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

“I meant why are you in this room?” He moved forward and took in the open closet, the myriad empty boxes and zippered dress bags. “I instructed the housekeeper to put everything away in my room tomorrow.”

Her heart dropped like a boulder from a rock face. Share his room? After living alone she was finding the idea of sharing a flat—even one as big as this—to be a hard adjustment. She couldn’t breathe with him four steps in the door. No, if she was going to get through this in one piece, she needed her own space to retreat to.

“The boxes were in here, so I assumed this was my room and unpacked them.” She conquered old twinges of wanting to apologize for occupying any space at all. This wasn’t a foster home. He’d brought her here. She’d stay, but on her terms. “I’d like to use it,” she said firmly.

He assessed the volume of clothes. “As a dressing room? Very well, but I’m not about to creep up and down the hall looking for you. You’ll sleep in my bed.”

Conquering a suffocating panic, she asserted, “I don’t want to.”

“Why not?” He turned the full power of his intense personality on her.

She swallowed, not intimidated by his power and height, but instantly vulnerable to the effects his alpha male nature had on her. At some point they’d have sex again and the recently awakened woman in her craved that so deeply she was a little frightened by the power of it, but sleeping together would have its own way of increasing her reliance on him. That wouldn’t do.

“I—” The word was cut off as he drew her into a strong, careful embrace. She automatically tensed and pressed the heels of her hands to his chest, fingers still curled around the padded hooks of the hangers.

He looked down at the way she held him off, not forcing her body into his, but she sensed the firm planes of his stomach and the long, hard muscles of his thighs teasing like a warm breath beyond the fall of her kimono.

He tugged the towel from her head, releasing her damp hair, and tipped her head back so her gaze tangled with his. He stroked her cheek, then let his caress trail into the sensitive hollow beneath her ear and under her jaw.

“I’m looking forward to tonight. I don’t know how I’ve managed to work when all I could think about was touching you again. Feeling you under me.”

Her arms pressed harder as she tried to keep his seductive words from affecting her, but everything else in her melted. This was the sensual heat low in her abdomen she’d looked forward to. She consciously closed herself off to reading any significance in his admission that she’d been on his mind, though. As he lowered his head, a helpless moan escaped her. Her hands released the weight in them and slid up to curl around his neck and into his hair. The first touch of his lips shot a jolt through her. They melded together as the kiss deepened without any insistence from him. She welcomed him with a passionate response, transported to the exciting world he’d initiated her into while trying to hang on to herself, not give him everything—

He lifted his head. They were both breathless. His cheekbones were flushed, but his eyes glittered with aggravation. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she murmured, aware of an internal tension that grew as he delved into her gaze. Keeping herself disconnected from the way he made her feel was hard. She looked at the sobering line of his scar to cool her blood, wondering about it.

His expression grew stony as he slid his hands over the silk gown, his palms hot through the slinky fabric, molding her back and fondling her bottom, making her tremble.

She let her head fall forward onto his chest to hide how the sweetness in his caress made her eyes moisten. She felt his hardness against her belly, urgent and thick, and caught her breath in wonder. He wanted her. Her .

A burst of relief made her dizzy, unnerving her, filling her with the tautness of wanting him while remaining wary of limitless intimacy. She gathered herself behind an invisible wall, before she followed through on her desire to look up and press her lips to his neck.

Before she could make the move to take this where her body wanted to go, he set her away from him and bent, coming up with the red and the blue gowns. He rejected the red with a toss toward the bed, his expression inscrutable. Holding the blue in front of her, he said with detachment, “This one. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll meet you in the lounge.”

Her mouth still tingled from the pressure of his. Her whole body felt light enough to fly while bitter disappointment weighed like a rock in her throat, keeping her from calling after him. She refused to beg for affection.

* * *

As he dressed, Aleksy was still trying to understand what had transpired in the other room. The fact that he was being so introspective about Clair’s behavior was as irritating as her trying to hold him off.

After resisting temptation all day, he’d been unable to help going to her. Finding her in the spare room, trying to keep space between them, was an oddly disturbing rejection. Everyone gave him a wide berth, but Clair’s doing it stung unexpectedly. Did she fear him? The thought galled him.

He’d been compelled to close the gap and pull her into his arms with as much gentleness as he was capable of. She had reacted beautifully, her arousal instant and obvious.

When he’d kissed her, her mouth had parted beneath his. The silk of her robe had revealed the tension in her belly and the sharp points of her nipples. Her supple body had even leaned into him. She , however, had not been involved.

Why not? She’d called herself practical when they were in Paris, her interest in her financial future blatant enough to assure him they were on well-defined ground. Had she read something about him that had turned her off?

The way she had stared at his scar had seemed to suggest so. Then she’d folded into him, almost as if she was ready to surrender regardless of what she thought of him, but he’d been stinging with disgrace. In one glance, she’d reminded him that it didn’t matter how mercenary she was, he still didn’t deserve to touch her.

Even she seemed to know it.

* * *

From inside the limo, his world gave an impression of chilly silence. The few people on the street wore overcoats and furred hats as they hurried down the street, breath fogging in the frosty air. Yet their very presence in the cold evening spoke of perseverance and a steadfast grasp on life, entrancing Clair into forgetting she didn’t want to fall in love with anything, even his country.

How could she stay immune, though, when he’d put her in the center of a fairy tale? The limo stopped and Aleksy left the car, holding a hand to help her stand, so courtly he stole her breath.

He wore a tuxedo with a white bow tie and gloves. It ought to have seemed affected, but his features were carved with masculine perfection, his brow stern enough to make everything about him serious and deliberate. Backlit by an enormous, columned building with a rosy-cream glow, he was devastatingly handsome.

She stood on unsteady legs, taking in the milling crowd streaming around the frozen fountain toward the spectacular entrance of the theater. This was the world he inhabited. Miles above any she’d ever thought to visit. Her treacherous emotions lifted with excitement, caught in a spell of beauty and wonder.

As if that wasn’t magical enough, his presence cut a swath through the crowd of people. One glance over their shoulder and people moved aside. Aleksy kept her pressed close to him as they climbed the stairs, coldly ignoring murmurs of “Dmitriev” and Russian phrases she didn’t understand, coupled with glances at his scar.

Taking her cue from him, Clair refused to acknowledge the morbidly curious looks, pretending to be absorbed in the grandeur of the theater. She was genuinely awed. The ornamental detailing and painted ceilings looked as if they’d been finished yesterday. For a moment time slipped away and she was a nineteenth-century aristocrat carrying a fan and wearing lace to her throat. The man at her side was an arranged-marriage husband—not a far cry from today’s situation at all, she thought with a wry, inward wince. He was supporting her and there was no hope for love.