Kholodov's Last Mistress (7 page)

She lifted her chin, regarding him coolly. ‘What do you want?’

‘I told you, to see you.’

‘Why?’

He paused, his head cocked, his gaze sweeping slowly over her. Something flickered across his face, a dark emotion Hannah couldn’t identify, and then his face cleared. Blanked. ‘I wanted to see if you were the same.’

‘The same?’ Hannah repeated sharply. ‘What do you mean? I’m a year older, in any case.’ She turned away from him to
fold yet again the sweaters Lisa had dropped off. Her hands trembled.

‘And a year wiser, perhaps.’

She let out a sharp bark of a laugh. ‘If you mean am I still annoyingly optimistic, then no, I’m not.’

His breath came out in a soft sigh. Hannah didn’t turn around. ‘Refreshingly optimistic, I also said.’

‘It hardly matters.’ She pressed her hands down hard on the soft pile of sweaters in a desperate bid to stop their trembling. Why did he affect her so much?
Still?
They’d had one evening together. One kiss. She should barely remember his name.

Sergei who?

The thought was laughable. When he’d come into the shop, despite the shock that had raced through her, another part of her had felt as if she’d been
waiting
for him to come. Had remembered exactly the piercing blue of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw. The feel of his lips.

‘So.’ She turned around, her hands laced together, fingers wrapped around knuckles as hard as she could. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Not in the least.’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I have no idea why you’re here, Sergei.’

He gave her a rueful smile, a smile that was soft and strangely gentle, and so at odds with the man she remembered, the man she had convinced herself in the last year was only cold. Calculating. Cruel. ‘I don’t know, either.’

‘Well, then.’ She drew in a ragged breath. ‘Maybe you should just go.’

‘Go? I just drove four hours to get here, Hannah. I’m not leaving quite that quickly. And,’ he added, his voice dropping to a husky murmur she remembered far too well, ‘I don’t think you want me to.’

‘You don’t know anything about me.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ The words were a lazy challenge.

‘I’m quite sure. A lot has happened to me in the last year, Sergei. I might have seemed rather simple and naive when we had dinner in Moscow, but I’m very different now, and I really can’t imagine why you’re here or what you want.’

‘Why are you so angry?’

‘Why?’
She stared at him. ‘You really need to ask? After—after the way you treated me? Made me feel?’

‘It was a year ago, Hannah.’

‘And when you waltz back into my life it brings it all back.’

‘You see,’ Sergei said, stepping closer, close enough for her to breathe in the tangy scent of his aftershave, ‘I have this theory.’

She planted her fists on her hips and gave him as scathing a look as she could muster. ‘Oh, really?’

‘Really. And it goes like this.’

‘I don’t recall asking to hear your theory.’

He smiled faintly, and she felt that singeing bolt of awareness. Still. Her response to him had been—and clearly still was—impossible to ignore or deny. ‘Humour me,’ he said softly, and too weary—as well as a tiny bit curious—to argue, Hannah just shrugged. ‘It goes like this,’ he repeated, taking a step closer to her. Hannah forced herself not to move. ‘You’re angry because you’re still affected. If you’d forgotten me, as you surely should have done, you wouldn’t be looking at me now as if you’d like to carve my heart out with a teaspoon.’

Her lips twitched in something close to a smile despite her determination to stay angry and in control. ‘I would, rather,’ she said. Her heart had started thudding in response to his words … and the truth they held.

He smiled, that mobile mouth she remembered so well curving in sensual triumph. ‘So you are affected.’

‘Only according to your outrageous theory.’

‘Oh, it’s not just my theory,’ Sergei told her softly. He’d stepped even closer now, only a hand-span away, so not only could she breathe in the scent of him but she could feel his heat. Remember his touch. ‘I have evidence,’ he continued in no more than a whisper, and with one finger he touched the pulse that fluttered wildly in her throat. And if that wasn’t evidence enough, her indrawn breath, a gasp of shock—or was it pleasure?—damned her all the more.

Colour flamed in her face and she wished she had the strength to say something cutting, or at least step away. The trouble was, it felt too good to be standing so near him. And the single touch of his finger on her skin sent her body spinning into sensual remembrance.

‘The thing is,’ Sergei continued, his finger lightly stroking the column of her throat, ‘I’m affected as well.’

Hannah shook her head, a matter of instinct. ‘No, you aren’t. You weren’t. I don’t know why you came here, Sergei, but—’ She dragged in a desperate breath and finally stepped away. ‘Surely you’ve satisfied your curiosity by now.’

He let his hand fall, his gaze resting on her thoughtfully. ‘Not even close.’

‘What do you want, then?’ she demanded, and heard the ragged note in her voice. She couldn’t hide anything.

‘To have dinner with you.’

‘Dinner?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘A meal? Food? Wine?’

And memories of another meal. Another night. Hannah knew she should shake her head, but somehow she couldn’t. She could only stare. Sergei smiled. ‘There must be a half-decent restaurant in this area.’

‘Half-decent, maybe,’ Hannah allowed, and his smile widened.

‘Show me?’

He made it a question, and, despite her absolute intention to
say a sane and self-respecting no, Hannah opened her mouth and said something else instead. Something she could not keep herself from saying—and feeling—even as her mind hammered out a desperate protest. ‘All right.’

S
ERGEI
gazed at Hannah over the rim of his wine glass. She really looked rather cross. Her eyes were shadowed, her mouth a set line. No ready smile for him, or anyone, now. He wondered what her life had been like in the last year and just how she had changed.

Hannah took a sip of wine and gazed around the restaurant—looking anywhere, it seemed, but at him. Sergei had rung Grigori to find him the most exclusive restaurant in the area, and the result was a cosy country hotel twenty miles from Hadley Springs. While he’d been dealing with directions Hannah had gone back to her house—a shabby little place behind the shop—and changed.

Now she wore a plain black dress that, to Sergei’s eye, resembled a bin bag. She’d left her hair in a ponytail, her face free of make-up. Clearly she was trying to tell him something.

It didn’t matter. Her body—and his—was telling him something different. And he intended to make full use of that knowledge.
That
was why he was here. The only reason he’d allow himself.

‘So,’ he said, taking a sip of his wine, ‘tell me what you’ve been up to this last year.’

Hannah turned back to him in blatant disbelief. ‘You really want to know?’

‘I wouldn’t ask otherwise.’ He tried to keep the edge from
his voice. He really didn’t feel like bickering. If Hannah continued to be so hostile, it would make for an arduous evening. Yet didn’t he deserve it? He’d pushed her away on purpose, been deliberately cruel. Why should she welcome him now? Sergei stared broodingly into his wine, wishing he could stop feeling guilty. Stop feeling as if he actually
cared.
What the hell was he doing here?

Hannah shook her head slowly. This meal was proving to be just as surreal as the last one with Sergei had been. Then she’d been full of excitement and hope; she’d felt as if she were filled with bubbles. Now she felt flat.

‘What have I been doing this last year?’ she repeated slowly. ‘What you’d expect. Working. Paying bills. Trying to keep body and soul together.’

‘Have you taken any poetry courses?’ Sergei asked, and she stared at him for a moment before answering.

‘No,’ she said flatly. There had been no money. No time. No
reason.
Sergei toyed with his wine glass, his gaze seeming to rest on the ruby liquid glinting within. Their starters arrived, and Hannah stared down at the artfully arranged melon slices, her appetite vanished. ‘Why are you really here, Sergei?’ she asked quietly. ‘What do you want?’

He didn’t answer for a long moment, long enough for Hannah to look up and see a surprising bleakness in those penetratingly blue eyes. ‘I wanted to see you again,’ he said, and Hannah had the feeling he was being more honest than he wanted or even meant to be.

She arched her eyebrows. ‘You didn’t give that impression the last time I saw you.’

His eyes narrowed, lips thinning. ‘There is still something between us,
milaya moya.
’

‘Don’t call me that,’ she snapped. A whole year, and yet the memories still hurt. They made her want to lash out.

‘Can you deny it?’

‘You certainly did,’ she replied. ‘You told me quite clearly that you’d lost interest and I wasn’t worth the effort the last time we shared a meal.’ She smiled, no more than a mirthless curving of her lips. ‘Remember? You don’t do virgins, Sergei. Especially ones who barely know how to kiss.’ She reached for her wine glass and took a large sip. ‘Fortunately,’ she said, her voice spiking, ‘that’s not an issue any more.’

She saw Sergei’s long, tapered fingers tighten around the wine glass and felt a shaft of savage satisfaction—and a pang of loss. She half wished she hadn’t shared so much information, even though she was glad he knew. Surely that proved she’d moved on, even if her one attempt at a relationship had been an unmitigated disaster. Just thinking of Matthew caused a tremor of humiliated pain to rack her body.

‘What a relief,’ he finally said, his voice light, his eyes veiled. He turned to his starter and they didn’t speak for several minutes.

Hannah felt the pressure build within her, rising up, making her want to say something.
Do
something. It was so strange and infuriating to see Sergei here, to be sitting here across from him just as before, to know he’d travelled all the way to Hadley Springs to see her …
why
?

And then of course she knew. It was obvious. Why else would a man like Sergei—powerful,
sensual
—come all this way? Just to
see
her?

Of course not. No, he must want to finish what he’d started a year ago. There
had
been something between them, something powerfully passionate, and, just as he’d said, it was still there now. She could not deny its magnetic, sensual tug, as much as it aggravated her.

Sergei looked up from his meal. ‘So you’ve kept your parents’ shop going,’ he remarked mildly.

‘Barely.’ She felt like being honest, even if it hurt. ‘I’ll have to sell it or close it eventually.’

‘It’s not making money?’

‘What do you think?’ She gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘It’s in the middle of nowhere. Tourists drive through Hadley Springs, but they don’t often stop.’

‘And locals?’

‘Hardly provide enough business to keep it going.’

‘So how have you kept it going?’ Sergei asked and Hannah shrugged.

‘By cutting my own expenses. I also worked nights at a local diner, but they had to let me go. No business does well here, frankly.’

‘Then leave.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘It could be.’

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you care?’

He had started to lift one powerful shoulder in the kind of dismissive shrug only a man with his authority and wealth could give, and then stopped. Stared back. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly, and a lightning bolt of longing blazed through her.

She still wanted him. Desperately. No matter what had happened before. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, his body on hers. She wanted it just as much—or maybe even more—than she had a year ago.
And if he wanted her back …

Hannah reached for her wine, her mind spinning crazily. For surely it was crazy to actually consider finishing what they’d begun before. Yet even so the thought had slid into her mind, sly, seductive. One kiss … one night. And then
she
could be the one to walk away.

‘What are you thinking?’ Sergei asked, his voice husky, and Hannah jerked her startled gaze up to meet his own hooded one. He was leaning forward, his expression intent.

‘Why … why do you ask?’

‘Because your cheeks have turned pink and your pupils are so dilated they look black,’ Sergei informed her softly. ‘So naturally I wonder.’

Naturally. She imagined telling him the truth.
I’m thinking of sleeping with you.
What would he do? Would he smile? Laugh? Maybe she had this all wrong—again—and she’d be rejected for a second time.

Third, if she counted Matthew, although his rejection had been the least of her humiliations there.

‘You can keep wondering,’ she informed him, and kept her voice light enough that he might think she was flirting. Was she?

What was she
doing
?

Sergei stared back, saying nothing. Then he reached for the wine bottle and topped up both their glasses. ‘So,’ he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful, ‘you’ve also been doing something other than working in the shop this last year.’

‘Eating and sleeping.’

‘And making love,’ he finished softly, and she saw a flare of cobalt in those blue eyes of his that made her wonder if he was actually jealous.

Love.
There had been no love with Matthew. No love, no respect, no joy. And she had no intention of telling Sergei any of that. ‘Eat, drink, and be merry,’ she quipped, but it fell flat for Sergei’s eyes just narrowed. Dangerously. Hannah laid down her fork. She didn’t want to think about Matthew, but she couldn’t stand Sergei’s apparent double standard either. ‘You can’t be
jealous.
You said you didn’t even like virgins. And you’ve probably slept with a hundred women in the last year.’

‘Hardly a hundred.’

She kept her gaze even, a challenge. ‘I’m not going to quibble over numbers.’

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, but Hannah saw he still looked annoyed. Maybe even angry. She picked up her fork again and stabbed a slice of melon. ‘So is this just some kind of typically Neanderthal behaviour? “I don’t want her, but no one else can have her?”’

Sergei’s breath came out in a soft hiss. ‘I never said I didn’t want you.’

Her mouth dropped open and she snapped it shut. ‘Yes, you did. Quite clearly. In fact, I happen to remember the exact words.’ She paused, her throat suddenly tight, aching. ‘“Isn’t it obvious?”’ she quoted. ‘“I stopped wanting you.”’

Sergei said nothing for a moment, his assessing gaze sweeping over her. ‘I started again,’ he finally said, his jaw tight, and Hannah gave a harsh laugh.

‘Well, thanks very much. Too bad
I
don’t want
you.
’

She might as well have slapped his face. Issued a direct and insulting challenge to his masculinity. Sergei leaned forward, his eyes glittering like cold sapphires.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you do.’

And Hannah couldn’t deny it. How could she, when her heart beat hard and warmth flooded through her limbs in a honeyed river and she’d just—crazily—considered sleeping with him? Still was?

And he knew it.

‘You want me,’ Sergei clarified silkily, ‘and I want you. Simple.’

Hannah stared at him. Simple? There was nothing simple about it—and yet why
shouldn’t
it be simple? Why shouldn’t she sleep with him? She had no more illusions about love, no more optimism that Sergei—or anyone else—was a better man than anyone thought. No reason to keep from doing exactly as her body wanted … to satisfy this craving.

And then do what her mind and maybe even her heart demanded. Walk away.

She could do it. She wasn’t the same woman who had stared at Sergei a year ago with her heart in her eyes and practically begged him to want her. No, she was older now. Wiser. More jaded.

She smiled. Slowly. Sensually. Saw Sergei’s eyes flare, pupils dilate.
Ha.
Two could play at this game. Except it didn’t feel like a game, and she wasn’t playing. Suddenly, it mattered too much. Maybe it always had. ‘You’re right,’ she told him, her voice a husky murmur. ‘I do want you.’

Sergei’s eyes flared again, this time in surprise. Had he expected her to lie? She’d always been honest with him.

You’re very candid, aren’t you?

No more so than now.

‘And since you’ve apparently started wanting me again …’ she continued, stopping suggestively. And unable to suppress that stab of hurt. The stopping and starting thing wasn’t great for her ego. Or her heart.

What was she doing?

‘What,’ Sergei asked, his voice sounding rather terse, ‘are you suggesting?’

Not exactly the come-on line she’d been half hoping to hear. ‘What do you think?’

Sergei leaned forward. ‘Don’t play games with me, Hannah.’

‘Does this feel like a game to you?’ she asked, her voice a thread.

‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘it doesn’t.’

Hannah swallowed. The very air seemed to hum and buzz around her. She had not expected this when she’d agreed to dinner. She hadn’t let herself consider what might happen if they shared a second meal.

Sergei rose from the table in one graceful, fluid movement. Hannah stared at him. ‘Where are you going?’

His eyes met hers in a blaze of challenge and desire, and he held out one hand for her to take. ‘Where do you think?’ he said softly. ‘Upstairs.’