He would take her to his bed, not the guest room where he conducted most of his sexual trysts. His wrought-iron bed, imported from the ironmasters in Russia, had never been occupied by anyone but him.
Using more control than he realized would be necessary, he pulled away from the allure of her body and stood. Maxwell put his hand out to Romi. “Come, we will have your sexual taste test.”
She burst out laughing, all traces of the overly emotional, dangerously vulnerable woman drowning under her sweet humor. “That is not what I said.”
“But it is what you meant?”
“Maybe I’m just ready to lose my virginity.”
“Maybe there is something going on here neither of us understands.” He liked that idea much better than him being the only one in the dark.
“Oooh, the Corporate Tsar doesn’t know everything. How disconcerting that must be for you.”
“I am used to that unfortunate turn of events around you.”
“I confuse you?” she asked, sounding really far too happy about the possibility.
“Do you doubt it? Have we not established that we are very different people?”
“You’re nothing like Jeremy Archer, or my dad for that matter, but you understand them. Don’t try to pretend you don’t.”
“You, Romi, are an enigma.”
She preened. “Well, that’s nice to know.”
He shook his head. “Like right now. I do not understand why this is so satisfying and amusing to you.”
“You are a very dangerous man to me, Maxwell Black,” she said with a lot more serious mien than she had shown only a second before. “It’s good to know you don’t have it all easy with me.”
“I would call you anything but easy, milaya.”
Her blue gaze sparked with heat as she placed her hand in his and stood. “You know I love when you use Russian endearments.”
He did know it. Though once again, he was not sure he understood why. But it was easier to use Russian endearments than English for him.
His mother had never used the English terms and while he would admit it aloud only under the threat of his company’s dissolution, Russian was the language of what passed for his heart.
Unlike her silent and rather bemused response to his tour earlier, Romi commented on the décor on the way to his bedroom, seemingly surprised it felt like a home rather than a hotel room.
“Why would my home feel like a hotel?” he had to ask.
“Well, because decorators often go generic when they do places for men like you.”
“Men like me?” He pressed against the door to his study with his back, pushing it open wide enough for them to enter.
“Corporate Tsars,” she said with the tiniest bit of sarcasm lacing the second word.
Her allusion to his royal attitude was not lost on Maxwell, but he refused to pretend to be other than what he was. A man who knew what he wanted and had a decided talent for figuring out how to get it.
“If I wanted to live in a place that looked like a hotel, I would live in one.” If he wanted to live in a palace, he’d live in one of those, too.
“See, that’s the way I always thought. You should have heard me and Maddie when Jeremy had his mansion redecorated.”
“It is not the warmest of abodes.” There was nothing wrong with the mansion if you wanted to live in luxury without personality.
The designer who had redone the Archer house had obviously been very knowledgeable in his or her field—talented even—but it was a cold place with no evidence a family lived there.
Though Maxwell supposed with just Jeremy Archer in residence, a family didn’t. “It’s a showplace for a megarich tycoon who likes to impress and intimidate with his surroundings as much as his money.”
Maxwell’s own strategy for how his home came across to visitors was more subtle. His penthouse reflected him and his wealth in a way that let others know he was not afraid for them to know who he was.
Of course, that was because nothing of manipulative value could be discovered visiting the main areas of his home. His favorite colors? His preference for dark wood? Yes.
Even his Russian heritage and wholesale acceptance of the country of his second citizenship, America.
What no one saw, unless they were looking very closely and knew how to read such things—not a common occurrence—was his desire for control or his genuine affection for his mother.
There was only a single formal picture of her in the living area. His bedroom suite was different.
There, much of what made Maxwell the man he was could be seen on display.
Hence the dearth of invitations to that sanctum.
He did not invite women to the bed in which he slept for a reason. The only friend who had been in his personal office in memory was Viktor Beck, and the only people who had seen every room in his apartment were his mother and his cleaning staff.