Petrov dismissed his guards with a flick of his wrist. They retreated to the stairwell entrance, far enough to give privacy but close enough to respond if needed.
“So,” he said, turning to face her, “now we are alone with the art. What shall we do?”
Daphne moved closer, her silk dress whispering against the marble floor. “I’ve always believed art should be… experienced.” She trailed her fingers along his lapel. “Don’t you agree?”
His eyes darkened with desire, exactly as she’d planned. Men like Petrov were predictable—power made them believe they were invincible, that they could take whatever they wanted. It made them careless.
“I do,” he murmured, one thick hand settling on her waist. “And you are quite the masterpiece.”
She smiled, letting him pull her closer. His cologne was expens
