Nikolai: The Complete Collection

10. Justine

10

JUSTINE

A fter taking a few minutes to calm the erratic beat of my heart, I wash my hands in the sink before leaving the bathroom I’ve been hiding out in the past twenty minutes. Although confident neither Nikolai nor Ms. Aaronson will believe I’ve been using the facilities this long, I refuse to be called out as a liar twice in under thirty minutes.

As I pace into my living room, my eyes categorize the empty space. A man with an aura as distinct as Nikolai’s could never be doused, much less a lady who reeks of nosey-nancying like Ms. Aaronson, so I’m truly at a loss as to where they’ve gone.

My head rockets to the side when a lock clanking into place booms into my ears. Nikolai is standing in my foyer—all alone. My heart lodges in my throat when I spot Ms. Aaronson’s plump shadow through the sheer curtains in my living room. She completes the trek between our apartments in two point five seconds, utterly oblivious to the dangerous situation she has left me in. I could barely deflect Nikolai’s interest when she was two feet away from me, so what chance do I stand now?

Nikolai pivots around to face me, his moves as haughty as the flare in his eyes. “Ms. Aaronson wishes for me to pass on her apologies for the interruption, and she has assured me it won’t happen again. No matter how loud you scream.” A ghost of a smile spreading across his face during his last sentence lessens the severity of it.

“I don’t know where to start,” he mutters as his eyes drift over my shoulders before sweeping past the budded peaks of my nipples. “At the event we were undertaking before Ms. Aaronson arrived, or the secrets your twenty-minute bathroom break were hoping to conceal.”

My throat works hard to swallow as panic engulfs me. There’s no doubt I am attracted to him, but nothing can come of it. We are from opposite worlds—even more than he realizes.

My well-used flight mechanism kicks in when Nikolai pushes off his feet and heads in my direction.

I scan the room, seeking a solution to my predicament.

The more my eyes examine my dingy apartment, the more my energy drains. Other than the Juliette balcony hanging fifteen floors above the in-ground pool, Nikolai’s six-foot-plus frame is blocking my only viable exit.

Although fleeing is against the terms of Nikolai’s bail, sleeping on an outdated couch in the foyer of my building isn’t. It will be a restless three nights, but if it’s the only solution to stop me from making another foolish mistake this weekend, I must take it.

Yes, I inwardly chant when a brilliant idea pops into my head.

Acting as if it isn’t ludicrous for a grown woman to bolt from a prospective bed companion, I sprint toward the couch Nikolai was seated on when I dressed his wounds. My years of track come in handy when I vault over the springless chair, perfectly dismount, and then charge for my bedroom door.

“There are spare blankets and towels in the linen closet. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. I’m not hungry. I’m going to have an early night. I’ll see you in the morning,” I blubber out breathlessly as I race across my living room.

My peek-toe pumps lose their grip on the wooden floorboards when I slide to a stop inside the master suite. I shut my bedroom door and plaster my back against the thick wooden paneling. I curse my easy-going demeanor when my constant turn of the lock fails to latch it into place. If I had chased down the super, who guaranteed my door would be fixed before I moved in, I’d have more than a panel of wood between me and a mafia prince.

My chest thrusts up and down when a dark shadow extends past my feet. Although Nikolai is as quiet as a church mouse, I can feel his presence through the door. It’s as muggy and intense as it was when we sat beside each other in the transport van earlier tonight.

Tension develops in the air, motivating me to say, “After my performance in the foyer, I know you have no reason to believe me, but it’s best for all involved if we pretend tonight never happened. I am your attorney, Nikolai. Ethically, we can only have a client-attorney relationship.”

When Nikolai fails to respond to my suggestion, my eyes drift to the door handle, expecting it to twist at any moment.

It doesn’t.

It remains perfectly still, not even giving the slightest wiggle in the lead-up to Nikolai’s shadow disappearing beneath the door.

My shoulders slump as I sigh softly. It’s more a disappointed sigh than a pleased one.

To be safe, I hook my ankle around the wooden chair near my dressing mirror. Its feet scrape across the wooden floorboards when I drag it to stand in front of me. Keeping my weight on the door, I ram the arched back of my chair under the door handle, effectively locking Nikolai out of my room. And myself in it.

After rattling the door to ensure it is adequately restrained, I stroll to my bed. My steps are heavy, weighed down by the guilt besieging me. Not just from four years ago, but from tonight as well.

I’d love to give Nikolai a reason for my contradictory responses, but I wouldn’t know where to start. I don’t think a man as dominant as Nikolai would appreciate the well-used “It’s not you. It’s me” line I’ve given every man I’ve dated the past four years. Even if it’s true, no one ever believes me.