Page 3 of The Pakhan's Secret Baby

"Sir," I hear, just as I'm about to say something. I turn to see one of Rashid's men step closer. "We have a small situation," he warns. Something dark flashes through Rashid's eyes before he straightens his tie and nods at his man. Then he turns to me.

"Do you mind?" he asks, letting his fingers dust my arm again. "I'll only be a second. You can wait in my office if you'd like." His eyes flick up to movement behind me, which I catch as I glance over my shoulder.

One of the burly, broad-shouldered men stands there with his hands folded in front of himself.

I'm assuming private security, which means Rashid is very wealthy, though I assumed that based on the suit anyway.

"I should get back to my friend’sdevichnik, really." I stand, and Rashid stands with me, reaching up to brush a few strands of hair off my shoulder.

"Such a shame. I had hoped to ask you how a beautiful woman like you has no ring on her finger..." He clicks his tongue, like he's going to walk away, and my gut screams at me. It isn't very often that I get away from my father's men to enjoy my life. And I'm willingly passing on an opportunity to have drinks with a sickeningly wealthy man.

"Okay," I mumble quietly, and he grins.

Rashid says nothing, but the flick of his eyes moves mountains. He walks off with all but one of his guards and the one remaining says, "Come with me."

The guard leads me through a side door, past a velvet rope and down a narrow hallway where the bass drops to a muffled heartbeat.

I feel a bit nervous now, going to this man's office to wait for him while he does God only knows what sort of business.

But the alcohol has me throwing caution to the wind tonight. I decide to take life by the horns and lean in to this adventure.

When the door swings open, it isn't to an office like I expected. I follow the man inside, then pass him as I take in the sight of a full suite.

There is a desk and computer, but there's also a large sprawling bed with black silk sheets and a bottle of vodka on the nightstand next to it.

I turn to protest, but the guard is gone, backing out of the room and closing me in.

"Shit," I hiss, sucking in a breath to clear my head.

This isn't like me.

I'm not a rash thinker; I just let this man get in my head with his compliments.

More so, I let Irina talk me into something a little crazy.

And now what do I do?

I walk back over to the door, thinking of just slipping back out, and a light flicks on, as if motion activated.

It illuminates a painting on the wall to the right of the door that makes my breath catch.

A woman in rich furs and embroidered robes sits defiantly in a sleigh, with snow swirling around her and crowds jeering as she’s dragged through the streets.

Her chin is lifted, eyes blazing with fury. It'sBoyarina Morozova—Vasily Surikov’s original.

I know the piece from art history classes—but this can't be here. This painting is worth easily between three and six hundred million rubles.

To think a man like Rashid can afford something so rich in history and value—my hand flutters to my mouth as I lean closer, peering at the painting.

I can almost catch the brush strokes and see the way the paint mixed on the palette.

"You know—“ I whip around to see Rashid standing in the open doorway, closing it behind himself as he enters. "You're more intoxicating than that painting."

"It's a Surikov..." I shake my head, turning back to the art. "How did you...? I mean… where did you…"

I’ve heard this was on display at Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow, and yet this is very much a real painting.

It's not a print or replica.