“Talking to an acquaintance.” She adopted as arch a look as her limited repertoire allowed. “Maybe I can take you up on your offer to show me Leonid’s art collection while he’s occupied? I’m so inspired after the auction. It’s all so beautiful...”
Viktor flicked a glance toward the balconies. His frown belied his indecision. “Pretty please,” she murmured, laying it on thick. “I’ll never get another chance like this.”
He gave her an indulgent look. “Only if you agree to experience what a nineteenth-century Frapin Cuvée tastes like.” He held up the cognac. “I was on my way to meet Leonid.”
“Done,” she murmured. She had one more glass of tolerance in her.
She picked up the glass, took the arm Viktor offered and they made their way through the crowd to the long marble hallway that stretched the second floor of the manor. Aristov’s art collection, Viktor explained, was displayed along this and the grand hallway of the third floor. Frankie could see why. The Oriental-carpeted, ornately wainscoted hallways and expert lighting set the artwork off to perfection.
She didn’t have to feign attention. Viktor took her through each piece with an enthusiasm that was infectious. His clear love for his subject matter shone through and understanding what she was looking at made it so much more enjoyable for her. She put her hand on his arm frequently to indicate her pleasure, smiling up at him with exaggerated fascination. She could see it was working, from his animated expression and heightened color in his cheeks.
A surge of feminine power heated her veins. She really wasn’t half-bad at this femme fatale thing. Why hadn’t she tried it before?
Viktor took her through the artwork on the second, then third floors. By the time he stopped in front of what he called the pièce de résistance, an exceedingly modern piece by one of the great Russian masters that looked like random splotches of black and green to Frankie, a good twenty minutes had gone by.
“It’s so...interesting,” she commented, cradling her cognac in her hands. She was sipping the five-thousand-dollar-a-bottle spirit as slowly as she could, but its faint spiciness and floral aroma was delicious, sending a smooth, silky warmth through her bloodstream.
“It’s breathtaking,” Viktor countered, resting a palm against the wall where she stood. “I really should get back. Leonid is waiting for me.”
“Oh,” she murmured in disappointment, not sure they’d been gone long enough. “I was hoping there was more.”
The Russian’s eyes flashed. “There is an even more glorious Chagall in Leonid’s personal rooms. I’m sure he won’t mind me showing it to you.”
Alarm bells went off in Frankie’s head. The expression of intent in Viktor’s light brown eyes was clear. He was so close she could smell his overwhelming aftershave, a spicy combination that made her want to sneeze.
“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t dare intrude on Leonid’s personal space.”
“Are you sure?” He moved closer. “You’ve been such a good audience.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. She put a hand to the wall to lever herself away from it, but Viktor stepped closer, stopping her. He was going to kiss her. She’d been flirting outrageously with him to keep his attention, so why wouldn’t he?
Her heart raced. “Viktor...this has been so sweet of you to give me a tour but—”
He set his other hand on the wall beside her so she was well and truly captured. “Don’t run away,” he said in Russian, his voice low and gravelly. “Stay.”
Panic sliced through her. He dipped his head toward hers. She ducked under his arm and took a step away from him. He gave her a bemused look. Frankie held up her almost empty glass. “I think I need another one of these first.”
He eyed her glass. “Another?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “It was sooo delicious. Just one more.”
His generous mouth curved into a smile. “We’ll make a full Russian out of you yet with that...appetite.”
Her stomach did a little churn. Then relaxed as he good-naturedly held out an arm and led the way back down the hallway to the stairs and the ballroom below. He kept a possessive hand on her back as they wound their way through the crowd toward the bar. Frankie searched furiously for Harrison while he got their drinks, but the crowds were thick now, massed on the dance floor with a strobe light passing over them. She couldn’t see him anywhere.
Viktor came back with their drinks, handing one to her. “We should dance,” he announced.
Frankie thought that might be a good idea because she really didn’t need any more to drink. She went to put the glass down on a table. Viktor waved a hand at her. “Bring it with you.”
He led her onto the dance floor, where the band was playing a slow enough tune that they could dance and drink at the same time. She fake-sipped the cognac as Viktor’s free hand around her waist kept her close. The champagne she’d consumed combined with the first cognac had cast the world in an all-over rosy glow, which would have been nice except this was a bit of a nightmare. The dance floor was packed, the heat of hundreds of bodies was magnifying her partner’s überstrong cologne and he kept moving her closer with his free hand. She had the feeling he was going to try and kiss her again any minute...
Goddamn you, Harrison Grant. Where are you?
CHAPTER SIX
LEONID ARISTOV WAS a solitary figure on the balcony that overlooked the lake. His elbows rested on the marble ledge that bounded the tiny alcove; his tall, thin body tilted forward as he studied the play of light on the water in the moonlight.
He did not seem at all surprised when Harrison joined him at the railing. His trademark crooked smile flashed white in the darkness. “A Chagall fan? I had no idea.”
“Always have been.” Harrison rested his forearms on the ledge, mimicking the other man’s stance.
“And here I thought you were above trying to impress me.”
He lifted a shoulder. “Call it a gesture of good faith. I’m trying to understand the backpedaling, Leonid. I thought we had an agreement.”
A laconic smile curved the Russian’s lips. “I’m like a bride on my wedding day. I’m having second thoughts.”
“About the two insignificant clauses you keep tripping over?”
“I don’t care about those.”
“Then what?” Harrison kept his temper in check, recalling Francesca’s words. “Help me to understand.”
Leonid stared out at the water. “A man gets philosophical when his life’s work is crumbling at his feet. What was once important to me has become less so.”
Harrison’s gaze sharpened on the Russian’s craggy profile. “You’ve made a few questionable decisions, Leonid. You’re a brilliant businessman. You will rise from the ashes.”
“As you did.” Aristov flicked him a sideways glance. “My gut tells me this deal is not about Siberius, Harrison. It’s about Anton Markovic and your desire to make him pay. The crowning act of your ascension back to glory.”
Alarm rocketed through him. How could the Russian know? It was impossible. Impossible. But somehow, his mind raggedly conceded, he did.
He kept his face expressionless. “Why would you think this has anything to do with Markovic? That’s ancient history.”
Aristov turned to him, pinning him with the full force of that whiskey-hard gaze. “Because Markovic has become one of the most powerful men in the world. He put your father in his grave...I would want him to suffer.” His lips twisted at the confusion in Harrison’s eyes. “A few questions to a friend in Mergers and Acquisitions at a major investment bank and I had my answers. I know you’ve purchased another key supplier of Markovic’s. I put two and two together.”
A red mist descended over his vision, fury mixing with a fear that froze him solid. Heads would roll if it was discovered a banker had divulged that type of information. But that didn’t matter now... He had a way bigger problem. Leonid and Anton Markovic did business together. If Leonid chose to, he could blow his entire plan out of the water.
Why hadn’t he done so already?
“I can’t stand Markovic.” Leonid answered his unspoken question. “Yes, I do business with him but you can’t always pick your dance partners. My issue,” he drawled, “is not what you choose to do to Markovic. I would take pleasure in watching him fall. It’s Siberius and your ultimate plans for it I care about.”
Relief poured through him, slackening his limbs. He lifted his shoulder in a casual shrug. “It becomes a complementary subsidiary to Taladan that gives Grant International access to the markets we need.”
“Or it becomes extraneous. Superfluous...nonexistent.” Aristov’s gaze narrowed. “The market coverage Siberius brings to the table is not robust beyond the Slavic countries. You may choose to simply fold it into your megalith and it becomes a distant memory.”
He kept his expression neutral as Aristov read the situation with deadly accuracy. “That market,” he offered, “will become crucial in the next decade. We can’t afford not to play in it.”