Page 3 of Crystal Wrath
“Natalia,” I answer smoothly, the lie rolling off my tongue like honey. “Natalia Petrova.”
He pauses, letting the name linger between us. I can see him processing the information, comparing it to whatever knowledge he possesses about the real Natalia, calculating possibilities and probabilities with the speed of someone accustomed to making life-or-death decisions in seconds.
A single glimmer dances in his eyes. Suspicion? Recognition? Knowledge that I’m walking a tightrope over an abyss? He doesn’t call me out or expose the lie, but I have the distinct feeling that he’s choosing not to rather than being fooled by my performance.
“Interesting,” he murmurs, the word laden with layers of meaning I can’t decipher.
And then he offers his hand.
“I’m Renat Rostov.”
The name hits me like a shot of good vodka, burning down my throat and spreading fire through my veins. I know it. Everyone in Miami knows it, even if they pretend not to. The developer, the philanthropist, the enigma. The man whose real estate empire has grown out of nowhere like a dark flower blooming in poisoned soil.
I take his hand anyway because to hesitate would be to reveal everything. Because Natalia Petrova, whoever she really is,wouldn’t hesitate. Sometimes, you have to walk directly into danger to find the truth hiding in its shadow.
His grip is warm, firm, and lethal.
And I don’t let go.
2
RENAT
I take her hand and hold it longer than I need to. Her skin is warm, her grip steady.
She isn’t Natalia Petrova. Not even close.
I’ve known the real Natalia since she was fifteen. She’s an heiress with a Cartier trust fund and a cocaine habit inherited from her father’s mistress. She wouldn’t be caught dead at a gala like this without a dozen handlers and a bored scowl on her face. And she sure as hell wouldn’t walk in alone.
But this woman? She acts like she belongs here. Her posture, her polish, the smile trained to hit just the right pitch of detached charm. It’s all too deliberate and self-possessed. Natalia Petrova toys with rebellion. This woman appears to have fought her way through it to stand here.
I watched her from the edge of the crowd, sipping slowly at a flute of champagne. She stood at the entrance, speaking with the woman who had the guest list. When I heard her say the name Natalia Petrova, my curiosity spiked.
“Natalia Petrova,” she said, her tone level. Not too practiced, but confident.
The woman checking the guest list hesitated but didn’t question it. She murmured a polite, “Of course, Miss Petrova,” and made a quick note beside the forged identity.
All eyes turned to her as she stepped across the threshold into the private reception room. She’s temptation tailored in black silk. The gown skims her hips like it’s been poured over her curves. She’s so beautiful she can make a man forget how to speak. Her hair is long and dark, cascading over one shoulder in soft natural waves. Her golden olive skin shimmers faintly beneath the chandeliers. Her profile is sharp and elegant, but there’s something raw in the way she moves, as if she hasn’t always been in places like this, but she’s learning quickly.
She isn’t here to flirt or to be seen. She’s here for something else, and I intend to find out what.
“Come,” I say, offering my arm. “Let’s make this interesting.”
There’s a pause, a sliver of indecision, but she takes it. Her fingers curl around my forearm, light but certain.
The pressure of her touch ignites something primal deep inside me. I haven’t felt it in a long time, not since Moscow, and certainly not since arriving in Miami when I was twenty-one. It’s been nine years of predictable women in this city. They want my money, my connections, or the thrill of bedding a man with my reputation. They bore me within minutes.
This one is different. Her eyes hold secrets, and beneath that sleek black dress is a woman playing a dangerous game. My kind of game.
I lead her through the crowd to my table. Sergey and David are already seated, along with a few rotating faces from the local power circuit. A real estate baron, a plastic surgeon who owes me a favor, a city commissioner who knows better than to speak unless spoken to, and all of them are curious as hell when I show up with a woman on my arm.
I don’t introduce her. Let them wonder.
Sergey raises an eyebrow, his scar pulling his left eye into a permanent squint. The jagged line across his face is a souvenir from his days as my father’s enforcer in Saint Petersburg. Now, he is my second-in-command in Miami, and very little surprises him anymore except, apparently, me walking in with a beautiful fraud.
“Renat,” he says, his voice thick with a Russian accent. “Your guest looks thirsty.”
The fake Natalia gives him a cool smile. “I’m fine, thank you.”
