“Thank you. My mother deserves all the credit.”
“Maybe, but the fact you kept it tells me you find it attractive as well.”
“I do. Now, I remember promising to feed you. The kitchen is through here,” he said, placing his palm against my lower back to guide me across the room.
“Oh my God,” I said, teetering on my heels as I came to an abrupt stop. “Alek, this is… this is unbelievable.”
I knew his mother had been an icon in Russia, that she’d turned her passion of dance into an extremely successful career, but now I was really seeing that up close. Memorabilia were scattered among volumes of books on the shelving of a bookcase that took up an entire wall. Framed photos of famous dancers held places of honor. It was a collection like I had never seen before. Even though I knew the entire Volkov family had been and still were involved in the ballet world, I didn’t think I ever really realized how much until now. Photographs weren’t the only items framed. I stepped closer to see beautifully illustrated covers of playbills autographed by some of the most famous dancers and choreographers of all time. The space was its own museum.
“Thank you.” His smile was soft as his eyes roamed over what I knew he must have seen a million times before. “I’m glad you like my collection. I know it might be overboard, but our entire family loves history and ballet, so combined…”
“Some of this has to be extremely rare.” I stared at a signed picture of Mikhail Baryshnikov.
“That was one of my mother’s favorites,” Alek said, picking up the frame. It was at the beginning of his career, and she said she always knew he would make his mark on the world.”
“She was right. He was magnificent both as a dancer and as a ballet director.” I smiled as I ran my fingers along the paint of a set of nesting dolls, feeling a connection with his mother. Alek hadn’t been exaggerating — there were at least two dozen different matryoshkas including the tiniest set I’d ever seen. My breath caught in my throat as my eyes locked onto an item tucked into a little alcove. “Alek… is this real?”
He reached past me to pick up the item, attempted to hand it to me, but I shook my head and stepped back.
“No way. I might drop it!”
Alek grinned, took my hand and laid the jeweled egg into my palm. “It’s just an egg.”
“Just an egg?” I said in relief. I gingerly released the little clasp and opened the top then pulled out an intricate golden carriage. “This is beautiful. It is a truly extraordinary replica.”
“Oh, it’s a real Fabergé,” Alek said, causing me to freeze in place.
“Alek! Take it back! Do you know how much this has to be worth!” I said, each sentence rising in pitch at my terror of dropping something priceless.
He chuckled and shook his head. I didn’t dare breathe until he took the egg back and tucked the carriage safely inside.
“It might be worth millions but, it’s still just an egg, an inanimate object,” he said, as he put it back on its pedestal. “I prefer my art to be brought to life by musicians, composers, and dancers like my mother.” His eyes locked on mine. “Like you.”
I felt both honored and humbled. “I could stand here for hours getting lost in the visions everything is painting in my mind.”
Grinning, he reached down and slapped my ass, and, when I jumped forward with a squeal, he said, “Speaking of art, if I don’t get Daniel’s masterpiece on the table before it’s ruined, he’ll never cook for me again. Come on, I’ll feed you, we’ll get the professional stuff out of the way, and then I’m going to give you all the personal attention you could possibly want.”
And feed me he did. The steak was perfectly medium rare, the potato gratin crisp on the outside and deliciously creamy beneath the golden crust. I took the last bite of white asparagus and then sighed and set my fork down.
“If Daniel doesn’t own a restaurant, he definitely should open one. This was delicious. Give my thanks to the chef.”
“I will,” Alek said. “Do you want your dessert now, or would you prefer it later?”
“Definitely later,” I said, not able to imagine eating another single bite right now. Tucking my napkin beneath the rim of my plate, I asked, “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Pushing away from the table, he said, “Let’s take this into the living room.”
A few minutes later, I was sitting on the couch, and he was in a chair opposite me. The fact this was the professional part of the meeting was the only reason I kept my shoes on. I’d not worn heels in years and probably should have gradually reintroduced them into my life or at least started with a pair that weren’t quite so high.