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

“Grigori gave me my first real job after my father was killed,” Aleksy answered. He had to school his fury with everything in him as he took her arm and led her back to the lounge. Before she could pass through to the balcony, he cut her off, closing the doors so they were alone in the sitting room.

The music rose in the auditorium and Clair lifted a nervous hand to indicate it. “The show is back on.”

Aleksy turned on her. Whatever she read in his grim expression scared her, but she held her ground with more mettle than anyone he’d ever made a point of revealing his fury to.

“Why are you angry?” she asked with rigid dignity.

“Did Van Eych teach you to work a situation like that or is it a personal gift?”

She straightened as tall as she could possibly be, a pale reed so beautifully set off by the deep blue of the gown he nearly had to close his eyes against the temptation to touch her. He focused on the finery of the dress instead, on the fact that the small fortune he’d dropped on her new wardrobe wasn’t enough. She was trying to steal from his friend, as well.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I won’t let you take advantage of Grigori’s generous nature.” The man had been his salvation, offering Aleksy not just work, but a fresh chance. Grigori had helped a desperate young man put a roof over his mother’s head while giving him the opportunity to move up the ladder toward the life he lived now. The life itself didn’t mean anything, but Grigori’s hand up when no one else had offered meant the world.

“I didn’t expect Ivana to offer a donation.” Clair managed to sound not just innocent, but hurt. “We were only chatting. She asked how we’d met, so I told her about the charity.”

“Which doesn’t exist!”

Clair’s jaw dropped open. Rather than cower under his blistering gaze, she drew a deep, hissing breath of outrage. “Don’t tell me your precious Lazlo failed to advise you of the email I sent him today? I attached the tax receipt. What?” she dared challenge as he narrowed his eyes. “You thought I asked for the Wi-Fi code so I could update my social media status to ‘mistress’?”

He ignored her biting sarcasm. “I can check,” he warned. “With one call.”

“Do it,” she choked, acting so offended as she swung away that he experienced a flash of misgiving. He shook it off and scowled at her as he withdrew his phone.

Seconds later a muted buzz vibrated in his palm. Clair’s back stiffened as though the sound were the whir of a whip and she was bracing herself for the lash.

The edges of the device dug into his hard grip as he read and reread the message.

“You told him you’d print me a copy if I asked, so he assumed I was aware,” he paraphrased, needing to hear it to fully comprehend it.

“You didn’t ask,” she pointed out, barely able to look at him.

“So it’s real, this charity of yours.” She even had a registered number.

That swung her around to face him. “Of course it’s real! I’m not a liar. You don’t truck with those, remember?”

He found himself in the completely unfamiliar state of being at a loss as he let it sink in. “I don’t understand,” he muttered, voice graveled by his impatience at being faced with something that didn’t add up. “You gave me your virginity for charity? Why would you do that?”

“People like me deserve—” She cut off her outburst and struggled visibly, jaw flexing as though chewing back words she hadn’t meant to voice. Flicking her hair back from her shoulders, she changed tack. “Look. I didn’t want all my work to die on the vine. Brighter Days fills a very real need.”

“For who?” he asked suspiciously. “Finish what you were going to say. People like you deserve what?”

Clair’s jaw ached. She didn’t want to tell him. Why? Because she was ashamed? Still? If she wanted to get anywhere with the foundation, she had to conquer this sense of being second class once and for all.

“Support,” she answered with a swell of defiance. “When there’s nowhere else to turn.” She wasn’t as confident inside as she acted. It had always been hard to believe she really deserved any such thing when no one else seemed to agree, but she deeply believed children like her deserved a caring home and opportunities to make a secure life for themselves. If she didn’t act as their voice, they wouldn’t have one, just as she hadn’t.

“What kind of people are we talking about?” Aleksy asked. “Orphans?”

“Yes.” It was incredibly hard to look him in the eye. Her stomach trembled as she braced herself for how the label would change his view of her.

Aleksy had vaguely absorbed that she didn’t have family, but the information had only penetrated distantly. Now he sensed how deeply she felt her lack and was thrown off by her vulnerability. A pang struck him dead center of his chest so hard he wanted to rub it away.

“How old were you when—?”

“Four.” She hid her flinch with a shrug, steeling her spine. This was costing her, he could see it, but she said without inflection, “Car crash. I had a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder. They died instantly.”

“Why does that make you so defensive?” He had an urge to take her in his arms, but that wasn’t who he was. He didn’t coddle, but he still found himself trying to reassure her. “Being an orphan isn’t a crime. I’m one.”

“You lost both your parents? Not just your father?” Her somber blue eyes softened with empathy, threatening to pull things out of him he didn’t want to release. “What happened? How old were you?”

He was instantly sorry he’d mentioned it. “Fourteen when I lost my father. My mother lived until I was twenty. I suppose I wasn’t technically orphaned.” He glanced away, deliberately not addressing how his father had died. “I’m only saying there’s no shame in not having parents who are still alive. It’s hardly something you can help.”

The irony of his assurance twisted inside him. He suffered deep shame over his father’s death and the fact that he’d never been able to provide properly for his mother. He lived daily with the anguished guilt that even if his mother had survived to live as he did now, it wouldn’t have cured the broken heart that had been the real cause of her withering away.

Suppressing the agonizing memories, he focused on Clair’s circumstance instead, observing, “Four years old is still young enough to be adopted.”

Tendons rose in taut lines against her throat as she said with stunned hurt, “That wasn’t really in my control, was it?”

He might as well have kicked a puppy. He wished he could take it back, but the damage was done. She was pulling herself inward, composing herself into the untouchable woman he had seen several times now. Her skin was incredibly thin, he realized. He’d bruised her without even knowing he could do so. The way she mentally distanced herself caused an unexpected gap of agitation to open beneath his feet.

He moved forward, taking her arms in a light grip, as if he could prevent her retreat into herself.

She stiffened and her hands came up to his chest. He read the same conflicting signals of resistance and subtle, sensual melting that he’d felt in her earlier in his apartment. She liked his touch but was trying to shield herself at the same time, something he understood all too well, but she didn’t have to fear him on this.

“You’re right, of course,” he murmured, experimenting with a light massage up and down her arms. “I shouldn’t have said that. Where did you live, then? An orphanage?”

“Yes.” He felt a quiver go through her, one she suppressed as she said with quiet dignity, “The home was the only real one I had. It was stable and I needed that after being in foster situations for the first few years. That’s why I’m trying to ensure that it has enough funding to stay open, but I don’t need the donation from Grigori. The amount you’ve promised is so much more than Victor offered that I can keep them going and actually support expansion. Tell Grigori whatever you like. I won’t bring it up again. I’ll just tell people we met in London and leave it at that.” She turned her face away, lips tight.