Dangerous Passion Page 13

  Grace reached out with her hand to touch him, then stopped suddenly, her hand an inch above his. She looked down at their hands. At his, so sinewy and strong, with the tough yellow calluses on the sides. Not an artist’s hand, not at all. It was an expression of sheer male power. Banked power.

  He didn’t move in any way, just watched her carefully. She was holding her hand above his for so long it was almost an insult, and yet he didn’t act insulted at all. He merely waited for what she would do.

  Her instincts told her he would accept whatever she did. Whether she slapped him or caressed him, he would accept it.

  Her hand lowered over his and again she was shocked at the warmth emanating from his skin.

  “It’s okay,” she said, hand curling over his. “Poor Harold got really exasperated with me because I wasn’t as ambitious as he was. I mean, I am ambitious, but my real goal is simply to live from my art, not to be famous. I don’t really do well in society, anyway. But he had this dream that I would be as famous as—I don’t know—Andy Warhol, or even Picasso. Someone known even outside art circles. Like some kind of celebrity.”

  Grace couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought. She’d once been part of a collective show of ten artists, one of whom was a rich heiress, famous for a sex tape with a well-known movie star that had taken more than 10 million hits on the internet. The paparazzi outside the gallery had been like a swarm of angry bees, flashbulbs flashing aggressively in their faces. Grace could still feel the press of sweaty bodies, the anxiety and then panic she’d felt as she tried to push her way through. When she finally made it into her apartment, she’d been shaking and sweating, with a massive headache from the flashbulbs.

  No, celebrity was not her thing.

  “That’s not for you,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

  “No. Definitely not. So I was more than happy to have someone buying all my stuff, even though it made Harold unhappy to have it hidden away. But I remember thinking…thinking that I’d like to talk to the person who was buying my work. Find out what he or she thought. What pieces they liked best. What worked, what didn’t. Except the lawyer sort of hinted that his client lived abroad.”

  “That’s exactly what my lawyer was told to say. And to tell you the truth, he doesn’t know where I live. We communicate by e-mail and I send money from London.”

  He’d gone to such enormous trouble to remain anonymous. “So…you weren’t ever going to stop by to have a chat, were you?”

  His hand flexed under hers. “No.”

  “I—I see.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. I’m in a dangerous business and I have dangerous enemies. Anything I care about would be considered a point of attack. If anyone knew I loved your work, they’d use that knowledge against me. So I bought them anonymously. I shouldn’t have. But I did. Your work means a great deal to me and I simply couldn’t renounce having it. I simply couldn’t. Every painting, every drawing speaks to me. And I was selfish enough to want them for myself. And now, because of my weakness, I have placed you in jeopardy.”

  “You need to straighten this mess out,” she said. She looked around her, at the magnificent room that managed to be exquisitely beautiful and amazingly comfortable at the same time. Something very few homes in New York ever managed. “I mean, it’s nice here, but I can’t stay here forever.”

  He shook his head, something weary beyond words in the gesture. “I can’t make it go away, Grace,” he said quietly. “Not immediately. And words cannot express how sorry I am about that.”

  He was. It was there, written in every harsh, exhausted line of that strong face. His face was so fascinating. She studied him openly and he let her. Grace was always curious about faces, about what they said of a person and what they hid. Particularly lived-in faces like his, which spoke of hardship and power and authority. Whoever he was, he’d lived through harsh times and prevailed.

  “I’m not too sure you should be beating yourself up for something that you didn’t do. I mean, you didn’t invite those men to attack you, did you? It’s not your fault.”

  “You’re wrong.” He closed his eyes wearily. “In a very real sense, it is my fault. I should have arranged for a discreet purchase of an oil or two, a drawing here and there.” He opened them again suddenly, his gaze as direct and fierce as a falcon’s. “But I was greedy, I wanted them all, everything you ever produced, would ever produce. And now you’re paying the consequences.”

  The regret on his face, in his voice, pierced her. Most people evaded responsibility, even when it rested squarely on their shoulders. This man was clearly used to bearing heavy burdens and not foisting them off on anyone else.

  He also looked utterly exhausted. Underneath his naturally olive complexion, he was pale, and it seemed to her that the grooves bracketing his mouth had carved themselves more deeply in the past few hours.

  “Do you know, Drake—by the way, is that your first name or last name?”

  “Neither. My name is Viktor Drakovich. But I’m known as Drake.”

  It was an odd way to phrase it. Most people would say People call me Drake. She tilted her head to study him some more. There was something so compelling about his face, with its high cheekbones, strong brow, sensuous mouth. Compelling and…and sort of familiar. Which was crazy, of course. She’d never seen him before in her life and she knew no one like him. Obviously, all these shocks had rattled her brain and that was the source of the déjà vu. Even his voice—incredibly deep and with a hint of an accent that she couldn’t place—sank deep into her bones as if she’d heard him a thousand times before.

  “Where are you from?”

  He gave a frosty smile. “I have no idea.” He held his hand up when she recoiled. “That’s not—what would you call it? An answer that’s not serious?” Deep grooves etched between his eyebrows. His accent was becoming stronger.

  “A flip answer?” she suggested.

  “Precisely. It’s not a flip answer. I don’t know where I was born. My first memory is of being a street rat in Odessa, running with a pack of what you’d call hoodlums there. But someone said something about me coming from Tajikistan.” He shrugged. “I grew up speaking a mongrel mixture of Russian, Tajik and Ukrainian. Took me years to straighten the languages out.”

  He was trying to frighten her. No, not frighten. His body language was clearly protective, not aggressive. He was trying, for some reason, to put himself in a bad light.

  “Well, Drake, let me tell you, I’m finding it really hard to be that angry with someone who made the mistake of loving my paintings too much.”

  A huge log crumbled into the fire with a crash and flurry of sparks. The fire was dying, consuming itself. She knew just how it felt. Before she could stop herself, a huge yawn bubbled its way to the surface.

  “Sorry.” Her eyes felt heavy. She could feel her neck muscles weighing on her shoulders. It took an effort to keep straight and upright.

  Drake folded his hand around hers. “You’re tired,” he said. “You need rest after what you went through today. You need to sleep.” In a lithe movement, he was standing and helping her to stand, too. He put a light hand to her back.

  His hands were so amazing. Huge and hard and like heaters. The warmth of the hand at her back came through the silk of the gi as if it were a heating pad.

  One hand holding hers, the other at her back. For a moment, it was as if she were in his embrace. Grace was utterly shocked that she was tempted to keep going, simply turn into him, feel those incredibly strong arms fold around her. The temptation was so strong that she had to freeze for a moment not to give in to it.

  He misunderstood and dropped his hands to his side, stepping back sharply.

  How crazy. She felt…bereft. Already missing his hands on her, the heat of them soaking into her, the feeling of being surrounded by his immense strength.

  “Come,” he said. “You must be exhausted.” He turned and motioned toward the door. They walked silently down the
immense corridor until he stopped outside the bedroom door, opening it and gesturing for her to enter. “I never have guests, so I am afraid there is just the one bed. I’ll sleep on a couch.”

  Grace stiffened. “You most certainly will not sleep on a couch in your own home. If anyone sleeps on a couch, it will be me. I’d like to remind you that you’ve been shot, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  A wintry smile. “No, I haven’t forgotten. But it is unthinkable that you sleep on a couch. I absolutely cannot permit it. You’ll find a pair of pajamas on the bed and—”

  “Drake.” Grace stepped a little closer, looking up into his eyes. Dark-ringed, weary eyes. “Don’t even think of it. I am not about to make a wounded man sleep on a couch, and that’s final.” She pointed at the bed, large enough to plant corn on. “If you insist, that bed is big enough for both of us, with a football team in the middle.”

  He sagged a little in relief, caught himself. His deep brown eyes turned almost liquid. “You—you trust me? I swear you’ll be safe, I swear on my honor.”

  She believed him, utterly and completely. He’d done nothing but protect her since that horrible moment outside the gallery, when he’d been willing to disarm himself for her.

  She looked at him, at the immense strength and power of him. They were in his home, which was essentially a fortress, surrounded by his men, who were obviously trained bodyguards and armed to boot. He had shown himself capable of violence. Violence so expert it was almost surgical in its precision. And yet Grace felt absolutely no fear. She felt shock and sadness and exhaustion, but no fear.

  She wasn’t stupid. A single woman living in the city learned fast how to read situations. She’d bought all the books, had taken self-defense courses—not that anything she could do could withstand the power of this man if she was wrong.

  But her instincts were sound. She trusted them.

  “I think that if you meant me any harm, Drake, I’d be hurt by now,” she said softly.

  “Oh God. Never.” Swallowing heavily, he picked her hand up and brought it to his lips. “I can’t bear the thought of you hurt or frightened. Today was a nightmare for me. Please, don’t fear me or anyone who works for me. You’re as safe as I can possibly make you. So put on those pajamas and have yourself a good night’s rest.”

  Midnight-blue pajamas, brand new and of a heavy silk by the feel of them, lay at the foot of the bed. In the bathroom, Grace changed, turning up the sleeves and pants cuffs a couple of times. She switched off the bathroom light and, feeling shy, walked back into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.

  She walked toward the bed and then simply stopped, the artist in her rising up and crowding out the scared, exhausted, stressed woman.

  The deep green curtains had been closed, shutting out the diamond-bright skyline. All the lights had been turned off, the only light a warm glow coming from the dying embers of the fire.

  One side of the bed had been turned down, the smooth sheets unbearably inviting. True to his word, Drake lay on the other side of the bed, so close to the edge he would fall off if he turned in his sleep. There would be at least six feet between them. To reassure her further, he hadn’t gotten between the sheets, but rather was lying on top of the emerald-green comforter, covered by a rich, thick fur blanket, looking like something out of a Russian novel.

  No, that wasn’t quite right.

  He didn’t look like a character in a novel, he looked like a legend. A warrior out of time. Tamerlane, perhaps, or Alexander, resting in his tent after conquering the known world.

  He’d taken his shirt off. Massive naked shoulders rose above the soft fur blanket. The dying embers painted his face a dusky olive, highlighting the broad, high cheekbones and square jawline, leaving his eyes in shadow. The light threw his muscles in relief—the strong cords of the neck, the deep indentation between the pectorals, the bulge of his biceps.

  A magnificent wounded warrior.

  That’s exactly the way she would paint him. The wounded warrior finally finding his rest in a tent, the glint of his bronze armor barely visible in the gloom, a soldier standing guard outside. The warrior’s blood-flecked helmet, with a proud pennant and nosepiece, looking like a metal skull, on the table. A man who had commanded an army that day and been bloodied, and who would command it the next to victory.

  Grace rarely had an entire painting come to her at once. Usually, the pieces of it, the order and balance, the shapes and the colors, came to her gradually. But this “Portrait of a Warrior” came to her complete, in one single vision, and she knew she wouldn’t rest until her vision had become reality.

  Drake’s dark eyes tracked her as she made her way to the huge bed. She slipped between the sheets quietly. The bed was as comfortable as it looked, the sheets and silk comforter a delight to the touch. A faint scent of lavender rose from the bed.

  She turned in bed to find him still watching her, face drawn with exhaustion and pain. She was exhausted herself, muscles sore, the scrapes still stinging.

  A log fell with a hiss in the quiet of the night. She could feel herself drifting into the welcome arms of sleep.

  “Good night, Drake,” she said quietly.

  “Sleep well.” His deep voice came out of the gathering darkness.

  It was the noise that woke her. A strangled sound of silenced pain. She came awake in a rush, heart pounding, in a strange bed full of unfamiliar textures.

  There was the faintest possible glow from the fireplace. For a second, she couldn’t place the cavernous room, the shadowy furniture, the plush bedding, until the memories exploded in a rush.

  Drake’s home.

  Drake’s bed.

  There was that sound again. Coming from her left. She turned her head on the down pillow and saw him, lying on his back like a statue on a sarcophagus. He hadn’t budged since falling asleep. Something about his stillness told her that he always slept in stillness, perhaps had learned to do so as a child on the streets.

  The sound was of a man unconsciously stifling a groan of pain. The fact that he could do this in his sleep spoke volumes of the man, of the kind of life he’d led.

  Grace knew it was insane to feel sorry for a man like this. He was clearly very rich, immensely strong. He commanded enormous resources, including what appeared to be an army of men and staff. There wasn’t anything in the waking man that would make you feel sorry for him.

  But the sleeping man, ah, that was a different story.

  There was just enough light from the embers to see his face, its lines of pain drawn deep, jaws clenched to stifle any sounds. And yet, a soft noise sounded from deep in his throat, however he fought against it.

  The anesthesia had long since worn off. Ben hadn’t offered painkillers and Drake didn’t seem to her to be the kind of man who would take them unless he absolutely had to. But right now, his body was contending with the minor surgery of the removal of a bullet and the stitches taken in his shoulder, without anything to dull the pain.

  Had he sent himself to that place he’d gone to in the surgery? It seemed so. He looked utterly gone, eyes still behind the closed lids, body rigid. Feeling pain at some level but refusing to give in to it.

  Grace listened to his labored breathing for another couple of minutes and then couldn’t stand it any more. Moving softly, she slid across the enormous bed until she was close enough to touch him.

  Another stifled moan. She touched his hand, intending to see if she could wake him up, ask him if he needed anything.

  But when she touched him, amazingly, he stilled. The tense muscles went lax, the frown smoothed out, his breathing slowed. His hand grasped hers tightly, his grip warm and unbreakable.

  He seemed to have found instant peace, the grooves in his face gone, breathing calm and shallow.

  Quiet reigned in the room and as the last light from the fire waned, Grace felt the dark mantle of sleep fold over her once more.

  Nine

  November 18

  Drake had o
ften woken up after being wounded. Less often, he had woken up beside a woman, though he never liked it. Usually, he dismissed the woman after sex, preferring to sleep alone. But he’d never woken up next to a woman after being wounded.

  Never fuck while vulnerable. One of Drake’s hard-and-fast rules.

  His women had no loyalty to him, and he had no reason to trust them while he was in a state of weakness. So when he woke up with the familiar feeling of having been wounded, he couldn’t factor in the softness on his arm.

  Even the way he came out of sleep was unusual. Drake was used to waking instantly, rising up out of sleep in a flash, combat-ready. It was the only way he could have survived his boyhood. Coming awake instantly was second nature, whether he was in a dangerous situation or not.

  Yet now, he came up out of sleep in long, languorous swoops, aware of someone beside him who wasn’t a threat. Aware of a certain warmth in the air and softness touching his skin. Rising, rising slowly until his eyes finally opened. His wounded shoulder ached, but that was nothing. What was astonishing was what was on his other shoulder. A mass of soft, reddish brown hair, pale skin showing from the too-large pajama top; long, lush eyelashes; a full mouth that begged for kisses.

  Grace. Grace Larsen. Migrated, by some miracle, from her side of the bed.

  No, not migrated. The nighttime memory came up from his subconscious like a cork bobbing up from a dark sea. He must have shown signs of distress in the night. The shoulder had been painful. Not the greatest pain he’d ever known, not by a long shot, but enough to pull him out of sleep. And she’d come to him, touched him, given him comfort.

  He swallowed heavily, dry mouthed.

  She had offered comfort.

  He looked down at the beautiful woman whose head lay so trustingly on his shoulder, barely breathing so as not to disturb her.