His Best Acquisition. Tara PammiЧитать онлайн книгу.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      SHE SHOULD HAVE known a man like Aleksy could only come from a city like Moscow. It dominated the way he did. Its weighty buildings with their tall, imposing towers and sharp-eyed windows spoke matter-of-factly of strength and the ability to endure. The facades, scarred by history, told a story she would never fully hear.

      Yet there was an unexpected idealism she hadn’t expected in the archways and balconies and loving attention to detail. Even Aleksy revealed a streak of sentiment in the way he’d refurbished his living quarters with an eye to art and a respect for the past. The block he lived in had been built for high-ranking Soviet leaders, he told her when they arrived, which accounted for the amazing location on the Moskva River and enormous top-floor mansion, but the original wiring and wooden interiors had made the building a fire hazard. He’d had the entire structure torn apart internally over two years and was rebuilding to original floor plans with upgraded specifications.

      That surprised her. He seemed unaccountably merciless in everything he did, utterly focused on his own interests. After their night flight from Paris, he’d spent most of today in his office down the hall, phone buzzing constantly, conversing in half a dozen languages. Yet if he’d only wanted to turn a coin with this building, he could have made simpler choices, punching out cookie-cutter flats for foreign investors. Instead, from the brief glimpse she’d caught through the replicated elevator cage, he was blending modern conveniences with charming vintage elements, offering stylish homes to his countrymen.

      Most startling of all was the photograph above the fireplace in the lounge. The bride wore a modest dress, the groom a simple suit and tie. The corner of the small snapshot was burned, the colors faded, but it was set off by a wide mat and an elegant frame, so it took up significant space, speaking of its importance to the flat’s owner.

      She guessed from his resemblance to the groom that they were his parents. Aleksy confirmed it with a simple da, not encouraging more questions, but she’d found herself oddly encouraged by this evidence of a softer side in him.

      Such a complex man, just like his city.

      And now he’d brought her into it. Indefinitely.

      She still felt apprehensive about letting him pressure her into going along with his demands. His strong-arm tactics didn’t bother her so much as the way she’d folded to them did. She knew how to stand up for herself when it mattered. This mattered. She wasn’t a ward of the state anymore and wasn’t about to let him erode what autonomy she’d managed to build for herself. It was too hard won.

      Nevertheless, she was here. As his mistress.

      Until he grew bored and paid her out.

      Flinching from that brutal inevitability, she moved away from the window and took up the two gowns again, hands shaking. She was trying to decide which was better suited for seeing the ballet at the Bolshoi Theatre—as if she had the first clue what the well-dressed mistresses in Moscow were wearing.

      How infantile it had been to try striking him in his wallet when it was so well padded. She couldn’t imagine what he’d spent on her. Victor had given her a small clothing allowance and she’d bought conservative outfits that helped her blend in with those around her. She liked being unobtrusive.

      Aleksy was having none of that. These gowns were daring and sophisticated, the colors bold, the designs requiring confidence to wear them well. She wasn’t sure she could pull off a dress like this any more than she could cope with being Aleksy’s woman.

      Stop it, she ordered herself, refusing to backslide into wanting to belong to someone. He didn’t want her soul and she wouldn’t give it up. This was a reciprocal exchange of pleasure, unencumbered by demands for true intimacy.

      “What are you doing in here?” Aleksy’s stern voice made her jump.

      “You startled me.” Despite her previous affirmations, her knees weakened at the sight of him. Her reaction was a complex tumble of nervous excitement and an inexplicable desire to earn his admiration.

      She clamped down hard on those self-destructive emotions but couldn’t wholly suppress her physical response. He was still in the casual pants and button shirt he’d worn all day in his office, and his expression was downright forbidding, but her heart raced with appreciation of his fiercely handsome looks. When would he touch her again? The question had been burning in her blood all day.

      “You said to be ready for eight,” she reminded him, using the gowns as a shield for the lightweight silk robe she wore, glancing down at the drapes of color to keep him seeing her involuntary and immediate desire.

      “I meant why are you in this room?” He moved forward and took in the open closet, the myriad empty boxes and zippered dress bags. “I instructed the housekeeper to put everything away in my room tomorrow.”

      Her heart dropped like a boulder from a rock face. Share his room? After living alone she was finding the idea of sharing a flat—even one as big as this—to be a hard adjustment. She couldn’t breathe with him four steps in the door. No, if she was going to get through this in one piece, she needed her own space to retreat to.

      “The boxes were in here, so I assumed this was my room and unpacked them.” She conquered old twinges of wanting to apologize for occupying any space at all. This wasn’t a foster home. He’d brought her here. She’d stay, but on her terms. “I’d like to use it,” she said firmly.

      He assessed the volume of clothes. “As a dressing room? Very well, but I’m not about to creep up and down the hall looking for you. You’ll sleep in my bed.”

      Conquering a suffocating panic, she asserted, “I don’t want to.”

      “Why not?” He turned the full power of his intense personality on her.

      She swallowed, not intimidated by his power and height, but instantly vulnerable to the effects his alpha male nature had on her. At some point they’d have sex again and the recently awakened woman in her craved that so deeply she was a little frightened by the power of it, but sleeping together would have its own way of increasing her reliance on him. That wouldn’t do.

      “I—” The word was cut off as he drew her into a strong, careful embrace. She automatically tensed and pressed the heels of her hands to his chest, fingers still curled around the padded hooks of the hangers.

      He looked down at the way she held him off, not forcing her body into his, but she sensed the firm planes of his stomach and the long, hard muscles of his thighs teasing like a warm breath beyond the fall of her kimono.

      He tugged the towel from her head, releasing her damp hair, and tipped her head back so her gaze tangled with his. He stroked her cheek, then let his caress trail into the sensitive hollow beneath her ear and under her jaw.

      “I’m looking forward to tonight. I don’t know how I’ve managed to work when all I could think about was touching you again. Feeling you under me.”

      Her arms pressed harder as she tried to keep his seductive words from affecting her, but everything else in her melted. This was the sensual heat low in her abdomen she’d looked forward to. She consciously closed herself off to reading any significance in his admission that she’d been on his mind, though. As he lowered his head, a helpless moan escaped her. Her hands released the weight in them and slid up to curl around his neck and into his hair. The first touch of his lips shot a jolt through her. They melded together as the kiss deepened without any insistence from him. She welcomed him with a passionate response, transported to the exciting world he’d initiated her into while trying to hang on to herself, not give him everything—

      He lifted his head. They were both breathless. His cheekbones were flushed, but his eyes glittered with aggravation. “What’s wrong?”

      “Nothing,”