Page 38 of Dangerous Passion

Her instincts told her he would accept whatever she did. Whether she slapped him or caressed him, he would accept it.

Her hand lowered over his and again she was shocked at the warmth emanating from his skin.

“It’s okay,” she said, hand curling over his. “Poor Harold got really exasperated with me because I wasn’t as ambitious as he was. I mean, I am ambitious, but my real goal is simply to live from my art, not to be famous. I don’t really do well in society, anyway. But he had this dream that I would be this new—I don’t know, Andy Warhol or even Picasso. Someone known even outside art circles. Like some kind of celebrity.”

Grace couldn’t suppress a shudder at the thought. She’d once been part of a collective show of ten artists, one of whom was a rich heiress, famous for a sex tape with a well-known movie star that had taken over ten million hits on the internet. The paparazzi outside the gallery had been like a swarm of angry bees, light bulbs flashing aggressively in their faces. Grace could still feel the press of sweaty bodies, the anxiety and then panic she’d felt as she tried to push her way through. When she finally made it into her apartment, she’d been shaking and sweating, with a massive headache from the light bulbs.

No, celebrity was not her thing.

“That’s not for you,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

“No. Definitely not. So I was more than happy to have someone buying all my stuff, even though it made Haroldunhappy to have it hidden away. But I remember thinking … thinking that I’d like to talk to the person who was buying my work. Find out what he or she thought. What pieces they liked best. What worked, what didn’t. Except the lawyer sort of hinted that his client lived abroad.”

“That’s exactly what my lawyer was told to say. And to tell you the truth, he doesn’t know where I live. We communicate by email and I send money from London.”

He’d gone to such enormous trouble to remain anonymous. “So … you weren’t ever going to stop by to have a chat, were you?”

His hand flexed under hers. “No.”

“I—I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. I’m in a dangerous business and I have dangerous enemies. Anything I care about would be considered a point of attack. If anyone knew I loved your work, they’d use that knowledge against me. So I bought them anonymously. I shouldn’t have. But I did. Your work means a great deal to me and I simply couldn’t renounce having it. I simply couldn’t. Every painting, every drawing speaks to me. And I was selfish enough to want them for myself. And now, because of my weakness, I have placed you in jeopardy.”

“You need to straighten this mess out,” she said. She looked around her, at the magnificent room that managed to be both exquisitely beautiful and amazingly comfortable at the same time. Something very few homes in New York ever managed. “I mean, it’s nice here, but I can’t stay here forever.”

He shook his head, something weary beyond words in the gesture. “I can’t make it go away, Grace,” he said quietly. “Not immediately. And words cannot express how sorry I am about that.”

He was. It was there, written in every harsh, exhausted line of that strong face. His face was so fascinating. She studied him openly and he let her. Grace was always curious about faces, about what they said of a person and what they hid. Particularly lived-in faces like his, which spoke of hardship and power and authority. Whoever he was, he’d lived through harsh times and prevailed.

“I’m not too sure you should be beating yourself up for something that you didn’t do. I mean, you didn’t invite those men to attack you, did you? It’s not your fault.”

“You’re wrong.” He closed his eyes wearily. “In a very real sense, it is my fault. I should have arranged for a discreet purchase of an oil or two, a drawing here and there.” He opened them again suddenly, his gaze as direct and fierce as a falcon’s. “But I was greedy, I wanted them all, everything you ever produced, would ever produce. And now you’re paying the consequences.”

The regret on his face, in his voice, pierced her. Most people evaded responsibility even when it rested squarely on their shoulders. This man was clearly used to bearing heavy burdens and not foisting them off on anyone else.

He also looked utterly exhausted. Underneath his naturally olive complexion, he was pale, and it seemed to her that the grooves bracketing his mouth had carved themselves more deeply in the past few hours.

“Do you know, Drake—by the way, is that your first name or last name?”

“Neither. My name is Viktor Drakovich. But I’m known as Drake.”

It was an odd way to phrase it. Most people would saypeople call me Drake.She tilted her head to study him some more. There was something so compelling about his face,with its high cheekbones, strong brow, sensuous mouth. Compelling and … and sort of familiar. Which was crazy, of course. She’d never seen him before in her life and she knew no one like him. Obviously, all these shocks had rattled her brain and that was the source of the dejà vu feelings. Even his voice—incredibly deep and with a hint of an accent which she couldn’t place—sank deep into her bones as if she’d heard him a thousand times before.

“Where are you from?”

He gave a frosty smile. “I have no idea.” He held his hand up when she recoiled. “That’s not—what would you call it? An answer that’s not serious?” Deep grooves etched between his eyebrows. His accent was becoming stronger.

“A flip answer?” she suggested.

“Precisely. It’s not a flip answer. I don’t know where I was born. My first memory is of being a street rat in Odessa, running with a pack of what you’d call hoodlums here. But someone said something about me coming from Tajikistan.” He shrugged. “I grew up speaking a mongrel mixture of Russian, Tajik and Ukrainian. Took me years to straighten the languages out.”

He was trying to frighten her. No, not frighten. His body language was clearly protective, not aggressive. He was trying, for some reason, to put himself in a bad light.

“Well, Drake, let me tell you, I’m finding it really hard to be that angry with someone who made the mistake of loving my paintings too much.”

A huge log crumbled into the fire with a crash and flurry of sparks. The fire was dying, consuming itself. She knew just how it felt. Before she could stop herself, a huge yawn bubbled its way to the surface.

“Sorry.” Her eyes felt heavy. She could feel her neck musclesweighing on her shoulders. It took an effort to keep straight and upright.

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