“I have to agree.” Something in Matvei’s voice combined with the hungry look in his eyes makes me feel warm all over. “That one would be for my eyes only, no one else.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. I return to the dressing room and switch it out for the next gown which isn’t any better—a pearl pink number with an enormous flower over the front of the bodice.
“At least I can blend in with the flower arrangements in case I need to hide.” I can’t help myself; humor is my go-to.
“I’m trying to make you stand out, not blend in,” Matvei mumbles, though I don’t miss the way one side of his mouth curls up in appreciation of my quip. “Samson has to notice you for our plan to work. Next dress, please.”
He dismisses the next three gowns, and I have to clamp down on my annoyance even though I secretly agree. The man might be controlling, but he seems to have impeccable taste.
“Don’t you have anything else?” Matvei asks the sales associate.
“Your… friend doesn’t exactly fit our usual client base, Mr.Volkov.” The woman huffs and flicks her dark hair behind her shoulder.
The meaning behind the comment hits me at the same time Matvei’s champagne glass lands with a hardclinkon the table. Both the sales associate and I jump. The amusement is gone from his face, replaced by a hard look that causes me to take a step back.
He addresses the saleswoman. “I would remember her face if I were you, because if I hear you insult this woman again, it will be the last beautiful thing you see.” The words are delivered with an icy calm making them sound even more ominous.
“What if we design a dress for her?” the sales associate suggests with a tremor in her voice. Her eyes are wide with alarm and her hands tremble. She begins edging toward the door. “I’ll go get our head seamstress. I know she’ll be able to come up with something perfect.”
After the sales associate slips out and firmly closes the door, I continue to stare after her, ruminating on her underhandeddig. Usually, I would let those kinds of things slide off my back, but the wound Samson caused is still too fresh, my defenses still cracked.
“None of those dresses suited you because they didn’t properly show off your beauty.”
I jump again when Matvei speaks, realizing he’s right behind me. His wholeloomingthing is getting old. How does someone that big move so quietly?
He places his hands on my waist, his palms sliding over my curves. Heat swirls at his touch. I swallow a whimper when his hand dips lower, right as the door opens again, and who I assume is the head seamstress walks in.
She’s tall and thin and dressed in shades of black and gray, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a bun so tight it seems to pull her mouth into a constant frown. Her hard, dark eyes find me first, but when she sees Matvei, she releases a torrent of Russian. He replies, and the two of them have a conversation in a language I don’t understand.
“Excuse me.” I push myself in between them in frustration. “I’m the one wearing the dress—what are you two talking about?”
“We’re going to try something,” Matvei says.
“Gee, thanks. I thought you were talking about yesterday’s weather,” I reply with an eyeroll, but my annoyance seems to go unnoticed.
The seamstress’s lips thin even more, her gaze raking me up and down, taking in my figure. I don’t see dislike or judgment—she’s thinking, the wheels turning behind those dark eyes. She goes over to a cabinet, digs through it, and pulls out an extended length of powder-blue fabric. Without saying a word, she drapes the fabric around my waist and begins to pin it with pins from the cushion on her wrist. She tucks, gathers, and folds, muttering to herself in Russian the entire time, then does the same around my chest.
I stand there until my legs itch from holding still for so long, gritting my teeth while watching Matvei in the mirror as he “oversees” the process, adding comments in Russian every so often. I’m about to snap at him, my patience wearing thin, when the seamstress steps away to survey her work.
“What do you think?” she asks in heavily accented English. She’s asking me, but she’s seeking Matvei’s approval, as well.
My annoyance melts as I stare at my reflection, speechless at what I see. The woman has worked some kind of magic. I’m swathed in a soft blue gown of perfect folds and drapes, a strapless bodice folded like origami for a sharp, elegant silhouette.
The seamstress is looking at me with a frown when she crosses the room to the cabinet again and pulls out a long, wide, deepnavy ribbon. She ties it around my waist with a sharp bow, the ends trailing nearly to the bottom of the full skirt. Finally, she smiles.
“Dah,” Matvei approves, his gaze fixed on my reflection.
I have to admit, I can’t take my eyes away from myself either. “I guess this is the dress,” I state with a small smile.
“Samson won’t know what hit him,” Matvei says, the fire in his eyes echoing the confidence in his voice.
My smile widens. “No, he won’t.”
8
MATVEI
The city is on the verge of twilight when I step out of the car, the sky streaked with blushes, oranges,and yellows. Samson’s high-rise looms over the street, a sharp-edged monolith of glass and steel. For a moment, I stand on the sidewalk, watching my reflection blur in the tinted windows. Inside, the lights burn cold and bright. Every detail of this building screams control—a fortress designed to keep the world away from the wealthy residents. I square my shoulders, tension coiling in my gut, and push through the revolving door.