Dani Collins - His Best Acquisition - The Russian's Acquisition / A Deal Before the Altar / A Deal with Demakis

He cocked his head, amusement tilting his mouth. “How is it that a woman as naturally sensual as you are has never taken a lover before?”

Her pulse raced at how easily he’d read her yearning in one brief, unguarded glance. If she continued seeing him, she’d have to learn to keep her thoughts to herself.

“No one ever tempted me.” She tried to keep her voice level so he wouldn’t guess how unnerved she was at the way his powerful sex appeal kept smashing through her self-protective reserve. “And normal relationships don’t interest me,” she added.

“Normal?” His eyebrows climbed.

“Dating to find love. Searching for a soul mate.” Profound disappointment seemed the inevitable follow-up to those quests. “You were right when you accused me of being more pragmatic than that. I don’t want to live in a cave, but most people my age live the other extreme: partying and hooking up. Being Victor’s platonic mistress seemed like the happy medium.” She sipped her coffee, but it had gone cold and bitter, much like how she felt about her arrangement with Victor, especially now that she’d glimpsed how much pain he’d caused Aleksy. It was yet another harsh reminder that relationships—even ones with seemingly impervious boundaries—could reach inside to wound.

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.

Most startling of all was the photograph above the fireplace in the lounge. The bride wore a modest dress, the groom a simple suit and tie. The corner of the small snapshot was burned, the colors faded, but it was set off by a wide mat and an elegant frame, so it took up significant space, speaking of its importance to the flat’s owner.

She guessed from his resemblance to the groom that they were his parents. Aleksy confirmed it with a simple da , not encouraging more questions, but she’d found herself oddly encouraged by this evidence of a softer side in him.

Such a complex man, just like his city.

And now he’d brought her into it. Indefinitely .

She still felt apprehensive about letting him pressure her into going along with his demands. His strong-arm tactics didn’t bother her so much as the way she’d folded to them did. She knew how to stand up for herself when it mattered. This mattered. She wasn’t a ward of the state anymore and wasn’t about to let him erode what autonomy she’d managed to build for herself. It was too hard won.

Nevertheless, she was here. As his mistress.

Until he grew bored and paid her out.

Flinching from that brutal inevitability, she moved away from the window and took up the two gowns again, hands shaking. She was trying to decide which was better suited for seeing the ballet at the Bolshoi Theatre—as if she had the first clue what the well-dressed mistresses in Moscow were wearing.

How infantile it had been to try striking him in his wallet when it was so well padded. She couldn’t imagine what he’d spent on her. Victor had given her a small clothing allowance and she’d bought conservative outfits that helped her blend in with those around her. She liked being unobtrusive.

Aleksy was having none of that. These gowns were daring and sophisticated, the colors bold, the designs requiring confidence to wear them well. She wasn’t sure she could pull off a dress like this any more than she could cope with being Aleksy’s woman.

Stop it, she ordered herself, refusing to backslide into wanting to belong to someone. He didn’t want her soul and she wouldn’t give it up. This was a reciprocal exchange of pleasure, unencumbered by demands for true intimacy.

“What are you doing in here?” Aleksy’s stern voice made her jump.

“You startled me.” Despite her previous affirmations, her knees weakened at the sight of him. Her reaction was a complex tumble of nervous excitement and an inexplicable desire to earn his admiration.

She clamped down hard on those self-destructive emotions but couldn’t wholly suppress her physical response. He was still in the casual pants and button shirt he’d worn all day in his office, and his expression was downright forbidding, but her heart raced with appreciation of his fiercely handsome looks. When would he touch her again? The question had been burning in her blood all day.

“You said to be ready for eight,” she reminded him, using the gowns as a shield for the lightweight silk robe she wore, glancing down at the drapes of color to keep him seeing her involuntary and immediate desire.