I know one thing. He’s the boss.
He walked like one. Like he owned the ground his feet stepped on. Like he owned the air that we all breathed. Like he could eat up the universe, if he wanted to.
His presence was quite the experience, hitting me with feminine awareness. And speaking of models, he had a perfectly structured face that was ready for fashion, and not the commercial stuff people saw when they stood in line at a grocery. He could’ve been an editorial model—edgy and high-end. Shoulders a mile wide. Dark hair cut with style. A sleek jaw.
His eyebrows were two dark slashes above thick-lashed eyes that glowed blue and deep. Those eyes were moving liquid, but so fucking cold. His lips were tilted at the corners as if he was composing a dirty joke.
He inspired sex. It was an instant shot to my brain and probably to all the other women that watched him walk by. A few licked their lips. Delicious sex. Ungodly, primal sex. The dirtiest kind. Up in a filthy alley getting pounded into the brick wall sex. Fucking your boyfriend’s best friend sex as he sleeps in the other room. Rough, sheet-clawing sex. Nasty. Grimy sex. And it radiated off every part of him. His face. His presence. His shoulders. His eyes.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
It was probably Maxwell telling me to be careful, but this man was intriguing.
I took a chance and got closer, barely two feet away. We both stopped at my focal painting—the one I was most proud of. But I didn’t glance at the painting, I drank in the man as he studied my art with an extreme intensity.
Yeah. Smoking hot. Maybe late twenties or early thirties at the most.
And he continued to study my painting with a fierce indulgence. It was like he was two seconds away from pulling it off the wall and taking it home.
And because of that intensity for my art, it made me want to fuck him. Not that it took much these days. I wished he wasn’t this mysterious Russian guy, radiating terror. I wished he was just here for the art. A regular man. If he had been, then I would’ve fucked him—right on my desk in the office, on my bed at home, and the dirty alley right next to the gallery where I’d taken others for a few minutes and then left them with their pants down, when we were done.
But he wasn’t here for art or sex. He’d probably come for something else.
By now, he knew I was next to him. A man like that would’ve probably known I was following him minutes ago.
Then, let him say something. Let’s get this over with.
I edged closer.
This near, the suit looked even more expensive. Where I thought it was hundreds of dollars, I now knew it was thousands. And there was quite an energy under that fabric as he wore it like a second skin. Already, I could make out an impressive muscular frame.
He didn’t look my way. Instead he spoke, his voice a deep lovely tone riding a heavy Russian accent, “Why do you paint lions?”
The question shocked me.
He turned my way and centered all his attention on me.
Stunned, I whispered, “I like lions.”
“You don’t.” He put his attention back to the painting. “Your art is captivating. But, it’s not until you get to this painting where I realized you were holding back. This one you love. This one you enjoyed creating and it’s not because of the lion.”
I turned to the image and tried to see what he saw.
A labyrinth of ropes covered and trapped a lion to the ground. The lion was massive—huge muscles, sharp claws, fangs that protruded out of his mouth. Rage blazed in his eyes. Revenge dripped from his lips, but still, the lion remained trapped to the ground. I’d made the creature in tiny crystals and used oil paint for certain details and the outlining of him. I’d used threads from actual rope to painstakingly place a confusing labyrinth on him. It couldn’t just be a trap. It had to be more. The lion looked exhausted. One could tell that he’d struggled for a long time, trying to get out.
Lucky for him, a little mouse sat in the corner, nibbling away at the rope, ready to free him. It had taken me weeks to work on that little mouse. In some ways it was 3D, pushing out from the canvas—mink fur, ruby eyes, a tail of gray roped crystals that trailed beyond the image.
“You don’t like lions,” he said. “But, you do like mice. That’s the best mouse I’ve ever seen.”
“I do like rats and mice,” I admitted. “They’re crafty and hard to kill.”
He looked at me. “And so smart they can even help lions.”
“Yes.”
“You’re a talented artist.”
I felt weird about the compliment, but I forced a smile. “Thank you.”
“Nice to meet you, Emily.” He extended his hand, and I slid my fingers into his warm grip. “My name is Kazimir.”
Maybe you can mention why you already know my name.
I couldn’t breathe. I tried to pull away my hand, but he kept his fingers firmly around mine as he studied me. After a few seconds, he let go.
I recovered. “Are you a big fan of art?”
“My mother named me after the famous artist Kazimir Malevich. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Yes, but only a little. He was one of the originators of the avant-garde movement, pushing for nontraditional art and creative innovation. He liked to break the rules.”
“Yes, he did.” Kazimir smiled at me. “Did you go to art school?”
“No.” I looked away. “You could say that I was homeschooled.”
“Hmmm. There’s a story behind what you said.”
“A small one.”
“Tell me, unless it’s a secret.”
“I don’t like secrets and besides, I’ve talked about this to a few journalists.” I sighed. “My brothers and I had some rough times during our childhood.”
He nodded. “I definitely know about rough childhoods.”
I gave him a half smile. “We. . .lost our home and our parents, when we were young. Neither of us were a fan of foster care so we would run away and meet up at the library. It was the best place to sleep during the winter. All we had to do was hide around closing. Once all the staff left, we would spend the night reading to each other.”
“You said brothers. You have more than one?”
“I have one that is my blood and one that’s basically a brother from another mother.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Basically, we’re so close we’re family.”
“I like your story. You’re a survivor.”
“Most are. Who really has it easy in this world?”
He gestured to the lion and mouse. “This painting is like our situation.”
My voice lowered. “Our situation?”
He inched closer to me and smiled. “Like the lion in this painting, trapped by rope and other things, I need your help. I need you to be a little mouse and nibble away the problem. And when you do this for me, you’ll find there will be many rewards.”
I knew killers and powerful men, and he wasn’t just one of them, he was the one. I doubted many men were above him.
Granted, he had the model perfect chiseled angles and beautifully masculine face, but those eyes screamed death. Most had normal windows to the soul. Kids had innocence and adventure pooled along their pupils. Older people had this weariness in theirs. But his eyes. There was no warmth. They were cold and lacking humanity.