Page 7 of Stalk Me

Her palm connects with my chest, pushing me back. “Long enough for you to either sign the contract or leave my gallery.”

Her resistance thrills me. Lesser women break or bargain, but Sofia meets the threat head-on—magnificent in her defiance, those remarkable eyes blazing with challenge.

I capture her wrist in my grip, not tight enough to hurt. “Careful,malishka. That fire in you is intoxicating, but don’t forget who you’re dealing with.”

I press her back against the antique desk, feeling victory in each rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my thumb. Those green-gold eyes go molten as I claim the space around her, her careful breathing fracturing.

“You think you’re in control here?” I thread my fingers through the hair at her nape, tugging gently. “Look how your body responds to me. The way you lean into my touch even as you pretend to fight it.”

For one exquisite moment, her carefully constructed walls shatter. Those golden-green eyes fall shut, her body betraying her as she surrenders to my touch with a sound that makes my blood burn.

“That’s it,” I murmur. “You need a man strong enough to handle that fire and care for you properly.”

That delicious submission vanishes instantly. She twists out of my grip with surprising strength.

“Take care of me?” Her voice drips with ice. “I’ve taken care of myself my entire adult life. I don’t need a man for anything, Mr. Ivanov, least of all you.”

She straightens her blazer, steel returning to her spine. “I don’t mix business with pleasure. This meeting is over. My gallery staff will deliver the Degas to your office by five once funds have cleared.” She gestures to the door. “I trust you can find your way out.”

I stride from the gallery, smiling. Her defiance only feeds the hunger growing inside me. Sheltered behind dark glass, I watch her gallery recede as Viktor guides the Mercedes into evening traffic.

“Her address.”

Viktor hands me a folder without comment. He’s a smart man. The dossier contains everything—the building layout, security details, and her daily schedule. Fifteen minutes later, we park in an alley behind her brownstone.

The lock yields in seconds to my picks, which proves amateur security, considering it will hold such valuable art inside. Herperfume lingers here, that intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that haunted me at the gallery. Like its owner, the space presents an artfully curated facade—sophisticated surfaces concealing darker undertones.

I explore her apartment like a ghost, noting the careful arrangement of furniture and the original artwork adorning the walls. A half-empty coffee cup sits on her kitchen counter. Still warm. She’d rushed out this morning.

The cameras are tiny and virtually undetectable. I place them strategically—in the living room, kitchen, and bedroom—each one offering a different view of her private world. The master bedroom draws me in. Her silk robe drapes across the foot of the bed. A book—Dostoyevsky in the original Russian—is on the nightstand. Interesting.

I open her closet, running my fingers along the row of designer dresses. The fabric whispers against my skin. Her scent is stronger here. I imagine her standing before this mirror, preparing for her day, unaware of my presence in her space.

The final camera goes above her vanity, angled perfectly to capture her morning routine. I test the feed to find it crystal clear. Every moment of her private life is now accessible at my fingertips.

I make one final circuit, ensuring everything is as I found it—almost. I adjust a small sculpture on Sofia’s bedside table—just enough that she might notice and wonder.

The lock clicks softly behind me as I leave. Inside my pocket, my phone displays multiple camera feeds of her empty apartment. Now, I wait.

4

SOFIA

Ismooth down my black vintage Dior gown, scanning the glittering crowd at the Four Seasons’ annual charity gala. My skin prickles with awareness, searching for a tall figure with steel-gray eyes before I catch myself. Damn him. Three days of obsessing over Nikolai Ivanov’s arrogant presumption is too many.

A flash of red lips catches my eye, and relief floods me. Tash stands by a marble column, champagne in hand, looking every inch like the society queen in red Chanel.

“There’s my favorite art snob.” Her knowing smirk widens as I approach. “You look positively haunted, darling.”

“I need alcohol. Lots of it.” I snag a flute from a passing waiter.

“Mmm. Would this have anything to do with a certain Russian asking about you?”

I choke on my champagne. “He what?”

“Oh, please.” Tash links her arm through mine, steering us toward a quieter corner. “I’ve known you since Columbia. You only get that particular scowl when someone’s gotten under your skin. Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill. Mr. Ivanov is just a client who doesn’t understand boundaries.”

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