The Last Dance (4 page)

Someone moaned. Her mind could not comprehend the soft feminine sound, that it was coming from her, another reflex stemming from self-protection. Not desire; it could never be desire for the hideous monster of a man. Maybe he had been handsome before the explosion, but she doubted she would have been attracted to him even then. He was too big, too coarse, too masculine, too much in every way.

Her hands traveled down the solid plane of his back, stroking the hard lines that defined every muscle, settling on the pronounced curve of his ass, strong and powerful, designed for thrusting, so masculine just like everything about him. He was almost a caricature in proportions, everything massive and overwhelming.

Roman pulled back and smiled, half his face, the unscarred side, hitching in a mischievous grin. Georgina’s gaze lowered to the button on his trousers; her hands had circled around his fly. She had unbuttoned his trousers. Her eyes narrowed. She did not remember doing it. It was the fear. And that was why her breath was coming in desperate, shallow pants.

Mindlessly she touched her lips with the tips of her fingers. What was she doing? She had never gotten carried away like this before, not in private and certainly not in public. She stared down at her taut nipples, straining under the confinement of the corseted bodice of her dress. There was no need to tweak them now; they were hard and exquisitely sensitive, begging to be touched. The idea of his scarred skin rubbing against her breasts flooded her mind.

No
.

She gave her head a terse shake to dislodge the image, but the damage was already done. The idea was there.

Her body had betrayed her. She had forgotten what she was doing, who he was, and what he looked like. Georgina studied his features, committing each grotesque knot and discoloration to memory. She would not forget again. Roman Zakharov was a monster, and it went far beyond the way he looked. He was the most feared man in the Russian Mafia for a reason; he was cruel and merciless.
Remember that. Remember that he would snap your neck with his own hands.

She studied his massive hands, broad palms, and long, thick fingers. Those hands could inflict a lot of pain. And pleasure.
Oh fuck
. It had been so long since Georgina had had sex. Celibacy was fucking with her head. She just needed to come again and remember there was nothing special about her reaction to this man. This was a reflex, like sneezing or blinking, just her body doing what bodies do.

“Come home with me,” Roman commanded. There was no question, no room for refusal. She doubted he heard no, ever.

Wordlessly Georgina nodded.

Roman placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her through a long corridor that led to a gallery with an exit. She had never seen this room. The walls were painted a bright cobalt that made the gold frames look like stars against the dark night. Roman pulled out his phone and texted someone.

Georgina took in a sharp breath when the door opened. The freezing air burned her lungs. It hurt to breathe. Goose bumps rose on her arms. She tried not to shiver, but her body shook violently. Roman took off his tuxedo jacket and wrapped it around her; the material was still warm from his body and smelled of him. It was like having a piece of him draped across around her. Her coat was still inside, but she was not going back for it now. She would not give Roman the chance to change his mind or a chance for the model to reappear and dissuade him from taking Georgina home.

Moments later a silver SUV pulled up behind the museum.
Never get in the car with strangers…or known criminals
.

Roman opened the door and helped Georgina into the car. She tried to relax into the soft leather of the seats, but her body would not cooperate. Every nerve ending was coiled tightly with frenetic energy. She shook, and it had nothing to do with the biting cold.

Roman spoke quickly to the driver in Russian, instructing the man to take them to his house. The driver eyed Georgina with interest, no doubt wondering how the dark Spanish beauty who Roman had gone to the ball with had morphed into a pale redhead. But the man would not dare question Roman.

They were driving away from the city center toward Peterhof Gardens. Roman had an apartment near the Hermitage, which was where Georgina expected to be going tonight. She would be frightened if she had not understood when Roman told the driver to take them to his summer house. This was a good thing, taking her to his larger residence. It meant she could plant a bug there too. Next time she would make sure he took her to his flat, and then all her bases would be covered. The thrill of fear shot through her when she allowed herself to realize there would be a next time.

Tentatively she glanced across the seat at Roman. He was her new lover. Her skin prickled with a foreign sensation. She was facing his unscarred side; from this angle no one would guess his deformity. There was no hint of it in his square jaw, or his full lips, or his broad shoulders that encroached into her space. He had been handsome before. She could see that now.

No, he was not handsome. He was a murderer. That was why she was here. Georgina mindlessly traced the shape of the vial in her handbag. If Roman found it, he would think it was a harmless tube of lipstick, not a container with a powerful drug to knock him out.

The driver asked Roman if he would be required to take Georgina home tonight. She held her breath while she waited for an answer. Her face would never betray her by showing emotion. She wouldn’t let him know she spoke Russian and with a far more refined accent than him. Roman was a common criminal, a thug who had been elevated by his own ruthless depravity. He was an uneducated minor from the Urals who happened to win the aluminum wars. After the fall of Communism, assets were sold off by the state for pennies. The buyers were always those in favor with the government or criminals that had threatened or murdered their way to the top.

No, Roman’s rise to power had not just happened; he’d won because he had murdered everyone who had stood in his way. And now he ruled his empire through fear.

Roman replied in English, “The night is young. Who knows where it will lead?”

Georgina knew where it would lead. She sat back against the soft leather of the seat and forced herself to count the seconds it took to fill her lungs. Slowly she breathed in, pushing air down and then holding it until it burned. With every rotation of the wheels she was being dragged farther into his lair. And she had willingly come. Well, not willingly, because she could not say no to Pavel. She kept her stare focused on the black sky.

Georgina’s eyes narrowed when the car pulled into the circular drive in front of the mansion. It was elegant and traditional, painted canary yellow with huge white columns. The garish color was in keeping with other 17th century stately homes. She had expected something modern and sprawling. Russian new money was loud and ostentatious. Russians never asked
which was
the best. They asked which was the most expensive.

Roman helped her out of the car, and the driver pulled away. They were alone again. The driver would not have helped her anyway, but it was unnerving all the same to be alone with Roman.

* * * *

The interior of the house was just as beautiful and just as tasteful. He had obviously hired an interior designer; there was the perfect balance of antiques and contemporary art to make the large house feel modern and livable. The parquet floors were dotted with thick wool rugs, giving the house a warm feel even now in the dead of winter.

Georgina walked along the hall, taking in each painting. There were as many in his home as any single room in the Hermitage. She paused in front of a Maxfield Parish painting. If it wasn’t an original, it was a damn good replica. She knew the painting well. A print of it hung in her grandmother’s hall as a child. A strawberry-blonde woman stood on a rock in the sea. She was dressed in ethereal lace, the same shade as her pale skin, so at first glance she appeared naked. She was on her tiptoes, and her hand reached up into the night sky. Because of the perspective it appeared that she was almost reaching the crescent moon. Georgina had stared at the painting as a child, wishing that she could reach the stars too.

“I thought you weren’t a fan of art.”

“I’m not. It is a good investment.”

She smiled as her gaze returned to the painting. The bright colors instantly transported her back to her grandmother’s house in Montana. She closed her eyes and allowed the memories to fill her. God, she still missed her; that never went away. Her grandmother would be so proud of her career. Her throat tightened. This part of her life would not be what her grandmother dreamed of for her; fortunately, she would never know the depths Georgina had plunged to maintain her position as principal dancer.

Georgina feigned a cough. There was no point in waiting. They needed to fuck. That was how this worked. She had to be his lover. She needed a drink first to calm her nerves and give her something to concentrate on other than his massive presence. God, he was so big. He would crush her. “Pardon me. My throat is so dry.”

“My apologies. I should have offered you a drink.” They moved into the living room. Roman opened a mahogany sideboard that hid a small refrigerator. He poured two shots of vodka and handed her one. He took out a jar of pickles.

Georgina shook her head. After twelve years she still did not fully appreciate Russian drinking etiquette; pickles were for tuna fish sandwiches, not as an accompaniment to vodka. Roman returned the pickles, seeming happy to dispense with the tradition.

“To beauty,” Roman toasted as he clinked their glasses together.

He knocked his shot back and poured another before hers had even met her lips.

She did not drink vodka by choice, but she would tonight. She was prepared to do a lot of things she would not normally choose to do. She closed her eyes and let the vodka warm her throat. It was smoother than the vodka she had drunk as a teenager.

Roman poured her another drink before he downed his own. He quickly followed it with another.
Good
. He was doing her job for her. In a perfect world he would pass out before he could touch her. But this was her life she was talking about. He would not pass out. He was far too big for the alcohol to topple him. She needed to drug him to make sure he fell asleep, and more importantly, to create a haze around the memory of tonight.

“Show me the rest of the house… Perhaps your bedroom.” Georgina placed her small hand in his. Heat radiated off his body, warming her the way the vodka had warmed her mouth. Roman picked up the bottle and led her up the curved staircase and down a long corridor. More priceless paintings lined the walls, but Georgina kept her focus straight ahead. Roman’s long fingers were like manacles shackled around her wrist.

His bedroom was large and imposing just like him. There was not just a bed but a sitting area with a marble fireplace. Thousands of crystals sparkled above them in a chandelier. The walls were painted mink. The warm tone was picked up by fur cushions and dozens of candles. No doubt the room would be very romantic if they were lit…and Roman wasn’t in it.

Georgina took the vodka from his hand and placed in on the bedside table. She noted that his was on the right. She needed ten seconds alone with the drinks. “Do you have any music?”

Roman nodded and crossed the room to the teak hutch in the corner. His back was to her. In an instant she retrieved the lipstick cartridge from her purse. She clicked the small metal prong to release the syringe and then injected Roman’s shot. Less than ten seconds; she was getting better at this. To be fair, she’d had a lot of practice.

Soft, ambient music filled the room. She smiled and handed him his drink. Roman took it, holding it to his lips for a second before he smiled and set it down without drinking it. Her heart jumped into her mouth. If he didn’t drink it, she would have to do this the old-fashioned way, the way women had been putting men to sleep since the dawn of time, by letting him pound away on top of her until they exhausted themselves and slipped into the unconsciousness of sleep.

She would have to be the Delilah to his Samson. The prospect sent a thrill of exhilaration surging through her. Anticipation and the challenge made her wet, not his hard body. Her mouth watered from fear, not a desire to taste him.

Georgina reached up and touched the raised scarred skin on his face; she couldn’t resist it any longer. She had to know what he felt like. She took in a sharp breath. So smooth. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed the disfigured skin of his neck; her tongue traced the intricate pattern of scars, every tiny rise and fall, knot and plane of flesh. His clean scent and proximity overwhelmed her. He had not even touched her, and it was already too much. What would his weight feel like on top on her? She had to know. Her hands went to his tie, tugging at the satin material, tossing it to the floor.

Her fingers pulled at his buttons. He stopped her by closing his large hand over hers. “We have all night.”

They didn’t. There was a frenetic energy building in her. She needed this to happen, wanted him just once, to feel him fill her and move inside her. It was curiosity. That was it. She wanted to know the pleasure a body this big could bring. She had passed the critical point of desire. They would be having sex tonight even if this wasn’t part of her job. She wanted him, ugly, scarred, and frightening. It had been a long time since she’d had sex and even longer since she’d wanted it.

Roman pulled back and picked up the shots. He handed her the glass. “To health,” he toasted as their glasses clanked together again. The corner of his mouth curled into a grin.

She downed the rest. She didn’t need to stall. And she didn’t need the aid of Dutch courage, but she drank the vodka anyway because he offered it to her. She would be taking anything he offered tonight.

Roman tossed his head back and downed his. Disappointment tugged at her. There was a possibility he would pass out before they had sex. That knowledge galvanized her. She would feel him and taste him before that happened. God, it was insane. She shouldn’t want him, but she did. Just once she wanted to feel those hands on her holding her down as he thrust into her.