The windows explode.
Not all of them. Just the front display windows, the ones facing the street. They shatter inward in a spray of glass and sound and chaos, and suddenly people are screaming, and champagne flutes are hitting the floor, and I'm staring at the empty frames where glass used to be.
Petrov moves before I can process what's happening.
His body is covering mine, one arm around my waist, the other hand on the back of my head, taking me down behind the nearest display case as more glass rains down.
We hit the floor hard. Him on bottom, me sprawled across his chest, his arms locked around me like a cage. His heart is pounding against my ribs—or maybe that's my heart, I can't tellanymore. Everything is noise and glass and the solid warmth of a stranger's body between me and whatever just happened.
"Stay down." His voice is in my ear, rough and commanding, the kind of voice you obey without thinking.
I can't move anyway. Can't breathe. His body is pressed against mine, every inch of him hard muscle, and I can feel—
Oh god.
He's hard.
Aroused.
His erection is pressing against my hip through his expensive suit pants, unmistakable and inappropriate and somehow exactly what my brain decides to focus on instead of the fact that someone just attacked my gallery.
The screaming continues. People running, security guards shouting, Maya's voice calling my name from somewhere I can't see.
Petrov doesn't move. Just keeps me protected while glass settles and chaos swirls and his breath is hot against my neck.
"Are you hurt?" His lips brush my ear when he speaks, and my entire body responds in a way that's completely inappropriate for a crisis situation.
"No." My voice sounds shaky. "I don't think so."
He holds me against him while his enforcer—the man who came with him, now moving through the gallery like he's done this a thousand times—checks corners and exits and makes sure whatever happened isn't still happening.
I can feel every inch of him. The hard planes of his chest, the muscles in his arms, the way his hand is played across my ribcage just beneath my breast. The erection that he has to know I can feel, that he's making no attempt to hide or apologize for.
This is insane.
Someone just attacked my gallery, and I'm lying on top of a Bratva boss I met three minutes ago, hyperaware of his body and his scent and the way his thumb is unconsciously stroking my ribs through the silk dress.
"Clear!" One of his men calls out.
Petrov releases me slowly, like he's reluctant to let go. Or maybe I'm imagining that, projecting my own confusion onto a stranger who just saved my life.
He sits up, helps me to a sitting position, his hands steady on my arms. "You're sure you're not hurt?"
I look down at myself. The burgundy dress is dusty but intact. My knees are scraped from hitting the floor, but nothing serious. No blood except—
No. Wait. There's blood on my dress. But it's not mine.
"You're bleeding." I reach for his arm, where a shard of glass must have caught him during the tackle. His sleeve is torn, and red is seeping through the expensive fabric.
"It's nothing." He pulls away, standing in one fluid movement and offering me his hand.
I take it. Let him pull me to my feet. The gallery is chaos—broken glass everywhere, collectors huddled in corners, security guards at the shattered windows, Maya on her phone probably calling the police.
The Fabergé eggs are untouched. The imperial porcelain is fine. Everything valuable is exactly where it should be.
So why did someone attack my gallery?
Petrov is still holding my hand. Still watching me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much.
