this was another one of Henri’s tests. She also knew the way she answered that question would determine whether her curiosities would be fed another helping of the lifestyle or if she’d succeed in starving the hunger inside. There was a persistent desire to see another pleased grin bloom across his face. But did she know the truth about what she’d come for? Could she admit to him that she’d had to rub her clit more than a few times the previous night thinking about Oleg feeding her and Paolo petting her, and also the look of satisfaction on Henri's face when he toyed with her? If she dipped her hand inside her panties right now, she was certain she'd find the slippery evidence of exactly what she’d come here for.
“Are you suddenly mute, chérie?”
“I want…my sketchbook.”
“You’re a liar…and not even a good one,” he said and opened the flap of the messenger bag crossed over his tall, lanky frame. His dark eyes smiled as he pulled the book out. He held it up, easily extending it beyond her reach. “I'll make you an offer for this.”
“Just give it to me. It’s mine.”
“Don’t you study law? Ownership is a bit dubious here, to say the least. You left it with Maurice. Who is to say that you didn’t mean for him to have it?”
“You obviously know that is not true. I left it there accidentally.”
“And you left your coat in our club. Perhaps you should be more responsible with the things you care about.” He began to lower his hand, and her book of treasures teased at the edge of accessibility. She wasn’t about to give him the pleasure of watching her lunge for it. But instead of handing it to her, he used it to gesture toward the door behind him. “Café? We can talk about the offer.”
Samantha folded her arms over her chest. “I can see you’re dying to tell me, so fine.”
Henri shook his head and checked his watch. “Don’t do me any favors.”
She bit her lip, “Tell me. I would like to know.”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Please.”
He shook his head again. “Please is nice, but I’m not a fan of nice. Try again.”
Samantha was at a loss. The confusion must have shown on her face, because he leaned forward and smiled softly. “If you come inside, you will from this moment on, address me and my partners as Master.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m just coming inside for coffee.”
A smirk settled at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll even let you drink it out of a cup.”
She giggled to herself at his humor. How different Henri was compared to Oleg. While intensity weighted nearly every word Oleg uttered, there was a playful quality to Henri that reminded her of a game of chicken at the edge of a cliff. There were danger signs everywhere on that precipice, but she stepped inside nevertheless.
“My apartment is on the top floor.”
Samantha laughed softly at the irony of her thoughts. “Of course it is.”
Henri turned back toward her momentarily, appraising her for the meaning of that statement. He didn’t inquire though. He continued up the stairs.
The
y passed the first floor and Maurice’s couturier studio. In the next stairwell, more of Paolo’s vivid paintings graced the walls. She stopped to look at one of a woman who sat nude on the very steps she ascended. In the painting, the woman looked up to the wall where the painting of her now hung, and there was a picture of Paolo in her line of sight staring back at her.
“Who is that?” Samantha asked before she could stop herself.
“A past student. She belongs to a psychiatrist in Milan now.”
“An art student?” Samantha was confused. “And what do you mean that she belongs to him?”
“Come and let me explain.”
They passed another door, gloss red, like a fire engine.
“Paolo’s apartment?” She asked Henri and pointed to the door.
“And Ivan, when he isn’t training for a fight.”
Ivan was definitely the quietest among them. His demeanor was in stark contrast to his physical presence. Samantha wondered if Paolo’s colorful personality made for a good balance in their friendship. “Are they home?” Samantha asked.
Henri didn’t hide his amusement. “They are, I believe.”
She nodded. “And Oleg?”
Henri stopped and turned to her, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Would you like me to call him? We could also just go and knock on his door over there.” He pointed down the hall in the other direction.
She shook her head. “No, I just want to get my book and go.”
“Okay, whatever you want, chérie.” He grinned so wickedly at her that Samantha wondered if her clothes had somehow spontaneously vanished.
*
Oleg took the back streets to his office. It was partly to alleviate the morning rush on the boulevard, but also to monitor whether he was being followed. He’d had an odd feeling about that yesterday after leaving the restaurant. He turned down a narrow, cobbled street and waited at the end, checking his rearview mirror for another vehicle. Nothing. Maybe the unsettled feeling in his gut was simply paranoia.
That hadn’t been the only sensation nagging at him all night. He stopped at a traffic light not far from the university and couldn’t help scanning the sidewalks for Samantha. Would he admit that this detour was most rooted in the hope he’d catch a glimpse of her? It angered him to even consider it. When he spotted a blond ponytail swaying from side to side at the end of the block, he slammed the accelerator just to catch up to her before she turned the opposite way down a one-way street. The sudden motion startled the young woman, who looked at him with wide eyes, the look of prey directed to a predator. It startled him too, the way his heartbeat thundered with hope.
The unfamiliar woman held her bag close to her body and hurried around the corner.
Oleg cursed to himself and continued. With a few more turns, he pulled up to the small, basic storefront, the windows still obscured with brown paper, There were two cars parked directly in front, and he recognized them. His cousin Dimitri hadn’t told him that he’d be stopping in, and Davit Harakian was most certainly a surprise visitor. Oleg double parked. First, someone was going to move their fucking car.
Once inside, he was surprised to see no one in the reception area or the office. Muffled voices, angry and gruff, could be heard behind the metal door of the storage room. He opened it at once.
The sight wasn’t the surprise it should have been.
“Dimitri. What is this?” Oleg said of the middle-aged man slumped over in the chair, his arms tied behind him, his face bloody and swollen. A picture of a pretty young woman lay in his lap.
“Cousin, you are late to the party,” Dimitri said. He gestured to the man. “We pulled an all-nighter.”
Oleg eyed the man. He was conscious but sobbing. “Will someone explain this?”
“Don’t take my daughter. I beg you,” the man cried. “I will find the money somehow.”
Davit held his phone out. The speaker had been activated. “Artur, tell us all how she looks in her cute little hotel uniform. Her shift ends soon, correct?”
“I think she likes me,” Artur said. “She’s been checking me out from behind the desk all night. I bet I won’t even have to grab her in the parking lot. I could probably just ask her to breakfast.”
A new set of sobs sprung forth from the man. “I…I have information.”
This got all of their attention.
“Luka Durchenko… He has a room at the hotel.”
“This is news to no one,” Davit barked.
“He wants it to look like he’s seeing a woman every Friday, but she is his nurse, there to administer dialysis.”
“That’s interesting,” Dimitri said, glancing at Oleg. “But not nearly as interesting as the interest you owe on our loan.” He dug his pointed shoe into the man’s groin. “I’ll bet the smell of your daughter’s sweet snatch has more value on the open market than all of it.”
“Dimitri! I will speak with you in the office.” Oleg brandished the words like a weapon.
Dimitri scowled but obliged. “Has the work of men got your stomach all tied in knots, cousin?”
“If this is what I think it is…” Oleg ground his teeth. “We do not take part in trafficking.”
“What the hell would you know anyway,” Dimitri said dismissively. “Pussy is always worth its weight in gold.”
“You will let that man go and take Artur off his daughter. I don’t care what he owes. We will find another way to collect.”
Davit came walking out of the back room. “Maybe your little project could make up the difference,” he said. “Where is she, anyway?” He was grinning again.
Oleg found his fist balling at his side, and before he knew it, he was lunging at Davit. Dimitri placed his hand on his arm, arresting the power and accuracy of the blow.
“Davit is to be your brother, Oleg. We are all family now.”
Oleg held his fury like a bullet stuck in its chamber. He pulled back his arm. “Just get that man home. I will cover his debt.” He walked over to the man. “You will owe me now.”
“And how do you intend on collecting from this bastard?” Davit asked. “Are you going to ask nicely?” He chuckled.
“There is a land deed here in the district, yes?” Oleg asked. The man nodded.
“It’s not a large parcel. I am planning a small office building, light retail below.” His voice wavered, but there was a river of hope smoothing his words.
“Have you broken ground?” Oleg inquired.
“Yes. We came across some contaminated soil…the cost to clean it up...it was never ending....I paid...it…it took everything…that’s why I needed the money. But if you can wait…”
Oleg interrupted him. “I’ll take a thirty percent share in the rental income until you pay me back with interest.” He leaned in close. “Your daughter is off-limits as far as I am concerned. But you…are not. Don’t make the mistake of disappointing me.”
Davit glared at Oleg but untied the man. “I don’t really give a shit how I get my money.”
Oleg glared back. “Call your brother off that girl.”
Dimitri sniffed. “You think you are in charge here?”
Oleg smiled at his cousin. “I think you prefer to make a mess, even when things can be resolved so much more simply.” He took off his overcoat and hung it up on the hanger dangling from the coat tree. “But I think you can be reasonable if you try.” He turned back to the man who rubbed his wrists first and then his tear-streaked face. “We will meet tomorrow and sign some contracts, yes? I am your new partner.”
The man nodded.
“Your card?” Oleg asked in the most relaxed tone he could muster. The stupidity of his cousin was infuriating. The stench of the Harakian ways was already starting to linger. He didn’t like it.
The man fumbled in his wallet and produced a business card with a shaky hand.
“I’ll be in touch.”
After that, Davit shoved him out of the door. Dimitri remained.
Oleg stepped up to him, tow
ering close, his blood rushing with anger. “We do not turn women into slaves for sex.”
Dimitri’s eyes rolled in their sockets. “You do not tell me what we do and don’t do.” He took a step back and raised his chin. “Just because your mother…”
Oleg found his fingers around his cousin’s neck, squeezing. So many words crowded his mind, but nothing came out but a raging growl.
Still, after everything, Oleg had a conscience, and it wouldn’t allow him to steal his cousin’s last breath. Dimitri sputtered his way to his knees.
“Speak of my mother again. I want you to.” It would justify the kick to the ribs he was itching to deliver. Predictably, there was nothing more from Dimitri about his mother and what she’d gone through, but it didn’t stop Oleg from balling his fist in futile defense of the images flooding his mind. The tattoo was on Oleg’s back for a good reason. It was always there, but rarely did he see it.
Dimitri held up his hands. “That’s still a sore spot, I see.” There was a smarmy smile on his face, and Oleg was suddenly disgusted by how much his cousin enjoyed violence.
“Get out. I have clients to prepare for,” Oleg said and turned away from him. He sat down at his desk and powered up the computer. He didn’t look up as the door nipped shut.
After ten minutes, the sparse desktop stared back at him, and so did the date in the corner of the screen. Dimitri might not have remembered today was the anniversary of his mother’s death, but the memory of her lifeless face and glassy pupils would haunt Oleg for the rest of his life. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. Regardless of his idiot cousin, this would be a difficult day.
His phone vibrated against his chest from the breast pocket of his suit blazer.
“Salut, Paolo.”
“How are you doing?”
Leave it to Paolo to ask him to express his feelings. “I’m fine. Some bullshit with my cousin, but no surprise with that.”
There was a long pause from Paolo before he spoke again. “The girl, Samantha, is speaking with Henri.”
Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1) Page 11
