Page 82 of Secret Heir

“Mr. Sokolov?” I offered my hand, trying to sound professional even though my heart was pounding. “I’m Ariana Delano. I understand you have questions about the Kandinsky?”

His hand was warm, his grip firm but not crushing. “Call me Maksim. And yes—Dmitry tells me you’re the one who traced its history.”

“I am.” I pulled out the folder with my research. “It’s fascinating, actually. The painting was owned by your family until 1918, when⁠—”

“When my great-grandfather fled Russia with whatever he could carry.” Maksim’s smile was slight, but it transformed his face and made him look even more handsome. My mouth dries. “He sold it in Paris to pay for passage to America. I’ve been searching for it for five years.”

“Well, you found it.” I opened the folder, showing him the documentation. “The provenance is clean. No disputes or claims. If you want to purchase it, it’s yours.”

We spent two hours going over the paperwork. He asked intelligent questions, clearly knowledgeable about art and history. And the whole time, I was acutely aware of him—the way he leaned in when I was explaining something, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Or how his eyes tracked me when I moved around the gallery. Or how his voice dropped slightly when he said my name.

By the time he left—painting purchased, arrangements made for delivery—I was flustered and completely captivated.

He came back three days later, ostensibly to “look at more pieces.” He spent an hour walking through the gallery with me, asking about various works, but his attention kept drifting from the art to me.

“Have dinner with me,” he said as I was walking him to the door.

I nearly stumbled over my heels. “I—what?”

“Dinner. Tonight, if you’re free. Tomorrow if you’re not.” That slight smile again. “I’d like to get to know you better, Ariana.”

No one called me Ariana. Everyone used Aria. But the way he said my full name, with that slight Russian accent coloring the vowels, made it sound beautiful.

“I’m free tonight,” I heard myself say.

That was three months ago. Three months of the most intense, passionate, thrilling relationship of my life. Maksim is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. He’s sophisticated and worldly, taking me to restaurants I could never afford and buying me gifts I try to refuse but he insists on. He’s attentive and passionate, making me feel like I’m the only woman in the world when we’re together.

And the sex. God, the sex is incredible. He’s patient and demanding in equal measure, teaching me things I’d never even imagined and making me feel things I didn’t know were possible.

He’s never told me exactly what he does for work—just vague mentions of “family business” and “import/export.” I don’t really care. I’m too caught up in the fairy tale of it all to ask hard questions.

Tonight, I’m planning to surprise him. We have plans to meet at ten. He said he has to work late, some meeting he can’t get out of. But I thought it would be thrilling to show up early and seduce him in his office.

I’m wearing the lingerie I bought special for this—black lace that makes me feel sexy and confident. I have wine in my bag, along with the overnight things I’ll need for afterward.

The address I found is in Red Hook, which surprises me a little. I was expecting a Manhattan office building, something sleek and modern. But the car pulls up to what looks like an industrial warehouse, and I hesitate.

Maybe it’s one of those converted loft spaces? Rich people do weird things with real estate. I’ve seen articles in magazines about stunning apartments hidden in old factories.

I pay the driver and get out, my heels clicking on the pavement. It’s nine o’clock—an hour before Maksim said he’d be done. Plenty of time to set the scene.

The front door is unlocked, which seems odd, but maybe that’s normal for business buildings? I slip inside and immediately know this isn’t some converted office space.

It’s an actual warehouse with concrete floors, metal shelving units loaded with crates, and industrial lighting hanging from exposed beams. The smell hits me immediately and I fight a gag. It smells like gasoline, motor oil, and something chemical I can’t identify.

This is where Maksim works? There’s no way. I must have gotten the address wrong.

But then I hear voices from deeper in the building. Male voices, speaking Russian. One of them is Maksim’s—I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

I should announce myself and let him know I’m here. But something stops me. Some instinct that whispers wrong, wrong, wrong. I move quietly toward the voices, my heels making too much noise on the concrete. I slip them off and carry them, padding forward in stockinged feet.

The voices are coming from beyond a stack of wooden crates. I creep closer, my heart pounding, telling myself I’m being ridiculous. It’s just Maksim finishing up a meeting. Nothing sinister.

I peek around the crates, and my entire world tilts.

Maksim is there, wearing dark clothes instead of one of his usual suits. There’s another man with him. He’s tall and lean, with salt and pepper hair and cold blue eyes. They’re standing over someone tied to a chair.

The man in the chair is crying. Begging. His face is bloody and swollen, barely recognizable as human. He’s saying something in Russian, the words coming out in desperate, broken sobs.