She should take that as a warning sign, but last night had been extraordinary. All her reasons for agreeing to sleep with Aleksy were still there along with memories that made tongues of flame lick down into her pelvis.
“Now you see the advantages in being a real mistress,” he murmured in that deadly accent. He reached for her free hand, lightly combing his fingertips between her fingers before tracing a path across her palm. Her entire body jolted and a moist layer rose under his teasing caress.
She tugged her hand into her lap and tried to erase the tingling sensation by rubbing it on her thigh. She couldn’t hide that he had a profound effect on her.
As if he read her response as acceptance, he nodded with satisfaction and rose. “I’ll call for the car. You’ll need a full wardrobe before we leave for Moscow.”
“Moscow?” Her composure dropped along with the coffee cup she still held, the clatter in the saucer jarring. “I can’t get into Russia without a visa.”
“I have your passport. Lazlo will arrange it,” he dismissed with a shrug.
“What happened to ladies’ choice? I run my own life, Aleksy.” She rose to grip the back of her chair.
“I’ve been occupied with this takeover at the expense of my interests at home,” he said stiffly. “I need to return and I want you with me. Is that asking too much?”
I want you with me. Don’t, Clair. Don’t let that mean something.
“You’re not asking,” she pointed out, determined to assert herself.
“No, I’m paying for it.”
Ouch. Piqued, she threw back, “Yes, you are, because I’m not footing the bill on whatever you expect me to wear.”
His scarred face twisted with a smile of patronizing satisfaction that made her want to bite back her words. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
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.