Red Alpha: A BWWM Russian Alpha Billionaire Romance (6 page)

“She’s very shapely.”

Sitting in his office, Demyan looked up as his sister announced her arrival with a nonsensical statement. He removed the glasses he used for reading, arching a brow as he stared at her skulking form. “Excuse me?”

Veta continued in Russian as she strolled across the rich carpets they’d inherited from their parents, her expression oddly thoughtful. “I said ‘she’s shapely’, Demyan. Taking a bath as we speak.” She paused at the edge of his desk to lean against it. “You know, perhaps if you’re a good boy, Osip will let you have her.”

Demyan fixed his sister with a long-suffering look. “Veta, don’t. We’ve been through this.” He didn’t want any woman that she forced on him – against their will or not. Judging by the predatory way that Veta had waited for the guest all morning, she was hoping that any such plans Osip had for gifting the American to him would probably be less than proprietary.

But then again, what man could think anything less when faced with someone like Cadence Freedman? She didn't have the willowy, frigid, statuesque beauty of Russian women. She wasn’t pale and overly made up, dressed to impress. She wasn’t even buttoned into a suit in the matter of most diplomats. Not that he knew enough about what she wore under her coat to judge, but she couldn’t have moved like she did in anything restrictive.

And the way that she moved was…interesting, to say the very least.

All grace and inherent consciousness – as if she expected to be surprised at any moment. That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t gotten the drop on her at the airport – but she hadn’t been expecting him then. No doubt she thought she’d get one of Osip’s lackeys, bowing and scraping to her. But Danshov would have none of that- not unless he were dead and buried. He had set an itinerary to show their guest the splendor of their country and their politics. He wasn’t interested in ingratiating himself to the Americans at all.

Which Demyan found worrisome.

“How can you stand to have her here?” Veta suddenly hissed, her green eyes glowing with rage as she clutched her braid tightly enough to draw it taut against her torso. “Don’t you know what her people have done?”

Demyan sighed. “I highly doubt that she was even alive when our parents died, Veta.”

“That makes her no less guilty!” The blonde woman snapped, obviously on edge. Straightening, she stalked back and forth in front of Demyan’s desk like a wounded tiger. “That…
filth
…taking part in what they built for us-”

“What
I
built for us,” Demyan corrected her lightly, folding his hands on the desk in front of him as he waited for the backlash.

He wasn’t disappointed. “You would
dare
to demean the importance of their contribution?” Veta was in his face again in a heartbeat. “They
made
us, Demyan. Never forget that.”

As if he could. After all, he had been the one screaming when they died. Veta hadn’t had the decency to feel that much. In the wake of their execution, her time with Ivan had warped her. He made her see their parents as a strange type of Martyrs– killed before the poisonous ideas in their heads could really take root. Ultimately, in Ivan Danshov’s eyes, they had been just as victimized as those who didn’t know any better.

Of course, Veta ate it up like a sponge. She, no doubt, needed something to assuage her own guilt. Instead of clinging to the family who had all but adopted them, Demyan had been busy doing exactly what was expected of him: building his family fortune by investing in arenas that would please those in power.

However, that power didn’t mean that they had the same access to said resources as he did. By order of Demyan’s personal accountant, he himself had to be present for any of the materials he’d invested in to be harvested or used. It was a neat little trick that Osip had agreed with for security reasons, not realizing that he was screwing any future plans that he might have for world domination.

Or so Demyan hoped.

“I will never forget, Veta.” His reply was placid as he met his sister’s incensed gaze directly. “But I would beg
you
not to forget that it’s me who’s responsible for our recent success. My investments have brought our family to the peak of economic and political notoriety –something that happened despite our parents’ deaths, not
for
them.” She bristled as if he’d struck her before turning her back on him with a huff.

Out came the butterfly knife –
flick flick flick
.

Demyan watched it with a kind of morbid fascination, wondering if his sister was contemplating using it to slit his throat.

He allowed himself a small, amused smile. “Were you really
spying
on the American while she bathed?”

Veta snorted. “My tastes don’t run so crass, Demyan. I caught her
before
she took her clothes off.”

To the tall man’s surprise, an explicit image of Cadence Freedman’s naked, water-slick form lunged to the forefront of his mind and he stiffened in his chair. Her coat had been too thick for him to tell much about her body structure, but she wasn’t skinny – that he knew. What the hell was he supposed to do with a skinny woman anyway? Russia was colder than a witch’s right tit most of the time, and though plenty of females threw themselves at him, none of them ever kept him truly warm.

But then again, he’d never met a woman like Cadence. Her curves would be soft, he imagined, her skin taut and supple all at once. What would the contrast of his thigh against hers look like, he wondered. Deep chocolate against pale, milky white…

And were American women half as unabashed as they were rumored to be? Would she be shocked to know that he and his sister were speaking like this about her? Or would she simply take it in stride?

His own curiosity surprised him.

“As much as I thank you for scouting for me, Veta,” He chuckled lowly, “I’ll have to pass. Though feel free to partake, if you’re so inclined.”

Veta merely scowled at his implications. Everyone in the city knew that since Ivan had died, she made no bones about the sex of her lovers. She just liked to be with those who hurt her the most…Demyan supposed that it was because that was how Ivan had been.

He didn’t like to think about it. “I don’t like…monkeys.” She spat purposefully, before storming off in much the same way she had entered. Demyan merely shook his head, going back to work. Even as he attempted to concentrate on the paperwork in front of him, however, his mind drifted back to his guest.

Was she still bathing now, he wondered? He himself had often indulged in a long bath after a hard day, and was grateful for the luxury that their penthouse apartment afforded them. The apartment had once belonged to one of Ivan’s many mistresses, and for that reason alone, Veta had refused to live there for the first three years after it had been given to them. Now, she was less stubborn.

Either that, or Osip had ordered her to swallow her pride and stay close to him – which Demyan wouldn’t put past him. Though he considered the prime minister his friend, in Moscow, he didn’t have any friends that he would like to turn his back to. Matters could go awry far too quickly.

He wondered if the little American had any idea of the trouble that she was in. She didn’t even speak
Russian.
Her government might as well have thrown her to the wolves. While Demyan didn’t estimate that any physical harm would come to her, no doubt Osip would take every opportunity he could to ridicule her verbally – and all without her knowledge.

He almost felt sorry for her. The only thing that prevented the sentiment was knowing how little his pity would help her.

Elisaveta occupied herself for the rest of the day somewhere in the city – no doubt trying to chase away her demons with liquor or a willing body. Demyan was grateful for the opportunity to spend some time alone – and aside from a single call from Osip late in the afternoon, he remained relatively undisturbed. The quiet of his study was welcome after the chattering of women – though he had to admit that he would much prefer Cadence’s quiet questions than he would Veta’s hateful muttering.

Considering that he was probably going to be spending a fair amount of time with the woman, he supposed that he should at least try to make pleasant conversation with her; that was, if such a thing was even possible without his mind drifting to what she might look like naked.

He blamed Veta for that particular issue. Demyan supposed that if he really wanted to cool his lusts there were any number of women who would be willing to oblige…but at that particular moment, he found he didn’t relish the idea of trying to bait them with false flattery.

So, instead, he stood, making his way over to an unassuming bookcase in the corner of his study before pressing a hidden button. With a low, mechanical whir, the panel rotated, revealing a hidden row of cameras behind. Ivan had the system installed long ago to make sure that the women in his life weren’t unfaithful, but Demyan rarely ever used it unless he was concerned that someone was picking off family heirlooms.

He found that he felt little shame as he scanned the many screens until he found the one that was mounted in the guest bathroom.

Cadence Freedman was, indeed, still bathing. The picture was small and fuzzy, but just clear enough for his suspicions to be confirmed.

She had a body that wouldn’t quit. High, ample breasts topped with dark nipples and long,
long
legs that she had draped over the side of the tub. Her eyes were closed, that mountain of curls atop her head brushing the marble floor of the bathroom as she lounged in the hot water…and very suddenly, Demyan found that his pants were quite uncomfortable.

He continued to stare at the screen, enraptured by the sight before him. Though there was no way in hell that he would ever take a woman that Osip
gave
to him, he wondered if one like Cadence would ever come to him of her own free will. It would be convenient, he knew. His suite was just down the hall, and once she knew where it was, she could come to him still damp from the bath…soapy and
dripping
…

“
Blyad.”
He cursed lowly under his breath, mashing the button to stop the camera a moment before his eyes slid closed. What the hell was wrong with him? This was the woman he’d promised Osip he’d keep an eye on. The last thing he needed to be doing was picturing her naked. It would only complicate his duties. And heaven forbid that Danshov decided that he didn’t like her. “
Fuck
.” Demyan repeated the curse in English before heading back to his desk.

The last time he’d checked, he was a thirty eight year old man, fully in control of his hormones and his emotions. The last time he’d let a woman so easily affect him had easily been decades ago.

Perhaps he’d underestimated how difficult it would be to keep tabs on Miss Freedman. It was hard to do anything when one had a raging hard on the likes of which hadn’t bothered you since you were too young to care.

True to his word, he went to collect her at five o’clock on the dot. He’d had a maid deliver a note to her informing of the formal affair and he merely hoped that she didn’t dress as scantily as he’d seen some American women who visited Moscow.

However, the moment she answered the door, he realized that he would have much preferred some skimpy get up to what she wore instead.

Her dress was a long, navy blue sheath that was cut low over her bosom and clung to the curves of her figure almost like a lover’s caress. She had somehow tamed her unruly curls into a knot at the base of her neck and wore a pair of heels along with diamond studs. She was absolutely stunning in an understated way that most women he knew had difficulty comprehending. In fact, for a moment, he had trouble tearing his gaze away from the way the navy silk contrasted against her dark skin. “I…hope I’m not underdressed,” She finally ventured, the delicious scent of some perfume or the other washing over him.

“
Nyet
.” He answered much too quickly before clearing his throat and correcting himself. “No, it’s fine. You look…” He had a hard time finding an adequate term and she shot him an indulgent smile.

“Passable?”

“Passable.” He answered, straightening the lapels of his own suit jacket in a suddenly self-conscious gesture before realizing that he probably sounded condescending. Cadence, however, only laughed softly, showing an even white smile that made his gut clench in inexplicable longing.

“Thanks. You look pretty passable yourself.” He tried not to show the pleasure her comment gave him, instead lending her his arm.

“Shall we?”

Surprisingly, dinner was a comfortable affair. Demyan expected Osip to go to town on Cadence for the majority of the meal, but surprisingly, the minister seemed just as shocked as Demyan had been to see her in that damn dress. He was perfectly cordial as he greeted her in English at the restaurant, before introducing her to their other guests.

Of course, if Osip hadn’t been present, the affair would have very likely been a massacre with Miss Freedman as the main course. Their fellow diners were made up of Roksana Lichakov, Petya and Boris Yenotov, and Osip’s insipid wife, who was simply pleased to be invited at all. The woman spoke not a word of English, but she hung onto the conversation for dear life, nodding as if she was learning the world’s secrets.

It was funny, in the few hours that Cadence had been in the country, Demyan had almost forgotten she was a diplomat. He had his sister to thank for that – her and her suggestive comments. However, he was both surprised and impressed when Cadence steered the conversation away from designer products and onto the state of Russia’s foreign policy.

She was careful to do it seamlessly – so gently that even Osip thought that she was flattering him as she asked about their economic growth and spoke of how their allies were hell bent on emulating them towards their own success. Roksana was much less amused, glaring at Cadence for the majority of the meal.

The murder that he saw in her eyes amused Demyan. Despite the fact that Lichakov complained to anyone who would listen that the pitfalls of having a powerful lover included a lack of sexual attraction, she was jealous as a snake. Even she couldn’t see that it was obvious that Cadence was just stroking Danshov’s ego in order to get him to talk about the subjects on which she was curious.