55

Mikhail
When I return home, Maria lies across the couch on her stomach, reading a book on Matisse. Her bare feet stick up in the air from a ridiculous peacock-green dress.
She doesn’t wear dresses like that-dresses that make her look this sexy.
It stops me from demanding to know why she’s here, waiting for me again. She glances over at me but says nothing. Her chin is balanced on one hand as she turns another page. I loosen my tie, feeling the heat dissipate from my body. This time I didn’t do the dirty work, letting Rurik dole out the lessons in his stoic, efficient style instead.
“What are you doing up?” I toss my tie onto the coffee table.
Maria keeps her eyes on the book. “I lost track of time.”
“You should be asleep,” I say severely.
She ignores me and flips another page. Her delicate fingers glide over the glossy surface as she takes more interest in the colorful illustration than in me.
I know she’s still angry with me, and I’m glad we have nothing to say to one another. I don’t feel like talking to her either. I pull my shirt out of my pants, unbuttoning the top button. I don’t want to look at her in that dress. The deep green accents her auburn hair, and the creased silk lies close to her slim curves. I can see the soft roundness of her breasts pushing up against the neckline.
I hate how tempting she looks in it.
Maria finally glances over at me and sends me a questioning look. “What?” she asks coyly.
“Nothing,” I say, trying to focus on something else. I need to be away from her right now. I can’t deal with this. So, I grab my tie and head toward my office. I glance back at Maria, and she quickly looks back down at the book.
She cares more than she lets on.
Something feels off as soon as I step into my office. I sense it, even though nothing looks misplaced. The valuable paintings are secured to the walls where they should be. I look up at the molding, and the tiny cameras flash a solitary light. I ignore the unease in my gut and go about my routine, unlocking the drawer in the first shelving unit where I store my laptop. I switch on the computer and a pop-up appears, displaying that the battery is low.
I pull open the desk drawer to retrieve the cord. I’m left-handed, but my pens have been placed neatly on the right side. My suspicion rises again when I notice the letters aren’t in chronological order.
I’ve told Dominika that the staff isn’t allowed to open any drawers in the penthouse unless it’s to get supplies or put away clothes.
My stomach twists as I grab an old datebook I kept, and familiar photos fall out on the desk. I tense as I lift one off the polished surface and examine a small thumbprint on the back made with charcoal.
I look at the sketch I have pinned to the wall-the sketch of Maria. The animal in me wants to rip it off the wall, but the artist in me stays my hand.
“Maria.” My voice is firm and controlled. “I need to talk to you in private.”
Moments later, she enters my office, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“Close the door,” I command, but my tone is calm and deadly, and I hate how much I sound like my father.
Maria obeys, turning her back to me. Her fingers tremble as she slowly pulls the doorknob toward her. The door clicks shut, sealing us in a caged space of privacy. Maria slowly turns to face me, and I watch her pulse quicken beneath the delicate skin of her throat. My hand twitches at the sight, and I wonder if her pulse will thunder against my fingers.
“Yes?” Her voice is barely a whisper, and I wait for her to look up into my cold gaze.
“Tell me, Maria.” I force myself to maintain an even tone. “Did you see anyone come into my office while you were lying on the couch?”
“No.” Maria hesitates, but her fidgeting intensifies. She holds her hands still in tight fists. “Why do you ask?”
I grip the desk to control my own anger bubbling to the surface. “Because someone has been in here.” It’s hard to keep my voice steady, but the volume rises with each word. “And I think you know who.”
Maria looks away quickly. “Maybe it was the cleaning staff?” she suggests, but her eyes dart around the room as if searching for an easy escape. “They come in here every day, don’t they?”
I glare at her. “They know better than to touch my desk.”
My constant gaze bears down on her, and slowly, I watch Maria’s facade crack, then break. I take pleasure in seeing her guilt exposed. And yet, even in this moment of triumph-having caught her in a lie-I can’t deny the magnetic pull I feel toward her.
“Fine,” Maria admits at last, her voice sharp. “I was in here, but only because I wanted to help you, Mikhail. I swear it.”
“Help?” I echo insidiously.
I make no movement toward her, but she backs away until she’s pressed against the door.
“Please believe me,” Maria says as her voice dies into a whimper. “Please.”
Maria says that word as if it’s a shield. My eye follows the tear rolling down her soft cheek, and I want to taste it. But I won’t give in to this display, this ruse.
Zakhar has taught his daughter his best tricks, I am sure of it.
“So, if spying didn’t work,” I ask, nodding toward her dress, “was your next trick seduction?”
Her eyes widen instantly. “Spying? Seduction? I’m not doing any of those things!” Maria’s voice shakes, but I hear indignation in her tone.
I scoff as I rise from my desk to approach her.
“Then what else would you call sneaking into my office and digging through my private papers?”
Her hands clench into fists, and her cheeks turn bright red. “I had to try something-anything. You’re the criminal, not him.” A sob interrupts her words. “It can’t be him.”
“You believe him.” My voice descends into a low growl. “But not me.”
My instincts scream to stay clear of Maria and not let her draw me in any deeper. But it’s too late. I’ve told her too much. The night she fell, I sat by her bedside and let my mind convince me she was unique like the lone chrysanthemum in the painting.
Her beauty, her tears, and her wrong-headed conviction of the truth. All of it is a cruel lie. But the pull between us grows stronger with each heated word we hurl at each other.