Page 5 of Crystal Wrath
Her smile is small but genuine. “Bold assumption.”
Nevertheless, she takes my hand and allows me to lead her to the dance floor. Her movements are fluid and graceful. When I place my hand on the small of her back, I feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress.
“You’re very good at this,” I say as we move across the floor. “The dancing, the conversation, the entire charade.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she recovers quickly. “I’ve had practice.”
“At dancing or lying?”
“Both serve their purpose,” she replies, her voice low, meant only for me.
I pull her closer, my hand firm against her back. The music changes, slowing to a more intimate tone. Around us, couples press closer together, swaying rather than dancing. I adjust mygrip, drawing her against me until I can feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine.
“You haven’t answered my question,” I whisper, my lips close to her ear. “What are you looking for here?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was looking for you?”
Her admission surprises me. “Why would Natalia Petrova be looking for me?”
She pulls back slightly, meeting my gaze. “Perhaps Natalia has interests that align with yours.”
“And what interests would those be?”
“Property development along the coast.” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Specifically, about the Little Havana properties.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. She’s fishing for information about my business dealings.
“I’ve read that you sponsor city beautification projects and donate to environmental causes, helping preserve Miami's coastal beauty.”
“That is correct,” I reply, spinning her slowly under my arm before pulling her back against me. “My objective is to revitalize Miami's urban landscape.”
“Even when that change means people lose their homes?”
There it is. A flash of something genuine. Anger, perhaps, or moral outrage. It's not the reaction of someone looking to invest in property.
“Business is business,” I state, spinning her again slowly. “The strong survive. The weak adapt or disappear.”
“Is that the Rostov philosophy?”
“It’s the way of the world.”
She shakes her head slightly. “Not everyone sees it that way.”
“Those people don’t last long in this world.”
Her body tenses against mine. Fear? Anger? I can’t tell. But I feel the shift in her energy, the subtle resistance in her frame.
“And what about your world, Natalia?” I ask, my voice low. “What philosophies guide the daughter of Alexander Petrova?”
She falters for just a moment, her step missing the beat. Most people wouldn’t notice, but I feel it. A crack in her facade.
“Survival,” she answers finally. “Just like everyone else.”
I spin her again, using the movement to scan the room. David watches us from the table, his expression one of concern. Sergey stands near the exit, hands clasped in front of him, eyes continuously moving. The security detail I insisted on, despite Marcelli’s protests, is positioned strategically around the perimeter.
When I pull her back to me, I hold her closer than before. “Who are you working for?”
Her eyes widen with practiced innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”
