Kate Hewitt - Kholodov's Last Mistress

She swallowed, looked up, saw Grigori waiting. Well, she did need to eat. And a public restaurant was a safe and fairly innocuous place. And she was curious, and excited, and a little nervous. It seemed this crazy ride had a few more dips and turns. Why on earth did Sergei Kholodov want to have dinner with her? Was he just being nice or …?

‘Miss Pearl?’

‘Okay. Yes. Thank you. I’d be—ah—happy to join Mr Kholodov at eight.’

‘Very good.’ Grigori snapped his heels together militarystyle and turned to leave.

‘Grigori—’

He turned back. ‘Yes, Miss Pearl?’

‘Is—That is—’ She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. ‘Has Mr Kholodov owned this hotel for very long?’ She wanted to know something about this enigmatic man, something his assistant would be willing to answer.

Grigori frowned slightly. ‘I believe it has been five years, Miss Pearl. There is a pamphlet in the desk drawer concerning the history of the hotel, if you are interested.’

‘Okay. Great. Thanks.’ Smiling awkwardly, Hannah closed the door. Still dazed by the sudden and entirely unexpected invitation, she went to the desk and took out the pamphlet. She skimmed the paragraphs about the historic building, how it had been a hotel for a hundred years, had fallen into disrepair and been abandoned. Her interest sharpened when she read that Sergei had bought and renovated it, provided jobs for a thousand people, and was committed to the highest service possible.

He really was an incredible man. And she was going to have dinner with him. Her heart began to thump, her tummy turning somersaults. She was going to have dinner with Sergei Kholodov. It wasn’t a date, of course. She understood that. A man like Sergei Kholodov couldn’t actually be interested in her … could he?

Was she ridiculous to wonder even for a moment that he might? An icy thrill ran like cold fire through her veins at the thought. Then she realised with a flutter of something between dismay and desolation that she had nothing to wear.

Hannah straightened. She could hardly hope to impress someone of Sergei Kholodov’s wealth and experience. And it was only dinner after all.

By seven-thirty Hannah was dressed and ready. She gazed at herself in the mirror, acknowledging that the simple black dress in soft jersey was flattering but also plain, and three months in a rucksack hadn’t done it any favours. Fortunately the material had mostly smoothed out, and she liked the simple style, ending in a swirl around her calves. Her only jewellery was a single string of pearls her parents had given her for her eighteenth birthday. She finished the outfit with low black pumps, a slick of lip gloss, and then she was done.

Now she just had to wait half an hour. She definitely didn’t want to appear overeager, especially since he knew that word. Her lips twitched at the memory. She must have seemed terribly patronising, especially considering how excellent his English was.

She flicked through a few of the television channels, trying to settle her still flip-flopping stomach, until five minutes to eight when she made her way back down to the sumptuous lobby. Not overeager, just punctual.

The restaurant was understated, elegant, and buzzing with people. Hannah stood uncertainly in the doorway, looking around for Sergei, for no more than a few seconds before she felt a sure touch at her elbow.

‘Miss Pearl? Mr Kholodov is waiting for you.’

Hannah turned to see Grigori. He smiled at her, shyly, and Hannah thought how different he was from Sergei. She wondered if his boss scared him with his scowls and sneers, or if he was used to it. Or did Sergei Kholodov just scowl at her?

‘Miss Pearl?’ he prompted, and Hannah realised she’d just been standing there, staring into space. And Sergei was waiting. Somehow she didn’t think he liked to wait. She swallowed, nodding, and followed Grigori through the dining room to a discreet alcove in the back, part of the main dining room and yet also quite private. No one could see into this secluded and intimate corner. A table with an L-shaped banquette in plush crimson velvet was laid with crystal, flickering with candlelight. Sergei slid out of the booth as she approached, and now stood in front of her, his gaze sweeping over her in a brief but thorough assessment.

Her face—her whole body—heated under his gaze. She didn’t think she was imagining a look like that. And yet the thought that he might actually find her attractive was incredible, impossible. Exciting.

He looked, she thought as the thud of her heart seemed to roar in her ears, amazing. He’d exchanged the leather trench coat and jeans for a well-cut silk suit in a charcoal grey, and it did even better things for his shoulders, if that were possible. She couldn’t keep herself from noticing the strong lines of his body: his jaw, his shoulder, his thigh. The man was a painting, or perhaps a sculpture.

‘Good evening,’ he said, and Hannah very nearly bobbed a curtsey back. She felt so out of her element, and no more so than when Sergei slowly reached out a hand, which she took instinctively, and with a sensual smile led her to the table.

Sergei saw Hannah’s eyes widen and flare and felt a shaft of desire stab him as she bit her lip, taking its rosy fullness between her teeth, her wide-eyed gaze taking in the obvious intimacy of their surroundings. Just looking at her he felt desire flood through his veins, fire his resolve. He wanted her, and that made things simple. Lust was easy, desire safe. And as her gaze finally rested on him, open and guileless, he thought she desired him back. A faint flush tinged her cheeks and she dropped her hand from where she’d been toying with her hair.

Sergei let his gaze sweep over her once more. Her hair, last scraped back into a ponytail, now fell almost to her waist in a rippling chestnut waterfall, the candlelight picking out strands of amber and gold. Her dress was cheap and boring but it didn’t matter. The fabric draped lovingly over the gentle curves of her breasts and hips; they were slight and she was almost too thin, yet Sergei was still tempted. Still speechless.

She wasn’t classically beautiful, there was something too open and honest about her for that; she possessed no haughty awareness or distance. Yet she still looked breathtaking, and she was the only woman Sergei had ever met who caused him to break his rules, to want more, more than he ever let himself want.

He pushed the thought—the want—aside. This was lust, pure and simple. That was all. He’d make sure of that.

‘I hope you found everything in your room comfortable,’ he said.

‘ Comfortable? Are you kidding me? It was amazing. The tub alone—I stayed in there for an hour.’ She held out her hands for his inspection. ‘My fingers are still wrinkled like prunes.’

‘I’m glad you enjoyed all the room’s amenities,’ he said smoothly, and she dropped her hands, laughing a little.

‘Definitely. Thank you. This is all so … like something out of a fairy tale. Really.’ Her eyes held a playful, teasing light. ‘Are you my fairy godmother?’

‘No,’ Sergei said, ‘Just someone assuaging his own guilty conscience.’

‘You hardly need to feel guilty,’ she said as she slid into the booth. He caught a whiff of her honeyed scent: snowdrops, the signature scent of the complementary toiletries found in every room in his hotel. The scent, he’d always thought, of sweetness and courage.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ he asked, reaching for the bottle of red already open.

‘Oh … well. Okay.’ She smiled, trying to be sophisticated, clearly nervous. ‘Thank you.’

She was, Sergei thought, incredibly open. Those eyes, that face, every word she said … she hid nothing. Having hidden every emotion since he could remember, he was both disturbed and moved by the thought.