His Best Acquisition. Tara PammiЧитать онлайн книгу.
She looked at the sobering line of his scar to cool her blood, wondering about it.
His expression grew stony as he slid his hands over the silk gown, his palms hot through the slinky fabric, molding her back and fondling her bottom, making her tremble.
She let her head fall forward onto his chest to hide how the sweetness in his caress made her eyes moisten. She felt his hardness against her belly, urgent and thick, and caught her breath in wonder. He wanted her. Her.
A burst of relief made her dizzy, unnerving her, filling her with the tautness of wanting him while remaining wary of limitless intimacy. She gathered herself behind an invisible wall, before she followed through on her desire to look up and press her lips to his neck.
Before she could make the move to take this where her body wanted to go, he set her away from him and bent, coming up with the red and the blue gowns. He rejected the red with a toss toward the bed, his expression inscrutable. Holding the blue in front of her, he said with detachment, “This one. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll meet you in the lounge.”
Her mouth still tingled from the pressure of his. Her whole body felt light enough to fly while bitter disappointment weighed like a rock in her throat, keeping her from calling after him. She refused to beg for affection.
* * *
As he dressed, Aleksy was still trying to understand what had transpired in the other room. The fact that he was being so introspective about Clair’s behavior was as irritating as her trying to hold him off.
After resisting temptation all day, he’d been unable to help going to her. Finding her in the spare room, trying to keep space between them, was an oddly disturbing rejection. Everyone gave him a wide berth, but Clair’s doing it stung unexpectedly. Did she fear him? The thought galled him.
He’d been compelled to close the gap and pull her into his arms with as much gentleness as he was capable of. She had reacted beautifully, her arousal instant and obvious.
When he’d kissed her, her mouth had parted beneath his. The silk of her robe had revealed the tension in her belly and the sharp points of her nipples. Her supple body had even leaned into him. She, however, had not been involved.
Why not? She’d called herself practical when they were in Paris, her interest in her financial future blatant enough to assure him they were on well-defined ground. Had she read something about him that had turned her off?
The way she had stared at his scar had seemed to suggest so. Then she’d folded into him, almost as if she was ready to surrender regardless of what she thought of him, but he’d been stinging with disgrace. In one glance, she’d reminded him that it didn’t matter how mercenary she was, he still didn’t deserve to touch her.
Even she seemed to know it.
* * *
From inside the limo, his world gave an impression of chilly silence. The few people on the street wore overcoats and furred hats as they hurried down the street, breath fogging in the frosty air. Yet their very presence in the cold evening spoke of perseverance and a steadfast grasp on life, entrancing Clair into forgetting she didn’t want to fall in love with anything, even his country.
How could she stay immune, though, when he’d put her in the center of a fairy tale? The limo stopped and Aleksy left the car, holding a hand to help her stand, so courtly he stole her breath.
He wore a tuxedo with a white bow tie and gloves. It ought to have seemed affected, but his features were carved with masculine perfection, his brow stern enough to make everything about him serious and deliberate. Backlit by an enormous, columned building with a rosy-cream glow, he was devastatingly handsome.
She stood on unsteady legs, taking in the milling crowd streaming around the frozen fountain toward the spectacular entrance of the theater. This was the world he inhabited. Miles above any she’d ever thought to visit. Her treacherous emotions lifted with excitement, caught in a spell of beauty and wonder.
As if that wasn’t magical enough, his presence cut a swath through the crowd of people. One glance over their shoulder and people moved aside. Aleksy kept her pressed close to him as they climbed the stairs, coldly ignoring murmurs of “Dmitriev” and Russian phrases she didn’t understand, coupled with glances at his scar.
Taking her cue from him, Clair refused to acknowledge the morbidly curious looks, pretending to be absorbed in the grandeur of the theater. She was genuinely awed. The ornamental detailing and painted ceilings looked as if they’d been finished yesterday. For a moment time slipped away and she was a nineteenth-century aristocrat carrying a fan and wearing lace to her throat. The man at her side was an arranged-marriage husband—not a far cry from today’s situation at all, she thought with a wry, inward wince. He was supporting her and there was no hope for love.
An attendant approached to take her cape and Clair revealed the modern, off-one-shoulder sparkling blue dress that clung to emphasize her narrow curves and create more height than she really had. Aleksy procured them flutes of champagne and, after a brief consultation with the attendant, told her, “We have the czar’s box.”
She tried not to drop her drink.
As if this were any casual date, he guided her through a set of double doors that led through an ornate sitting room. Another set of doors ended on a grand balcony fit for, well, royalty.
Red velvet and gold struck her from the row of luxuriant chairs with their gilded edgings to the scalloped curtains framing the box to the auditorium beyond. A wall of balconies stretched away on either side in floor-to-ceiling rows, each separated by low walls decorated with gold leaf and glittering chandeliers. An enormous cake of sparkling crystals cast glamorous winks of light from high above, sparkling off jeweled necks and sequined gowns.
Clair sank weakly into the chair Aleksy pressed her toward. “I didn’t think Russia had a czar anymore,” she stammered, half fearing they’d be executed for trespassing.
His smile warmed her as if she’d gulped her entire glass of alcohol. “It’s actually the president’s box now. We could have used mine, but as this one’s empty tonight and I’m such a valued patron…” He shrugged self-deprecatingly.
“You must love the ballet. I mean—” The way his eyebrows climbed made her rethink presuming anything about him. “You have your own box and support the company. Everyone seems to know who you are.”
“Litso so shramom.” His expression altered as he repeated the phrase she’d heard as they entered. The carefully composed lines of his face revealed nothing—which was a revelation in itself. “Scarface.”
The bluntness of the moniker made her blink in shock, but she hid it, guessing anger on his behalf wouldn’t be welcome.
“I’m hardly anonymous anywhere I go,” he said, his jaw tensing. “And no, I don’t have a particular love of ballet. Coming here is merely—forgive the ancient metaphor—the quickest way to telegraph my return to the city. Do you like the ballet?”
“I’ve never been,” she answered, lowering her gaze as she absorbed his offhand question. Her preferences had obviously been the last thing on his mind. This was the most exciting outing of her life, yet he’d brought her here for reasons that had nothing to do with her. She had to stop wishing for more! She went back to the nickname. Irrepressible curiosity made her ask, “Does it bother you that people see the scar, not you?”
“There’s no separating one from the other, is there?” His look hit her like a face full of icy slush, his tone chilling her blood.
“I don’t know,” she replied, ignoring the bite of his hostility, fighting not to take it personally even though she sensed a hint of accusation in his demeanor. “Have you looked into plastic surgery?”
“Why? Does it disgust you?” His fingertip unerringly found the line of raised tissue. He drilled her with his eyes, but she didn’t have to lie.
“No. I don’t notice it more than any of your other features,