Page 6 of Stalk Me

She takes a half-step back, bumping into the display case. “The Degas is in our private viewing room.”

I follow as she leads the way, noting how her fingers fidget with her sleeve. The viewing room is intimate—perhaps fifteen feet square, with track lighting that casts pools of warmth on the artwork.

“The piece shows remarkable detail in the musculature.” My hand settles on her lower back as we examine the sketch. “Notice how he captured the tension in her calves.”

“The technical precision is—” She breaks off as my fingers brush the back of her neck.

“Continue your analysis.” I lean closer. “You were saying something about precision?”

“The lines demonstrate his understanding of movement.” She tries to maintain composure as I trace where the fabric meets skin, but that hitched breath betrays her. “The dancer’s pose suggests both strength and vulnerability.”

“Much like you,malishka.” I turn her slightly, positioning her between the artwork and my body. “Explain the medium he used.”

I brush her hair aside. “Charcoal and chalk, with traces of graphite for definition.”

“Fascinating, and the asking price?”

“Three-fifty.” Her voice wavers as my thumb presses her pulse point.

“Done.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “You don’t want to negotiate?”

“I negotiate when necessary.” I trail my fingers down her arm. “The piece is worth every penny. Though I admit, the artwork wasn’t my only motivation for this visit.”

She shivers under my touch but doesn’t pull away. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—a nervous tell I file away for future reference.

“The paperwork,” she starts, then pauses as I step closer. “I should get the paperwork.”

“Of course.” But I don’t move back. “Your gallery has a reputation for authenticity. I trust your verification process is thorough?”

“Very.” She straightens her spine, professional pride momentarily overriding her nervousness. “We use the latest spectroscopic analysis, and I personally trace the provenance of each major piece.”

“Impressive.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, watching her eyes flutter shut at the contact. “I appreciate the attention to detail.”

Her breathing shifts from calm to ragged. “The contract is in my office.”

“Lead the way.” I step back enough to let her pass, noting how she steadies herself against the wall before moving.

The Degas is exquisite—the subtle play of light and shadow, the raw energy captured in simple lines. But watching Sofia’s hands tremble as she extends her hand toward the office door—that’s the true masterpiece of this transaction.

I follow her into her office, which is barely large enough for her desk and two chairs. The walls showcase smaller pieces—likely her personal collection. Her perfume fills the confined space, making my blood heat.

She moves behind her desk. “I’ll prepare the contract.” Her fingers tap efficiently on her keyboard.

I circle the desk, pretending to examine a small impressionist piece on her wall. “The light in here doesn’t do justice to the colors.”

“Mr. Ivanov.” Her voice carries a sharp edge as I step closer. “I’d appreciate maintaining professional boundaries.”

I pause, studying her profile. There’s that steel I glimpsed before. “You seemed less concerned about boundaries in the viewing room.”

“A momentary lapse in judgment.” She lifts her chin, meeting my stare with practiced authority. “One that won’t be repeated.”

My fingers curve possessively over her shoulder. “Are you certain about that?”

She stands abruptly, forcing my hand to drop. “Yes. If you’d like to proceed with the purchase, I need you to sign here.”She points to the contract with a steady finger. “If not, I have other appointments.”

“Feisty. I wonder how long you’ll maintain this professional facade.”

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