Шэрон Кендрик: Too Proud to be Bought

It was such an outrageous thing to say that for a moment Zara forgot that all she was supposed to be doing was showcasing her friend’s dress. She found herself remembering all the fantastic people in the caring professions she’d met when she’d been nursing her godmother and all the difficult conditions they had to endure every day. And then she compared their stoicism with the arrogance she saw written on this man’s handsome face.

She found herself studying his costly black dinner suit—the price of which could probably have fed a family of four for at least a month. She thought about the pile of medical bills she’d been left with, and some rogue streak of rebellion made itself known. And besides, wasn’t it better to concentrate on indignation rather than acknowledge the dizzying effect he was having on her senses?

‘Most people don’t confess to their faults on a first meeting,’ she commented drily.

Icy blue eyes glittered with mischief. ‘Aren’t you rather taking it for granted that there’s going to be a second meeting?’ he questioned softly. ‘And isn’t that a little presumptuous of you, or is that what you’ve grown to expect from men—their instant capitulation and desire to see you again?’

Her experience of men was so small that Zara wanted to laugh—and the idea that someone like her should have men capitulating was even funnier. Especially a man as gorgeous as this one, who was clearly living in a parallel universe. ‘Actually, I never take anything for granted,’ she answered. ‘And I certainly try to avoid generalisations about the opposite sex.’

Nikolai’s eyes narrowed as he heard a note in her voice which he couldn’t quite define. Something which sounded a little like…censure? Once again, he felt a stir of interest. ‘You know, I get the distinct sense that you don’t approve,’ he observed softly.

Now Zara sensed an even greater danger. Instinct told her to move away and yet another instinct—one which was much more powerful—kept her rooted to the spot. She stared up into the icy glitter of his blue eyes and her heart missed a beat. ‘Of what?’

‘Of me, milaya moya. Of me.’

‘How can I possibly have an opinion about you, when we’re complete strangers?’ she questioned.

‘Yes, we are,’ he agreed. ‘But that is something which is easily remedied.’ He gave a brief smile as he watched closely to see whether his name might stir any sign of recognition. ‘My name is Nikolai Komarov.’

Zara felt her throat thicken, knowing that now was the time to look at him and to say, very calmly:Actually, I already knew that. I also know that you are a hugely influential man with your own department stores as well as innumerable gorgeous girlfriends—and my friend happens to be a very talented designer. Do you like the dress I’m wearing? Actually, it’s one of hers. Perhaps I could give you one of her cards and you might think about looking at her collection?But as those palely intense eyes studied her she knew that she couldn’t go through with it. She couldn’t. Was that because she was enjoying the fantasy of flirting with him? Of pretending shereallywas the person she was dressed up to be instead of some broke little waitress who was doing a friend a favour? ‘You’re…you’re Russian,’ she said slowly.

‘How very perceptive of you.’ But Nikolai felt his mouth tighten with an odd kind of disappointment. So it had not been an instant eyes-across-a-room thing after all. She had heard of him—he would have staked his fortune on that. He had seen the signs of suppressed recognition too many times in the past and he had seen it flare in her eyes. But he didn’t know why he should be either surprised or disappointed—because women always played these games, didn’t they? They lied. They indulged in subterfuge. They would open their pretty eyes very wide and insist that black was white—and sometimes he suspected they even ended up believing it themselves. ‘You know many Russians, perhaps?’

‘No. None at all.’

‘Until now, of course.’

‘Until now,’ she agreed, with a slightly nervous smile. Would he be appalled if he knew who she was—an imposter who had no right to be here? She searched for clues in his face. Good guy or bad guy? Or just a wickedly hot guy who was used to getting whatever he wanted from a woman?

‘And you are?’ he prompted.

His icy eyes were cutting through her defences as he waited for her to respond and for a moment Zara was half tempted to give him a false name. A bogus identity to go with her one-off appearance—until she told herself how stupid that was. She would never see him again after tonight. A name like hers meant nothing to a man like this.

‘I’m…Zara,’ she said falteringly. ‘Zara Evans.’

‘A beautiful name,’ he mused softly, observing that cute tremble of her lips. ‘To go with a very beautiful woman.’

The throwaway compliment made her skin glow—it seemed like for ever since someone had paid her one, and nobody had ever called her beautiful before. But Zara told herself that she mustn’t fall for his charm. He probably came out with statements like that every minute of every day—slick, perfectly timed statements, which were guaranteed to have women falling under his spell. She opened her mouth to say something smart and instead it came out as a breathless little ‘th-thank you’ and she could have kicked herself.

‘Can I get you a drink, Zara?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thanks—I’ve already had one.’

‘Oh, I think you’re allowed more than one.’ He stared straight into her eyes. ‘Though no more than two.’ He smiled slightly to show he was teasing her.

He was making it sound as if the two of them were involved in some kind of conspiracy and the thought of that made Zara draw herself up short. What the hell did she think she was doing? This wasn’t why she was supposed to be here—and if she had lost her nerve about foisting one of Emma’s cards on him, then she ought to make herself scarce.

Because this man was dangerous—hadn’t he told her so himself? ‘Actually, I’d better go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ Her words tailed away as she tried to think of a good reason why she might wish to leave a party when she had only just arrived.

‘You don’t really have a reason, do you?’ he questioned as he saw her bite her lip in a moment of indecision, which was oddly appealing. ‘Not when there is music playing and I’m being plagued by an urgent desire to dance with you, which simply won’t go away. So come here.’

To Zara’s horror, he reached out and laced her fingers with his and began to lead her through the throngs of people. Well, maybe horror wasn’t the right word, she conceded as people began to part to let them through. Excitement might have been more accurate. She could feel hot colour flaring at her cheeks as she became aware of heads turning to watch them and the pulse at her wrist began to hammer wildly beneath his fingertips. But it wasn’t until he had halted by the small space of floor directly in front of the musicians that she tipped her head up to gaze at him.

‘We can’t dance!’ she whispered.

‘Why not?’

‘Because—’

‘Stop saying “because”. Come and dance with me instead.’ His icy eyes glittered out a cool challenge. ‘You know you want to.’

And the awful thing was that he was right. She did. There was a melting, yearning pool in the pit of her stomach, which was longing for him to pull her into his arms—and when he did she gave an instinctive intake of breath, which caused his fingers to tighten around her waist.

‘You see?’ he murmured. ‘It’s what you wanted all along.’