Authors: Lauren Boutain
One Stolen Kiss
ONE STOLEN KISS
Lauren Boutain
One Stolen Kiss
© Lisa Scullard 2013 (writing as Lauren Boutain)
All rights reserved. The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Edited using UK spelling & grammar.
Cover photograph of
Lake Como
from Morgue File.
Keep up with the latest releases on
http://laurenboutain.wordpress.com
CONTENTS
To remember the dream of one kiss...
Adrik blushed all over as he recalled the last time he had set eyes on the tantalising Christie Harding.
And that was before she’d blindfolded him.
His blood felt like it was boiling – but with what, he couldn’t define.
Anger? Adrenalin?
Unrequited lust?
She was a striking figure in her fitted black suit, the pencil skirt ending just above vanilla-coloured calves, her cordial smile of greeting to the patrons outshining the pearl choker above a low-cut jacket. Her soft pale blonde hair was feathered around her face and pinned into a casual chignon that he already longed to unwind, to twist around his fingers…
Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief – the sort of mischief that no man should risk his curiosity on. A pair of lethally-high Yves St Laurent black stilettos finished the delectable silhouette, and he wondered if she could run in them.
He took two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, avoiding another proffering
hors d’oeuvres,
which featured quite an obscene amount of caviar. With the walls of the gallery seeming to press in on him, he made what felt like the first steps Man ever made on the Moon.
An elderly English gentlewoman was the first to sense his approach, her jewel-encrusted turban swivelling to face him. Adrik ignored her sudden wobbly sidestep and simper of approval, as well as the affronted glower of the Arab on his target’s far side.
“You can trust me,” the Arab was whispering urgently to Christie, one eye now on the approaching Russian competition. “Just tell me who it is first… I like to be the first to know everything…”
“
You make a great exhibition of yourself, Miss Harding,” Adrik announced.
She froze for a millisecond. Then she pivoted on one heel slowly, and smiled up at him with a lazy insolence that he found – memorable.
“Mr Maksimov,” she purred, and held out a hand. “What a great honour. You flatter me.”
He quickly transferred the two glasses to his left hand, to take hers offered in greeting.
“Still no rings, I see?” He drew the silky fingertips to his lips before they could slip away, and felt the burning tingle as they met. “Who has the pleasure of escorting you to your special opening?”
The Englishwoman snorted and hiccupped, and had to be led away by the considerate Arab before she inhaled half of her ostrich fan.
“I don’t hold with that sort of thing.” Christie gestured around the opulent space, in which New York’s glitterati could each find their
extremely
personal backdrop. Many were posing in front of their own scandalous portraits, while partners and guests snuck illicit photos on cell phones. “It’s my gallery. A charitable little gathering for my friends. A surprise exhibition.”
“
They do not know you as well as I,” Adrik nodded, and handed her a glass of champagne. “You keep more secrets from them, perhaps. How many of your friends have woken up without their family jewels?”
“
Your English has improved, I see,” she observed, accepting the glass with a twinkle in her eye, and a fleeting dimple that he most certainly remembered appeared in her cheek. “And I have no idea what you mean.”
“
I had a lot of time to practise,” he told her. “I was tied up for much of it. I practised some interesting words. I would like to try most of them out on you.”
Christie’s perfectly arched eyebrows flinched in amusement, and she looked him up and down leisurely. He felt every glance as if it were a playful caress.
“And you have come unescorted also?” she murmured, reaching up, and briefly straightened an imaginary crease in the lapel of his black leather coat. “There appears to be a tall blonde vacancy on your arm – for a supermodel, or perhaps a British aristocrat who has lately been keeping your mansion in Holland Park warm for you? No… I must be wrong. You’ll have an armed bodyguard or driver outside. Or perhaps one of those undercover lady detectives, in a Balenciaga dress with a Beretta tucked into her garter.”
“
Now why would I bring witnesses?” he suggested. “When I have been looking forward to the opportunity to get you alone once more, for so long…?”
* * * *
She was still luxuriating in the indescribable shiver that ran through her when she heard his voice for the first time in eleven years.
Christie couldn’t believe that Adrik Maksimov, who she first met as the rising heir of a notorious merchant shipping oligarch, and last saw soon afterwards in a rather compromising state of affairs in an exclusive Swiss chateau, was standing only a matter of inches in front of her now.
All moody Moscow masculinity dressed in borderline-iconoclastic black, he always hated to stand out in a crowd. A bourgeois Manhattan crowd at that. He liked subtlety and finesse and decorum.
At least, as far as everyone else was aware, he liked things that way.
He was blushing again, as if attuned to her thoughts.
“
You look hot,” she cooed, enjoying his apparent discomfort.
“
Is that a compliment?” he growled.
Christie smiled. She’d occasionally wondered how she would react in the face of such an encounter as this, and was pleased with herself.
Harding’s
was her own turf, her very own established niche of New York society. He might be a ‘face’ to those in the know, but Manhattan was a level playing field. The second he stepped onto it, he was on neutral ground.
He must hate it
, she thought.
Good.
“Hot,” she repeated, fanning herself with one of the gilded matte-charcoal exhibition programmes, to illustrate. “Is it too warm in here? Tell me if there is a problem. I don’t want my champagne glasses to start sweating.”
“
No. But I think I will remove this.” He began to unbutton his coat.
“
Of course.” Christie beckoned to a member of staff. “Please check Mr Maksimov’s coat for him…”
“
No, no – I will keep it with me.” Adrik shrugged it off. “Thank you. I know not to leave my belongings unattended, in certain company.”
“
I hope you’re not insulting my friends?” Christie remarked, and found her eyes trailing along his arms and upper body again, as he folded his coat neatly over his wrist. She didn’t remember him being so well-muscled, so confidently poised before. He had been an almost elfin, coiled spring of nervous tension in his early twenties – spoke little English, and that he knew, he was reticent with. The strong, silent type. Now he would be – she guessed, thirty-five? He seemed to occupy an entirely different space. Not just occupied – dominated. Commanded. As he did in the society pages.
Even here. Others nodded at her and smiled, mouthed soundless pleasantries and gestured their compliments in passing – but did not interrupt, or attempt to break the spell surrounding them.
His jade green eyes did not leave hers.
“
I bring an apology,” he said, at last. “The invitation you sent to Zory Tamarkin at the Embassy in London – he is sorry he cannot attend, as he has unexpected official business, but wishes you a good evening. He says he will still send you a donation.”
“
How kind,” she acknowledged, cordially. “I will email tomorrow and thank him.”
“
So I am his ambassador tonight. I do not usually ‘hit the town’ but for some reason he was keen that I should see the Big Apple.”
“
I expect he wants you to view his portrait,” Christie said, twirling the stem of her champagne flute. She tactfully avoided mentioning that perhaps Tamarkin was trying to be paternal, guessing that showing any insight on or interest in following his life might not go in her favour. “Would you like to see it? The political subjects are all displayed upstairs, privately. I can’t let just anyone up there, you know.”
“
I think he would like me to inspect,” Adrik agreed, thoughtfully. “Perhaps it may affect how much he would like to donate to your – charity?”
The air between them sizzled with un-recounted memories, and Christie kept her chin slyly tilted.
Let him think you’re not afraid to be alone in a room with him – again…
She hadn’t ascertained that in her own mind, yet. He was also taller than she remembered. And these were five-inch YSL heels she was standing on.
Well, he had been lying down when she last saw him, admittedly…
The short hazelnut hair with its slight tousle was virtually unchanged. His face – that was unforgettable. His smoothly chiselled Slavic features, the piercing jade eyes – the full sculpted lips… she recalled that moment of weakness, which had led her to break all the rules – in an impulsive urge to steal one last thing.
The memory of which had stayed with her ever since.
A sudden tinkle of gold Parker pen on glassware hailed all attention in the room, and Christie realised she had been holding her breath tight in her chest, as it escaped in a rush.
Suddenly, the point of tonight’s little gala wasn’t nearly as daunting as the full
Mardi Gras
of Maksimov that had marched into it.
“
Ladies and gentlemen…” The compere waved a hand at some of his own friends in a corner, batting away their heckling, and muttered a much less formal word to describe them. “Scallywags
…
I’m delighted to welcome you to
Harding’s
for this exclusive and very special exposé – I mean, exhibition. Of yourselves.”
While the patrons chuckled and applauded one another, Christie felt the slightest tickle by her ear as Adrik leaned in closer.
“It is only your methods that have changed,” he whispered. “The outcome, I feel, is still the same.”
“
I beg your pardon?” Christie fought to ignore the dizzy sensation at the feel of his breath on her skin, and the scent of his Chanel aftershave. It was way more potent than the champagne she’d only sipped so far tonight.
“
People meet you and soon find themselves parting with a large sum of money.”
“
I think you’ll find that
is
a compliment, in New York,” she replied, giving him her most innocent, butter-wouldn’t-melt gaze. His return glare, however, would have evaporated steel.
“
Is this what my diamonds paid for?” He stared moodily around the gallery, and gave a condescending sniff at a provocative sculpture.
“
Your
diamonds?” Christie hissed, before she could control herself. “Ha!”
“
In my family for one hundred years,” he said coldly.
“
Then perhaps it was time they were liberated from you,” she suggested.
“
Strange that they would disappear while I was so inextricably distracted.”
Christie’s heart started to pound and she felt the heat starting to creep up her own chest, fanning herself further to hide any telltale scarlet.
Damn.
Why couldn’t she have waited until he was asleep?
“
I have often wondered,” he mused. “Whether you were the master criminal, or just the distraction?”
Don’t rise to the bait
, she told herself, sipping champagne again to chill the urge to retort from her tongue.
…
And then the compere was grinning broadly at her and clapping, and she realised her moment on this particular evening had arrived.
She smiled at the expectant crowd, and handed her glass back to Adrik dismissively, as if he were a mere waiter. She did not miss the flash of amusement that crossed his face before she strolled over to take the microphone.
He put aside the drinks, and folded his arms to watch, as if he had all the time in the world.
Maksimov thinks he’s the cat this time
, she thought, waiting for the applause to subside.
But I’m still no mouse.
* * * *
She was taking a risk, Adrik knew. Possibly he was the only one in the room that could even guess the truth.
The patrons of
Harding’s
were drawn here tonight out of their own narcissism, to see the controversial work of the mystery artist ‘Paparazzka’ up close. Intimate portraits of well-known society faces, in uncharacteristic dress and sometimes compromising positions had already graced the Arts pages of all the best media. With one A-List Hollywood actor having recently paid a healthy eight-figure sum for his own likeness in a one-off online auction to display proudly at his Malibu home, suddenly interest in the identity of the anonymous artist had skyrocketed.
Only that morning, the breakfast news channels had been giving their psychological profiling-style run-downs of those they considered he or she could be – perhaps a student or street artist, a member of foreign Royalty with Art History in their heritage, a high-profile creative in some other field, such as film, photography, fashion or music.
It was going to be the reveal of the decade – naming the new Andy Warhol, hiding in their midst.