When the last well-wisher drifts off toward the champagne tower, I lean in close. “You were remarkable,” I tell her. “Most women would’ve melted under that kind of attention.”
Her lips curve in a sly grin. “Then I suppose you’ve chosen well, haven’t you?”
The line hits me like good brandy—warm, strong, a little dangerous. “I have,” I admit. My hand slides to hers, my thumb brushing the back of her fingers. “Dance with me.”
Her eyes brighten, the answer within. “I thought you’d never ask.”
I lead her onto the floor, the quartet’s waltz sweeping us into its orbit. We dance beneath the crystal chandeliers, the rest of the room fading with every turn until it’s just her, satin and lilac perfume, gliding together to our own rhythm.
My gut tightens. “Shit.”
“What?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the gleam of too-white teeth and a suit that costs more than most of the apartments in Queens. Leonid Petrov—shipping magnate, part-time investor, full-time nuisance—is cutting a lazy arc through the crowd. Of course he’s here. No Bratva ball is complete without his brand of opportunistic charm.
I suppress a sigh and roll my eyes toward the ceiling. If there’s a man who can turn a three-minute conversation into an HR violation, it’s Leonid. And he’s locked onto us like a heat-seeking missile.
He saunters up just as the waiter delivers two fresh flutes of Pol Roger into my hands. “Leonid,” I greet flatly, bracing myself.
“Vladimir,” he purrs, his gaze quickly sliding to Teresa.
“Teresa, this is Leonid Petrov,” I introduce, keeping my voice neutral. “Leonid, Teresa Winslow. Leonid runs half the container shipping out of Novorossiysk.”
Leonid’s smile sharpens. “And I spend the more interesting half of my time in New York.” He dips his head slightly, eyes raking over her curves. “Pleasure to meet you, my dear. And might I add, it takes real courage for a woman with such… substance to tackle bias-cut satin.”
Teresa’s shoulders dip, the bright smile she’d been practicing all evening flickering like a blown candle. My vision narrows. I set the champagne on a nearby pedestal and step closer until Petrov’s back meets a marble column with an audible thud. Guests close by fall silent.
“Your mouth,” I tell him, voice low with arctic ice, “is going to get you into serious trouble, Leonid.”
He wheezes a laugh that smells of caviar and champagne. “Just making conversation, Angeloff.”
“Apologize. Now.” My fingers settle on his lapel, applying slow pressure until I feel bone. He pales, glancing around for allies but finding none.
“Ms. Winslow,” he mutters, eyes cast downward, “forgive my… joke.”
I lean in closer. “Your jokes would be harder to mutter with your tongue missing.” I release him abruptly and he stumbles away, face pale.
“My apologies.”
A small, warm hand slips between my chest and Petrov’s. Teresa’s voice is soft but firm. “You promised me a dance, Vladimir.”
Her voice lands like a soothing balm. I register the surrounding stares, cameras angling for scandal. Optics matter. I pivot, capturing her waist instead of Petrov’s throat, and guide her toward the dance floor.
We move into the swirl of couples, but I can still feel Petrov’s greasy words clinging to the air. Teresa’s smile is set, polite for the watching crowd, yet she glances down at herself for a brief second, like she’s replaying the insult.
I dip my head, letting my breath graze her ear. “Don’t give him another thought. He couldn’t handle a woman like you if she came gift wrapped.”
Her lips twitch, but there’s still a shadow of doubt in her eyes. I tighten my grip on her waist, making sure she feels the full span of my hand against the curve he so blatantly pointed out. “You look so fucking sexy in this dress, I’m having trouble remembering the steps,” I murmur. “And when I finally get you home, I’m taking it off you so slowly you’ll beg me to hurry.”
She finally meets my gaze, eyes bright again, the sting from Petrov’s jab dissolving. And with those eyes gazing at me, the cameras could all vanish for all I care. The only thing worth watching tonight is right here in my arms.
The orchestra glides into Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2. Flashbulbs pop, but all I see is Teresa. Emerald satin fans as I turn her, the chandeliers sparking green fire along the seams. My palm at her back feels the faint tremor she’s hiding. I slow our tempo, breathing in sync until she steadies.
“I used to count steps with Maxim,” she whispers, watching the other swirling couples.
“Count on me now,” I reply.
She looks up, the shy smile she gives making the room disappear. She’s not shrinking tonight—she owns the floor, the gown, the spotlight I aimed at her. Pride settles within me where anger burned just moments ago.
