Dealing Her Final Card(44)

Her lower lip wobbled. “Thank you.”

Seeing her reaction, he wanted to do more. He heard himself say, “And I’ll have my men look around Seattle. See if they can track Josie down.”

“Okay,” she sniffled.

“Do you have any idea where she might be?”

She shook her head. “We used to say that when we got back to the Mainland, if we had money, we’d start our own bed-and-breakfast, or a small hotel.” Her cheeks flushed. “But the truth is, that’s my dream, not hers. She wants to go to college.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll find her.” Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he turned away. He was stopped by Bree’s small voice.

“People call you ruthless. But it’s not true.”

Slowly, he turned to face her.

Bree’s hazel eyes were luminous, piercing his soul. “When we met, I thought you’d changed completely from the man I loved. But you’re still the same, aren’t you?” she whispered. “The other man—he’s just the mask you wear.”

Vladimir’s forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He felt bare beneath the spotlight. “You’re wrong,” he said roughly. “I am ruthless. Selfish, even cruel. Don’t believe otherwise.”

She shook her head. “You’re afraid people will take advantage, so you hide your good heart—”

“Good heart?” He grabbed her shoulders, looking down at her fiercely. “I am selfish to the bone. I will never put someone else’s interests ahead of my own. I cannot love, Bree. That ability is no longer in me. It died a long time ago.”

“But—”

“Would a good man keep you prisoner against your will?”

She lifted her gaze. Her hazel eyes were suddenly troubled, opaque, full of shadows.

“No,” she whispered.

No. That one word caused an unexpected wrench inside him. As the two of them stood in the huge private dressing room of the designer atelier, her expression became impassive—her poker face. He wondered what she was thinking. In this moment, when he felt so strangely vulnerable, his insight into her soul suddenly disappeared.

“I’m not a good man, Bree,” he said in a low voice. To prove it further—to both of them—he lowered his mouth to hers, kissed her hard enough to bruise. She kissed him back with fierce passion, but he felt her withholding something he wanted. Something he needed.

Unzipping her blue ball gown, Vladimir kissed the bare skin of her neck. Her hair smelled like sunlight and passion fruit, like vanilla and the ocean, like endless summer.

Her strapless silk bodice fell, revealing her white bustier. They were surrounded by mirrors on three sides, and as he saw endless reflections of him touching her, he felt so hard he wanted to take her roughly, against the wall. So he did. As the dress fell to the hardwood floors, he unzipped his pants and lifted her, shoving her roughly against the mirrored wall. Barely pausing to sheath himself in a condom, he thrust inside her. Wrapping her legs around his hips tightly, she clutched his shoulders as he filled her, slamming her against the wall. Five thrusts and she was moaning. Ten thrusts and she clutched her fingertips into his shoulders as her body tightened, her back arching. Fifteen thrusts and she screamed with pleasure in cries that matched his own.

Afterwards, for an instant, panting and sweaty, he just held her, his eyes closed. Then slowly he released her legs, letting her body slide down his. The passion had been hotter than ever.

But he knew something had changed between them. An unbridgeable gap.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We have dinner reservations.”

“Fine,” she said dully, not meeting his eyes.

He zipped up his pants, and she put on her new clothes, the slim-fitting black pants, sheer black top over a black camisole, and black leather motorcycle jacket he’d bought for her earlier at a department store on Nevsky Prospekt. All afternoon, he’d insisted on buying everything he saw in her size, anything she could possibly want to wear for the rest of her life, for any season and any event.

Compensating, he thought. Though he knew she couldn’t be bought.

Even if he’d bought her.

“Before dinner,” he said brightly, despising the false cheer in his voice, “I wish to buy you something truly special. A fur coat. White mink, perhaps, or Barguzin sable—”

Bree shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“Russian furs are the best in the world.”

Her eyes were cold. “I don’t want a fur.”

He set his jaw. “You’re pouting.”

“No.” She looked away. “I just used to have a dog when I was a kid,” she mumbled. “I loved that dog. We used to explore the forest all summer long. He had a soul. He was my friend.”