Chapter 1
Somehow.
With a smile a brushed my dark hair over my shoulder and slipped out of the bathroom door, well aware of the glances I received from the men in the corridor, all staring appreciatively at my long legs that stuck out from under the impossibly short sequin dress I had donned tonight.
The dancefloor bloomed with crimson light. To my left, my girls, Tess and Amy, sat at the end of a long ultra modern leather couch and swirled champagne glasses while they pointed towards the back of the room and mouthed something — their words, inaudible and uninflected, drowned out by the music.
I let my eyes trace through the room to where they had pointed and finally spotted the object of their fancy: A tall man with dark hair and broad shoulders. He sat on a barstool, the lamplight glinting along the glass in his hand as he looked in my direction – blatantly checking me out.
Exasperated, I turned around to Tess and Amy, but in that moment the fire alarm went off.
People rushed for the exit and I just went with the crowd, walking through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured entrance lobby and then out into the street.
Apparently the fire alarm in the next building had gone off too, because people – just a handful – were streaming out the exit there.
I was pushed the road and suddenly found myself in a building entrance with a handful of men.
“The car should be here any moment, Sir.” One of the men, clearly a bodyguard, said.
The man he had so respectfully addressed now turned around. “Good.”
He was a tall, graceful man, with hard-cut features and intensely green eyes that had a glowing vividness in them. His dark hair had been cut short.
For a moment he looked at me the way a king must look at his servants – stern and critical. But then he smiled. If personality is conveyed in a series of simple gestures, then there was something alluring and mysterious about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he not merely walked on this earth but owned it.
“You must be one of my unfortunate guests,” he said.
“Your guests?”
“I own the club across the street. So allow me apologize for the incident.”
I smiled, slightly dumbstruck but absolutely dazzled. “Nothing that a glass of champagne can’t fix.”
A black chauffeur-driven Bentley pulled up beside them beside them. “Apologies, I have to cut our conversation short. But I’m a man of my word, so if you want that glass of champagne, you can find me at the Waldorf Astoria downtown. Ask for Alexander Volkov.”
He gave her another small smile, then slid into the back of the Bentley. A bodyguard closed the door behind him and a second later the car pulled out into the street.
