I sold everything I had to pay for an attorney, including art pieces I’d never intended to, even what up to that point I considered my masterpiece. It was just enough to afford a lawyer who was sufficient. There wasn’t enough evidence for a slam-dunk conviction if it went to trial, my lawyer said. The district attorney wasn’t willing to risk it. They wanted guaranteed time and offered me a plea deal.

Manslaughter. Four years for taking another’s life.

Four years for killing a monster who was already dead.

I was out on parole after two. The Petrovs told me it wasn’t enough time, but I knew I’d gotten more than I deserved. Sidor only died once. I died every night in confinement for two long years.

The whole time I was incarcerated, I’d expected my late husband’s family to send someone to kill me, but it didn’t happen. Perhaps Sergey was begrudgingly grateful for the mercy I’d given his family, freeing them of Sidor with none of the guilt. Or perhaps Sergey’s war with the Serbians had escalated so much he didn’t have time to come after me. Either way, he was willing to let me walk away. I’d petitioned my parole officer to move, and it had been granted. Sunny California was as far away from the Petrovs and Volograd as I could get.

Rafferty’s frustrated sigh echoed in his studio and bounced off my broken sculpture. “That was uncalled for. I’m sorry. I’m upset this very beautiful piece is damaged.”

His voice was . . . strange. Was I narcissistic to wonder if he was really talking about me? My gaze traced the lines flowing in the wood below my feet while I tried to find a response. Everything was easier when I could pretend the last decade hadn’t occurred.

“Look at me, Ms. Petrov.”

I wanted to change my name but couldn’t. I’d established it years ago with a big, splashy installation in Chicago that had put my mark on the art community.

His demanding tone lit a fire in my belly, and I cast my attention back to him. The bright yellow of the broken petal peeked out between his tanned fingers. Was he aware he was holding a piece of me? In fact, he held all of me hostage when he took possession of my sculpture.

“Are you going to tell me what you need to fix it, or should I call Garcia Gallery?”

“Please,” I said, faltering. “You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“Don’t insult me further. I understand the piece. I bought the damn thing.” He went to the table and gingerly set the broken shards down. I felt an unexpected sensation of loss, like he’d severed a connection.

“It’s raw and brutal in its beauty,” he continued, placing his hands on his tapered waist, showing off his powerful, muscular arms. He stated it as a widely known fact. “It’s your best work.”

“Thank you.” He made me feel off-balance, and it became worse as he approached.

“You and I both know you have no options here.”

And I didn’t. There was no way to win. The space between us was too small, and his azure eyes were claustrophobic.

“I won’t repair it only so you can destroy it.”

“Excuse me?” Anger swelled in his expression.

When I subtly shifted backward, he stepped forward, bringing us chest to chest. His hot breath rolled over my face.

“I know what you are, Mr. Rafferty. You prey on other artists’ work.”

“I remember that I asked you not to insult me.”

When he grasped my arm, my body went into panic mode, but his expression wasn’t threatening. His touch against my skin was a faint electrical shock, and the hairs on my arm leapt to attention.

His voice was firm, not angry. “You don’t know me, just like I don’t know you. So, stop presuming my reputation or things from my past make up who I am today, and you know what? I’ll do the same for you.”

And then he released me and stepped back.

I stared at him with shock, not from his reaction or my response to him, but from his words. It was exactly what I wanted from the art community. I’d made a terrible mistake and atoned for it, both legally and otherwise. Perhaps . . . not completely. I’d atoned for most of it.

Did Luke Rafferty see some of himself in my sculpture? Was it his new beginning as much as it was mine?

He smoothed a hand over his clean-shaven face as if considering something. “Let’s try this again.” He extended a hand. “I’m Luke. Just Luke.”

Was it possible it could be that easy to hit the reset button? I swallowed thickly. “I’m Nikita.”

It was another zap to my system when he clasped my hand in his firm handshake, only this jolt was a million times stronger. He was a live wire. Electricity poured through the connection of our palms. The spark was too powerful to ignore, as much as I was desperate to.

Tags: Nikki Sloane Sordid Erotic
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