“Not tonight.”
“Maybe not,” I conceded.
“I asked you to tell me what you needed. You agreed to.”
Where to start? “You really want to do this?”
“Yes.”
Here goes . . . “When you bailed the day after the club, I would’ve expected you to leave a note or a text. To reassure me.”
“Of what? There can be no doubt of how I felt after that night.”
“It would’ve been nice to receive any acknowledgment.”
Drum drum drum. “Very well. And . . . ?”
“I want to know where you go every day.”
“I have business concerns that I’m able to address from here.”
“Syndicate business with that Maksim guy?” I asked. When he nodded, I said, “I know he gave you information about Berezka. I know you talk to him as much as I do Jess. Who is he to you?”
“Nothing more than a temporary ally. He’s assisting me with work obstacles I’ve run into.”
Again, I got the impression that Sevastyan was shielding me. Plausible deniability?
“What else is bothering you?” Drum drum.
“I can’t stay cooped up and alone in the town house any more.”
“Which is one of the reasons I’m taking you out tonight.”
I glared. “How much longer will we stay here? I’m used to being around people, talking and laughing. I’m used to having goals and working toward them. I need an end date; this indefinite shit doesn’t work for me.”
“We’ll return to Russia at the beginning of next week. Things will be different there, Natalie.”
Why did I have the sinking suspicion that I’d be hearing that line a lot? “How?”
“You’ll meet new friends. Your days will be full, and I’ll feel more confident in your safety. For now, I need you to be patient.”
I inwardly grumbled. I supposed I could make it another couple of days. . . .
When the limo slowed, I asked, “Are we there?” My voice sounded ridiculously expectant; curiosity killed the Nat.
Sevastyan drew a silk cloth from his jacket pocket. “As I said, it’s a surprise.”
“Fine.” I let him blindfold me. Once we’d parked, he helped me outside into the blustery night.
As he guided me up a flight of concrete stairs, I asked, “Oh, so we’re going aboveground this time?” Snark.
“I wouldn’t get used to it,” he snarked back.
We crossed a threshold into a warm interior. Aside from the echo of my heels, it was quiet inside.
When he removed my blindfold, I blinked my eyes, adjusting to the soaring area. Recognition hit, and I twirled in place.
We were in the Musée d’Orsay! I’d read all about this museum in my tourist guide, had seen pictures. It was a renovated train station housing galleries of famous French impressionists and other artists of the period.
Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the Rhone, my favorite of them all, was . . . here. It blew my mind that I’d soon be viewing it in person.
I glanced around, saw not another soul. The lights were dimmed.
This was just for us? My irritation from before dissipated to a whisper, and I felt guilty for my impulse to snap his fingers.
In a dry tone, Sevastyan asked, “Is this the tits?”
A laugh burst from me. “It is! You’re redeeming yourself, Siberian. How did you get us in after hours?”
“Called in a favor. This museum’s smaller and more personal than the Louvre, better suited for one night’s exploring. Come.”
One of the first sculptures was of lovely Sappho with her lyre, her expression contemplative. “She composed her poems to be accompanied by the lyre,” I said. “You could say she’s the first lady of lyrics.”
The autodidact looked impressed. “You know ancient Greek poetry?”
“You don’t study the history of sexuality without getting to know Sappho.” Natalie Porter, history student. Did that designation even fit any longer?
Maybe I should take Paxán’s advice and travel the world, living out my dreams. With the man beside me . . . ?
As Sevastyan and I strolled on, passing one wondrous statue after another, I sneaked glances up at him. Though he’d pulled off this museum coup, he seemed a little less confident than his usual proud self.
I recalled his attentive expression when he’d washed my hair, how badly he’d wanted to get it right. He looked the same tonight, as if it was critical to impress me.
In fact, he was gauging my reactions more than he was admiring the exhibits. Just as he’d watched my face—instead of an orgy.
“You’re not interested in art?” I asked.
“I’m more fascinated by how you respond to it.”
Irresistible Siberian. When he made comments like this, how could I stay mad at him?
One of the last exhibits on the ground floor was Woman Bitten by a Snake, a life-size sculpture of a female writhing naked across a bed of flowers. Her body was voluptuous, her curves on display for eternity.
Even in the midst of such a sensual sight, I could feel Sevastyan’s burning gaze on me. When I peered up at him, his eyes darkened, letting me know whose curves he wanted to see for eternity.
I’d gotten accustomed to that sensual look of his—in bed, in the shower, in a sex club. But in a museum, I grew kind of flustered. Like I’d been when I’d first tried to pick him up.
I girlishly tucked my hair behind my ear—uh, can I buy you a drink?—and moved on. We climbed the stairs in silence, each lost in thought.
But on the second floor, I hastened past other masterpieces without due reverence to get to Starry Night. And then . . .
There it was. Right in front of me. “I can’t believe I’m looking at it.”
He remained silent by my side, allowing me take it in.
The copies I’d seen had never conveyed the elaborate texture of the piece, the exaggerated brush strokes. Those gaslight reflections over the water were bold daubs. Each star was a cluster of deftly layered paint, creating height from the canvas.
I blinked up at him, having no idea how much time had passed. With a blush, I explained, “It’s my favorite of the era.”
“Why this one?”
“The boats, the lights over water . . . this scene is a world away from the fields of home, from all I’d ever known. I’d never seen these kinds of blues in the Corn Belt. For a girl like me, the colors were exotic, calling to me.” Not to mention that I’d secretly sighed over the two lovers in the foreground, sharing such a night.