He shook his head, something weary beyond words in the gesture. “I can’t make it go away, Grace,” he said quietly. “Not immediately. And words cannot express how sorry I am about that.”
He was. It was there, written in every harsh, exhausted line of that strong face. His face was so fascinating. She studied him openly and he let her. Grace was always curious about faces, about what they said of a person and what they hid. Particularly lived-in faces like his, which spoke of hardship and power and authority. Whoever he was, he’d lived through harsh times and prevailed.
“I’m not too sure you should be beating yourself up for something that you didn’t do. I mean, you didn’t invite those men to attack you, did you? It’s not your fault.”
“You’re wrong.” He closed his eyes wearily. “In a very real sense, it is my fault. I should have arranged for a discreet purchase of an oil or two, a drawing here and there.” He opened them again suddenly, his gaze as direct and fierce as a falcon’s. “But I was greedy, I wanted them all, everything you ever produced, would ever produce. And now you’re paying the consequences.”
The regret on his face, in his voice, pierced her. Most people evaded responsibility, even when it rested squarely on their shoulders. This man was clearly used to bearing heavy burdens and not foisting them off on anyone else.
He also looked utterly exhausted. Underneath his naturally olive complexion, he was pale, and it seemed to her that the grooves bracketing his mouth had carved themselves more deeply in the past few hours.
“Do you know, Drake—by the way, is that your first name or last name?”
“Neither. My name is Viktor Drakovich. But I’m known as Drake.”
It was an odd way to phrase it. Most people would say People call me Drake. She tilted her head to study him some more. There was something so compelling about his face, with its high cheekbones, strong brow, sensuous mouth. Compelling and…and sort of familiar. Which was crazy, of course. She’d never seen him before in her life and she knew no one like him. Obviously, all these shocks had rattled her brain and that was the source of the déjà vu. Even his voice—incredibly deep and with a hint of an accent that she couldn’t place—sank deep into her bones as if she’d heard him a thousand times before.
“Where are you from?”
He gave a frosty smile. “I have no idea.” He held his hand up when she recoiled. “That’s not—what would you call it? An answer that’s not serious?” Deep grooves etched between his eyebrows. His accent was becoming stronger.
“A flip answer?” she suggested.
“Precisely. It’s not a flip answer. I don’t know where I was born. My first memory is of being a street rat in Odessa, running with a pack of what you’d call hoodlums there. But someone said something about me coming from Tajikistan.” He shrugged. “I grew up speaking a mongrel mixture of Russian, Tajik and Ukrainian. Took me years to straighten the languages out.”
He was trying to frighten her. No, not frighten. His body language was clearly protective, not aggressive. He was trying, for some reason, to put himself in a bad light.
“Well, Drake, let me tell you, I’m finding it really hard to be that angry with someone who made the mistake of loving my paintings too much.”
A huge log crumbled into the fire with a crash and flurry of sparks. The fire was dying, consuming itself. She knew just how it felt. Before she could stop herself, a huge yawn bubbled its way to the surface.
“Sorry.” Her eyes felt heavy. She could feel her neck muscles weighing on her shoulders. It took an effort to keep straight and upright.
Drake folded his hand around hers. “You’re tired,” he said. “You need rest after what you went through today. You need to sleep.” In a lithe movement, he was standing and helping her to stand, too. He put a light hand to her back.
His hands were so amazing. Huge and hard and like heaters. The warmth of the hand at her back came through the silk of the gi as if it were a heating pad.
One hand holding hers, the other at her back. For a moment, it was as if she were in his embrace. Grace was utterly shocked that she was tempted to keep going, simply turn into him, feel those incredibly strong arms fold around her. The temptation was so strong that she had to freeze for a moment not to give in to it.
He misunderstood and dropped his hands to his side, stepping back sharply.
How crazy. She felt…bereft. Already missing his hands on her, the heat of them soaking into her, the feeling of being surrounded by his immense strength.
“Come,” he said. “You must be exhausted.” He turned and motioned toward the door. They walked silently down the immense corridor until he stopped outside the bedroom door, opening it and gesturing for her to enter. “I never have guests, so I am afraid there is just the one bed. I’ll sleep on a couch.”
Grace stiffened. “You most certainly will not sleep on a couch in your own home. If anyone sleeps on a couch, it will be me. I’d like to remind you that you’ve been shot, in case you’ve forgotten.”
A wintry smile. “No, I haven’t forgotten. But it is unthinkable that you sleep on a couch. I absolutely cannot permit it. You’ll find a pair of pajamas on the bed and—”
“Drake.” Grace stepped a little closer, looking up into his eyes. Dark-ringed, weary eyes. “Don’t even think of it. I am not about to make a wounded man sleep on a couch, and that’s final.” She pointed at the bed, large enough to plant corn on. “If you insist, that bed is big enough for both of us, with a football team in the middle.”
He sagged a little in relief, caught himself. His deep brown eyes turned almost liquid. “You—you trust me? I swear you’ll be safe, I swear on my honor.”
She believed him, utterly and completely. He’d done nothing but protect her since that horrible moment outside the gallery, when he’d been willing to disarm himself for her.
She looked at him, at the immense strength and power of him. They were in his home, which was essentially a fortress, surrounded by his men, who were obviously trained bodyguards and armed to boot. He had shown himself capable of violence. Violence so expert it was almost surgical in its precision. And yet Grace felt absolutely no fear. She felt shock and sadness and exhaustion, but no fear.
She wasn’t stupid. A single woman living in the city learned fast how to read situations. She’d bought all the books, had taken self-defense courses—not that anything she could do could withstand the power of this man if she was wrong.
But her instincts were sound. She trusted them.
“I think that if you meant me any harm, Drake, I’d be hurt by now,” she said softly.
“Oh God. Never.” Swallowing heavily, he picked her hand up and brought it to his lips. “I can’t bear the thought of you hurt or frightened. Today was a nightmare for me. Please, don’t fear me or anyone who works for me. You’re as safe as I can possibly make you. So put on those pajamas and have yourself a good night’s rest.”
Midnight-blue pajamas, brand new and of a heavy silk by the feel of them, lay at the foot of the bed. In the bathroom, Grace changed, turning up the sleeves and pants cuffs a couple of times. She switched off the bathroom light and, feeling shy, walked back into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her.
She walked toward the bed and then simply stopped, the artist in her rising up and crowding out the scared, exhausted, stressed woman.
The deep green curtains had been closed, shutting out the diamond-bright skyline. All the lights had been turned off, the only light a warm glow coming from the dying embers of the fire.
One side of the bed had been turned down, the smooth sheets unbearably inviting. True to his word, Drake lay on the other side of the bed, so close to the edge he would fall off if he turned in his sleep. There would be at least six feet between them. To reassure her further, he hadn’t gotten between the sheets, but rather was lying on top of the emerald-green comforter, covered by a rich, thick fur blanket, looking like something out of a Russian novel.