Page 42 of Shatter Me

I launch into the technical details, pushing all thoughts of ice-blue eyes and dangerous promises from my mind. I have a job to do, and I’m damn good at it. Dmitri and whatever game he’s playing can wait.

17

DMITRI

Icheck my Rolex again, noting it is eight minutes past our reservation. The maître d' hovers nearby, ready to escort me to the private dining room I've reserved at L'Artisan, but I wave him off.

My phone buzzes. A text from Akim confirms he picked up Tash fifteen minutes ago. Traffic on Fifth Avenue. I drum my fingers on the polished marble counter of the bar, taking another sip of scotch.

The restaurant's crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow across the intimate space, perfect lighting for what I had planned. I adjust my cufflinks—platinum with small sapphires that match my tie. Everything must be perfect tonight.

The door opens, letting in a gust of cool evening air. My breath catches.

Tash glides in wearing a vintage Valentino jumpsuit in deep emerald silk, the fabric clinging to every curve before flowing into wide-leg pants. The plunging neckline showcases a delicate gold body chain that disappears beneath the silk. Her dark hair is swept up, exposing the graceful curve of her neck and a pair of art deco emerald earrings I've never seen before.

But the back of the jumpsuit steals my ability to form words—it is completely open to her waist, crossed only by thin gold chains that match the one in front. The silk drapes perfectly from her hips, making her legs look endless.

She spots me at the bar, and those brown eyes lock with mine. A slight smile plays at her red lips as she approaches.

"Sorry I'm late." Her voice is low, meant only for me. "Traffic was terrible."

I still haven't found my voice. In all our encounters, I've never been struck speechless. But seeing her like this, confident, stunning, and completely unique, it takes me a moment to remember how to breathe.

The maître d' appears. "Your table is ready, Mr. Ivanov."

I clear my throat. "You look..." I trail off, unable to find words adequate enough.

Her smile widens slightly. She knows exactly what she's done to me.

I guide Tash to our private dining room, hovering at the small of her back without touching the exposed skin. The waiter pulls out her chair, and I catch the subtle scent of her perfume as she sits.

"I assume you've already ordered the wine." She picks up the menu, but her eyes find mine over the top. "Something obscenely expensive to match your ego."

"A 2005 Château Margaux." I lean back, studying her. "Unless you'd prefer something else?"

"Perfect choice. Though I'm surprised you didn't go with Russian."

"I save that for special occasions." I let my gaze trail down to where the gold chain disappears beneath the silk. "When I want to savor something... properly."

The waiter appears with the wine, and I watch as she takes her first sip. Her eyes close briefly in appreciation.

"At least your taste in wine makes up for your personality," she murmurs.

"You weren't complaining about my personality the other night in your office."

A slight flush colors her cheeks. "That was a moment of temporary insanity."

"Is that right?" I reach across the table, running my finger along the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch. "Because I remember you being very... vocal about what you wanted."

She doesn't pull away. Instead, her foot slides against my ankle under the table. "I remember you being the one who couldn't wait to lock the door."

The waiter returns to take our order, and I'm forced to release her wrist. But her foot remains pressed against my leg, a constant reminder of the electricity between us.

When we're alone again, I lean forward. "Tell me about the earrings. They're new."

"My grandmother's. Art Deco, from Paris." Her hand reaches up to touch one, and the movement causes the chains across her back to shift. "I never wear them."

"Why tonight?"

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