The Russian's Acquistion(66)
“Like lie?” Please tell me it’s all lies.
He stared at her, his gaze not the hard, sharp, dangerous blade she expected. It was supreme blankness. Bleakness. Flat, unpolished bronze.
“Of course lie, but in this case it was a betrayal of official duty, exposing a truth that should have remained buried.”
His words knocked the wind out of her. She had to consciously force herself to draw a breath. It seared her throat and made her chest ache. Her skin grew clammy and her stomach tied itself into knots. She had one thought. Go.
As she looked past him, gauging her chances, his arm shot out, not touching her, but making clear he wouldn’t let her leave. “You’re coming with me, Clair. Whether you like it or not.”
Everything in her gathered for the fight of her life. Before she could do more than engage his stare in a battle of wills, he ground out, “You have nowhere to hide and they’ll eat you alive. I won’t let that happen. But I won’t touch you either,” he added bitterly.
His statement was another shock, so oddly protective when her head was screaming at her that he was a danger to her. For some reason, her stupid brain stumbled on that I won’t touch you as if it were a trip wire that sent her metaphorically splatting onto her face, pride bruised. She should be relieved, but she just felt rejected. Again.
Words crowded her mouth, but her throat was too thick to voice any of them.
“I have security posted at all the doors to keep the paparazzi out.” He stepped back. “They’ll also keep you in, so you might as well give in. I really don’t need the extra humiliation of carrying you kicking and screaming to the helicopter.”
He walked away to his room, presumably to pack, leaving his words repeating in her head. Extra humiliation. As if she were in a position to injure him. Cause further injury even, because he was already hurting.
Was he hurting? She rubbed where her breastbone felt as if it were coated in acid. For a long time she stood in the lounge, arms wrapped tight around herself, confused. Frightened, but not by Aleksy. By herself.
She wanted to trust a man who’d just confessed to murder.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CLAIR HAD HEARD Russians talk about their dachas. She had gathered they were a type of summer cottage retreat, usually rustic and far enough out of the city to offer a garden plot and a return to nature. The buildings were often little more than shacks, but they were kept in families for generations.
If this was Aleksy’s dacha, he needed to work on his definition of shack. The minute she saw it, her mind heard, Welcome home.
They’d flown over nothing but trees once they’d left the outskirts of Moscow, leaving little to distract from her inner turmoil until she’d glimpsed a palace surrounded by a groomed park. The fountains were off, the canals frozen, but she’d realized they were nearing St. Petersburg. This was a place so beautiful even czars chose to summer here.
Far from summer now, the day was overcast, late afternoon flakes beginning to fall. The fresh dust of snow only made the expansive estate they touched down on look fresh and new. Untouched.
It was very new, she realized, looking at the bare, young fruit trees and nut groves that embraced the charming house. The two-story structure was built along old-fashioned lines with a wraparound porch, shuttered windows, pretty gables and a romantic turret. It was big enough to host a crowd, yet cozy and inviting. Not threatening and not something she would have expected Aleksy to build or buy.