Harrison didn’t respond. He was scanning the list with a furrowed brow.
The lights went up. Leonid took the stage and welcomed everyone, Juliana at his side. He made a joke about her not being up for auction with his dry humor that drew an amused response from the crowd. Frankie found his speech about his commitment to the arts and the artists who continued to make the world a more beautiful place heartfelt and eloquent. She could see the goodness in him Juliana had talked about. It made the charismatic Russian even more attractive and compelling.
Leonid highlighted a few of the marquee items up for auction, then exited the stage to be replaced by Juliana’s auctioneer. The Brit with his booming voice began the auction with some paintings by a new modern Russian artist. The value of the works continued to go up with every item, with the last painting selling for two million pounds.
A Chagall in brilliant blue tones came next. “I love that one,” she murmured to Harrison. It was, according to the brochure, “a piece from one of the artist’s most famous series set in Nice, featuring his famous sirens.”
Harrison nodded. “I like it, too.”
The bidding for the painting started at one and a half million pounds. A Brit in the front row signaled two. A determined look on his face, an American with a Southern accent took it up to two and a half million. The two men went back and forth until the price tag sat at three and a half million.
Harrison raised his hand. “Four million.”
Frankie gaped at him. “Four million,” the auctioneer crowed, “by the gentleman in the back.”
The auctioneer tried to persuade the other bidders to up the price, but the American and Brit weren’t biting. Apparently they were sane.
“Sold,” sang the auctioneer, “for four million pounds to Mr. Grant in the back.”
The ballroom was a buzz of conversation. Frankie looked at Harrison, her astonishment written across her face.
“It was a gesture,” he said roughly. “And I like the painting.”
A four-million-pound gesture. Two more paintings were sold, an astonishing amount of money changed hands, then Leonid appeared back on stage to thank the guests for their generosity and wrap the proceedings. When he stepped down from the stage, said something to Viktor Kaminski and slipped into the crowd, Harrison’s gaze tracked him. The Russian was finally alone.
He turned to her. “Can you occupy Kaminski for a few minutes?”
She knew what he was asking, knew it was well past her job description, but tonight she wanted to show Harrison Grant what she was made of. “No problem,” she replied crisply, smoothing her dress over her hips. “Leave him to me.”
He nodded and strode off after Leonid. Frankie kept her eyes on Viktor as he spoke to the auctioneer. When he left him and headed to the opulent bar, done in exotic dark woods and stone, she headed through the crowd and discreetly shouldered her way to the front of the line. She emerged to the right of Viktor, who had his forearms on the bar and was chatting with one of the attractive servers. She trained her gaze on the bartender as he took her order, hoping Viktor would notice her. But the Russian was lazily engaged with the attractive blonde, chatting for a few moments with her before she heard him order two cognacs. One for Leonid.
Adrenaline surged through her. She raised her voice beyond her usual soft, modulated tone as she thanked the bartender for the soda and lime. Viktor glanced over at her, his eyes lighting up as if he’d struck gold in the Yukon.
He wrapped his fingers around the two glasses of cognac that sat on the bar and made his way over to her. “You shouldn’t be getting your own drink,” he chastised. “Where’s Grant?”
“Talking to an acquaintance.” She adopted as arch a look as her limited repertoire allowed. “Maybe I can take you up on your offer to show me Leonid’s art collection while he’s occupied? I’m so inspired after the auction. It’s all so beautiful...”
Viktor flicked a glance toward the balconies. His frown belied his indecision. “Pretty please,” she murmured, laying it on thick. “I’ll never get another chance like this.”
He gave her an indulgent look. “Only if you agree to experience what a nineteenth-century Frapin Cuvée tastes like.” He held up the cognac. “I was on my way to meet Leonid.”
“Done,” she murmured. She had one more glass of tolerance in her.
She picked up the glass, took the arm Viktor offered and they made their way through the crowd to the long marble hallway that stretched the second floor of the manor. Aristov’s art collection, Viktor explained, was displayed along this and the grand hallway of the third floor. Frankie could see why. The Oriental-carpeted, ornately wainscoted hallways and expert lighting set the artwork off to perfection.
She didn’t have to feign attention. Viktor took her through each piece with an enthusiasm that was infectious. His clear love for his subject matter shone through and understanding what she was looking at made it so much more enjoyable for her. She put her hand on his arm frequently to indicate her pleasure, smiling up at him with exaggerated fascination. She could see it was working, from his animated expression and heightened color in his cheeks.
A surge of feminine power heated her veins. She really wasn’t half-bad at this femme fatale thing. Why hadn’t she tried it before?
Viktor took her through the artwork on the second, then third floors. By the time he stopped in front of what he called the pièce de résistance, an exceedingly modern piece by one of the great Russian masters that looked like random splotches of black and green to Frankie, a good twenty minutes had gone by.
“It’s so...interesting,” she commented, cradling her cognac in her hands. She was sipping the five-thousand-dollar-a-bottle spirit as slowly as she could, but its faint spiciness and floral aroma was delicious, sending a smooth, silky warmth through her bloodstream.
“It’s breathtaking,” Viktor countered, resting a palm against the wall where she stood. “I really should get back. Leonid is waiting for me.”
“Oh,” she murmured in disappointment, not sure they’d been gone long enough. “I was hoping there was more.”
The Russian’s eyes flashed. “There is an even more glorious Chagall in Leonid’s personal rooms. I’m sure he won’t mind me showing it to you.”
Alarm bells went off in Frankie’s head. The expression of intent in Viktor’s light brown eyes was clear. He was so close she could smell his overwhelming aftershave, a spicy combination that made her want to sneeze.
“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I wouldn’t dare intrude on Leonid’s personal space.”
“Are you sure?” He moved closer. “You’ve been such a good audience.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. She put a hand to the wall to lever herself away from it, but Viktor stepped closer, stopping her. He was going to kiss her. She’d been flirting outrageously with him to keep his attention, so why wouldn’t he?
Her heart raced. “Viktor...this has been so sweet of you to give me a tour but—”
He set his other hand on the wall beside her so she was well and truly captured. “Don’t run away,” he said in Russian, his voice low and gravelly. “Stay.”
Panic sliced through her. He dipped his head toward hers. She ducked under his arm and took a step away from him. He gave her a bemused look. Frankie held up her almost empty glass. “I think I need another one of these first.”
He eyed her glass. “Another?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “It was sooo delicious. Just one more.”
His generous mouth curved into a smile. “We’ll