Page 4 of Crystal Wrath
David leans forward, all slick charm and expensive cologne. Unlike Sergey, who wears his Russian heritage like armor, David is American-born and Harvard-educated, handling the legitimate side of my business empire. His suits are tailored in London, his manner impeccable, and his conscience flexible enough to work for me.
“We haven’t had the pleasure,” David says, extending his hand. “David Michaels, CFO of Rostov Developments.”
She shakes his hand with practiced grace. “Natalia Petrova.”
The lie rolls off her tongue so smoothly I almost believe it myself. Almost.
She sits gracefully, crossing one leg over the other, the slit in her dress parting just enough to show a toned calf and the edge of her thigh. Not flashy. Not careless. Just enough to make a man lose his focus.
I watch her closely, noting how she holds herself. Her posture is perfect, with her shoulders back and a slightly raised chin. But there’s tension in her jaw, and her eyes never stop assessing and cataloging. Those aren’t the mannerisms of a trust fund baby. They’re the habits of someone who survives by staying alert.
The city commissioner leans toward her, all teeth and political charm. “Miss Petrova, what brings you to Miami? Business or pleasure?”
“A bit of both,” she replies, her voice smooth as silk. “Miami has opportunities that interest me.”
“And what opportunities might those be?” I ask, watching her reaction.
Her eyes meet mine, unflinching. “Real estate, primarily. I’ve been told waterfront property is the smartest investment in a city that’s slowly sinking.”
The plastic surgeon chuckles. “Grim outlook for a beautiful woman.”
“Beauty doesn’t change facts,” she replies, taking a sip of champagne.
Around us, the table buzzes with low conversation and veiled compliments. David tries to get her to talk. He inquires about her family, background, and time in Moscow.
She dodges like a pro. Says just enough to seem polished but not enough to be traced. I listen carefully, noting what she doesn’tsay more than what she does. She’s playing a role. But the girl beneath it is sharper than she lets on. And something about that makes my blood run hot.
I signal to a waiter, who brings over a bottle of vodka. Not the commercial stuff they serve at the bar, but my private reserve. Imported from Russia, distilled six times, and cold as a Siberian winter.
“Tell me about your father’s business in Moscow,” I probe, pouring her a glass. “I’ve heard interesting things about Petrova Holdings.”
Her fingers close around the glass. “My father prefers to keep business and pleasure separate. Something I inherited from him.”
“Along with his money?”
“Along with his caution,” she counters, raising the glass to her lips.
She tosses back the vodka like a native Russian without flinching or grimacing. Either she’s used to strong alcohol, or she’s determined not to show weakness. Both possibilities intrigue me.
I lean toward her, keeping my voice low. “Tell me, what exactly are you looking for tonight?”
She turns her head. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Just curiosity.”
She swirls her champagne in the glass. “Let’s say I’m here for the view.”
I look down at her legs, then back up to her face. “So am I.”
She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t move away.
The real Natalia Petrova is in Switzerland. I confirmed it myself just last week when a business associate mentioned seeing her at a clinic in Zurich. The woman beside me is an impostor, but a fascinating one. Most people who lie to me do it out of fear or greed. This woman seems driven by something else entirely.
“Dance with me,” I say, rising from my chair and offering my hand.
She hesitates, calculating the risks. “I wasn’t aware dancing was part of your interrogation technique.”
“It’s not an interrogation if you’re enjoying it.”
