The mansion has a strange vibe at night, like wandering around a museum after closing. The parquet floor is cool beneath my feet. I spot small security cameras here and there along the way. I bet every inch of this house is covered. I wonder if I’m being watched right now.
I drift down a corridor, stopping short when I see the first painting.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
It’s a Rothko study. A real one, not a print. I can see the texture of the brush marks, the layering of the pigment.
I move to the next piece, a Chagall sketch. It’s whimsical and full of floating figures with that familiar dreamy blue I associate with his work.
“Huh,” I say to myself. “Just a casual hallway full of multi-million-dollar pieces. Sure. Why not?”
A little further down: Kandinsky. Bold lines, controlled chaos. Larionov. That gorgeous sunburst style, angular and bright.
This isn’t just décor. Even if a man like Roman cut a blank check to an interior designer and told them to go nuts he wouldn’t end up with a collection like this. What’s on these walls is a collection museums would go crazy to borrow.
And it’s all right here, for the single audience of me.
I follow the artwork like a trail of breadcrumbs until the décor shifts. The lighting becomes softer, with warmer colors. I realize it’s a more private part of the mansion and I should turn around. But I don’t. Something is pushing me forward.
I catch a faint sound in the distance—water. Steady and flowing.
Curiosity tugs me forward.
I turn the corner into a dimly lit room with cedar panels, candles flickering in recessed alcoves. The air is warm and humid. In the center of the space sits a massive, sunken hot tub, steam rising from the surface of the water.
Roman Barinov is in it.
Naked.
I freeze, my breath hitching in my chest.
He’s reclining against the far end, arms stretched along the edge. Water beads on his chest, sliding over defined muscle and dark hair. His shoulders are broad, his pecs cut. He’s all carved lines and quiet strength. The water hides everything below his waist, causing my imagination to conjure up sinful images.
He lifts his head slightly when he notices me. “Amalie.”
Damn. The way he says my name does things to me. Embarrassment reddens my cheeks as every part of me goes hot.
“I–I’m sorry.” The words come out of my mouth in a stutter as I start toward the door. “I didn’t know this room was… I mean, I was wandering around and… Okay. I’ll just go now. I didn’t mean to?—”
He raises one hand slightly. “Stay.” Quiet. Sure. A firm yet gentle command.
He doesn’t cover himself. He doesn’t seem embarrassed in the slightest. Instead, he just watches me with narrowed eyes, the rest of his expression unreadable.
“You’re wandering around the house at night. Why?”
I swallow. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He nods as if that makes perfect sense. “This house can be overwhelming.”
I hover near the doorway, unsure what to do with my hands or any other part of my body for that matter. “I was admiring the art,” I tell him. “You have an amazing collection.”
He says nothing at first, watching me. “You’re familiar with the artists, I assume?”
“Of course.” I point over my shoulder. “There’s a freaking Rothko out there.”
He chuckles. “Spoken like a true artist.”
I grin.
