Secret Fire (15 page)

There was no mistaking his utter frustration. When she glanced at him after a frantic bid to secure her towel, he was raking his hands through his hair as if he meant to pull out every golden strand. And then he paused, impaling her with a look that was confused and enraged at the same time.

“Sweet Christ, you are two different women! Where does the wanton go when the prude returns?”

Was he blind? Couldn’t he see that she was still trembling with desire, her body screaming for his?
Blast you, Dimitri, don’t be such a gentleman. Listen to my body, not my words. Take me
.

He didn’t hear the unspoken plea. He saw only the lost opportunity, felt only the agony of passion unfulfilled.

After a last heated look, Dimitri left, slamming the door in his anger. But once outside, he regretted his deliberate taunt and the stricken look that had flashed over Katherine’s features because of it. No woman who kissed as she did could be termed a prude. She wanted him. And if it was the last thing he did, he would make her admit it.

He had lost his chance this time by disdaining a rug. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t made love in unlikely places before. Once, on a dare from Vasili, he had made love in his theater box, during intermission, no less, when he was most likely to have been discovered. Damn, he wished Vasili were here now to talk to. He had a knack of breaking down problems so they seemed simple.

Seduction had failed, every direct approach had failed, including an appeal to Katherine’s sense of fairness. She had none. So it was time to change tactics, perhaps take a leaf from her own book of supposed indifference. Women loved to say no, but they didn’t like to be ignored. That might work. Of course it would require patience, which he sorely lacked.

He sighed heavily as he walked away. At least she had called him Dimitri. Small compensation.

Early the next morning, a bed was delivered to Katherine’s room.

“
W
hat are your plans when we reach St. Petersburg, Katherine?”

Katherine deserted her pose to look sharply at Anastasia, but the younger girl had asked this question, like so many others, without glancing up from the canvas on which she was working. Katherine noticed that Zora, in the corner, had stopped sewing to await her answer. The middle-aged maid wasn’t completely recovered from her seasickness, but she did have spells of feeling well enough to resume some of her duties.

Was it possible Anastasia really didn’t know that Katherine was a prisoner? Zora knew. All the servants knew. But of course if Dimitri had made it understood that he didn’t want his sister to know, none of the servants would go against his wishes, not even Anastasia’s personal maid.

“I haven’t given it much thought,” Katherine lied. “Perhaps you should ask your brother.”

The evasive answer broke through Anastasia’s concentration long enough for a single glance, which brought a quick frown. “You’ve moved. Tilt your head back to the side, chin up—that’s it.” She relaxed again after comparing Katherine’s pose with the likeness on the canvas. “Ask Mitya? What has it to do with him?” And then she forgot the portrait for a moment, startled by the thought. “You aren’t still hoping… I mean, surely you realize… Oh, dear.”

“Realize what, Princess?”

Anastasia quickly pretended to be engrossed in her painting, too embarrassed to answer. She hadn’t wanted to like Katherine. She was the perfect target for Anastasia to relieve some of her rancor on, but it just hadn’t worked out that way. She had also wanted to portray her on canvas as an earthy peasant, a coarse, common woman, an embodiment of rusticity. That hadn’t worked out either. She had started the portrait three times before she had finally given up and painted what she saw instead of what she had wanted to see.

The fact was that Anastasia
did
like Katherine, her forthrightness, her calm control—so different from the Russian temperament—her quiet dignity, her dry sense of humor. She even liked her stubbornness, so like her own. There had been several near-confrontations in the beginning over what Anastasia thought were appropriate duties for Katherine to perform, but when she flatly refused and wouldn’t argue about it, or give in, Anastasia developed a certain respect, which led to admiration, especially after she had stopped thinking Katherine was less than she claimed to be. She had actually begun to consider her as a friend.

Now suddenly she felt pity for the Englishwoman and was embarrassed because of it. Usually, she didn’t empathize with women who moaned and complained over lost loves, as her friends so often did. She didn’t understand the hurt of rejection, because she had never been rejected or ever had a man lose interest in her. She was the one who broke off affairs of the heart, flitting from one to another as the whim took her. In that, she was very like her brother.

The difference between them was that there was never any involvement for Dimitri. He loved women in general, none in particular, and favored any and all that attracted him. Not so Anastasia. She had to feel she was in love, and did often. It was just unfortunate that the feeling never lasted very long. But that was not to be confused with the melancholy of women who loved men who didn’t return the sentiment.

Anastasia hadn’t thought that Katherine, who had shown herself to be so pragmatic in nature, could fall into that category. But why else should she think Dimitri would care what she did once they reached Russia? He had obviously realized his mistake in bringing her along. Not even a week passed before he had lost interest and brought her to Anastasia, and he hadn’t concerned himself with her since then. Didn’t Katherine know what that meant?

“Realize
what
, Princess?”

Anastasia blushed at the repeated question, and then more, seeing that Katherine noticed her discomfort. “It was nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking of.”

“Yes, you do.” Katherine wouldn’t let her off the hook. “We were speaking of your brother.”

“Oh, very well.” Persistence was another trait of Katherine’s that Anastasia had noted and admired, until now. “I thought you were different, that you weren’t like all the other women who fall in love with Mitya when they meet him. After all, you haven’t been upset or shown any signs of suffering from his lack of attention. But it just occurred to me that you might not realize that he’s…well, that he…” This wouldn’t do.

She was embarrassed enough. Katherine would be even more so if she thought Anastasia was feeling sorry for her. “What am I thinking? Of course you know.”

“Know
what?
”

“That Mitya is not a man to become involved with for any length of time. I don’t think he is even capable of loving one particular woman. He never has, you know. In fact, it is rare for any woman to hold his interest for more than a fort-night. His few mistresses are the only exception, but he doesn’t
love
them. They are mere conveniences, no more. Wait… Princess Tatiana is another exception, but he’s going to marry her, so she doesn’t really count either.”

“Princess—”

“No, no, you don’t need to say it. I knew you were wise enough not to become enamored of him. You would be amazed if you knew how many women are not so wise. But it is easy to fall in love with Mitya. He appreciates women. Each one he favors, he devotes himself to fully for as long as his interest lasts. And he never makes promises that he will not fulfill, so none can say he deceives them.”

Katherine hardly heard the last of what Anastasia was saying. Her ears were still ringing with the word
marry
. Her stomach had constricted and now she felt rather nauseous, which was utterly ridiculous. It was nothing to her that Dimitri was getting married. She had even thought at one point that Anastasia might be his wife. So what if he had a fiancée?

Blast Anastasia for bringing up this subject. And she was sitting there waiting for some kind of reply. To explain her situation, to explain what
she really felt about Dimitri, would only prolong the conversation. And Anastasia, being his sister, might not believe her anyway.

“You were right, Princess,” Katherine managed nonchalantly. “I am wise enough not to be enamored of your brother or any man for that matter. In fact, it delights me that he has all but forgotten that I am here.”

Anastasia didn’t believe her for a minute. The tone was indifferent, but the words were definitely defensive. They made her think that Katherine was indeed in love with Dimitri. But after being made to see how hopeless such a passion was, perhaps she would start to forget him now. Having done at least that much for her, and assuming she had helped her, Anastasia felt better.

It was fortunate that Dimitri didn’t choose that moment to intrude on them. Fifteen minutes later, when he did, Katherine had tamped down her annoyance, gone through several arguments with her inner voice, and was composed again and satisfied that Anastasia’s little revelations hadn’t disturbed her in the least. But Dimitri did. After weeks of not seeing him, the sight of him now was too much.

Katherine had forgotten the devastating effect he could have on her—no, not actually forgotten. It was more that she doubted what she remembered. But she had deceived herself. He was still the fairy-tale prince, too handsome to be believed.

He was dressed somberly in black and gray, but it didn’t matter what he was wearing. Was his hair longer? Yes, a little. Was that mere curiosity in the brief glance he gave her? Probably not even that.

Katherine had spoken the truth when she said Dimitri had all but forgotten her. Since that stormy day so long ago when he had surprised her in her cabin, he had given up his pursuit. And she was glad, of course she was. It certainly made this voyage more tolerable.…
But less exciting, Katherine. Be truthful. You miss the challenge of pitting your wits against his. And you have never been more flattered in your life than by his interest in you. You miss that too, and—other things
.

She sighed inwardly. It made no difference what she felt now, any more than it had before. Her position wasn’t going to change. Lady Katherine St. John still couldn’t take a lover, not even one as exciting as Dimitri. It was enough to make her wish she wasn’t a lady.

“What is this?”

That
was
curiosity in his tone. Of course—how would he know that Anastasia had been painting her? Anastasia rarely left her cabin, and he hadn’t come to visit her. And Anastasia was not one to give up a pout easily. She was still angry with her brother; had, in fact, been deliberately avoiding him, just as he had been avoiding Katherine.

“Really, Mitya, what does it look like?”

This was no question, just a retort to make her irritation clear. Anastasia didn’t appreciate being interrupted, especially by him.

Her sarcasm was ignored, however. Dimitri turned his attention to Katherine, unable to mask his surprise.

“You agreed to this?”

“Really, Alexandrov, what does it look like?”

Katherine couldn’t resist making the same retort. She should have. Dimitri laughed heartily. She had not intended to amuse him.

“Did you want something, Mitya?” Anastasia asked with a glare.

He didn’t. Well, he did, but it was not something he could admit to his sister, and especially not to Katherine. He had decided yesterday to find out how his new tactics had worked. This waiting game had tested his patience to the limit. Each time he had wanted to seek Katherine out, he had resisted, but no more. This morning he had had to wait again, simply because she had locked herself in here with Anastasia, posing for a portrait no less. It was the last thing he expected to see.

There had also been the chance, not really anticipated, but a slim possibility, that this obsession with Katherine could have diminished in the time he hadn’t seen her. One look dismissed the notion. If he had been in Russia, with other women to distract him, perhaps. No, he doubted even that would have helped. She was still, to him, the most sensuous, sexy woman he had ever seen. Just being in the same room with her was all it took to stir his loins. He needed to have his fill of her, to make love to her again and again until she was out of his system. Boredom, which came so quickly with other women, was the only thing that would work. He was convinced of that.

He had never thought the day would come when he would wish for boredom, not when he had often bemoaned his inability to form a more lasting relationship with a woman because of it.
The women of his acquaintance were only that, acquaintances. In fact, the only woman he could actually call a friend was Natalia, and that was only after he had stopped sleeping with her. But he would prefer boredom to this obsession that was monopolizing his thoughts and causing him more frustration than he had ever experienced before.

Dimitri hadn’t answered Anastasia’s question and didn’t intend to. He was still smiling as he approached her, ostensibly to view her work but actually to give him an excuse to look at Katherine without appearing obvious, by comparing the portrait with the model. That was the plan. But like every plan having to do with Katherine, this one failed too. He couldn’t take his eyes off the portrait.

He had known his sister was good at her hobby, but not this good. Yet that was not what held him transfixed. The woman in the portrait was and wasn’t the woman he lusted after. The likeness was there. They could be twins. But this was not the woman he saw every time he closed his eyes. In vivid color here was the portrait of an aristocrat, regal, dignified, patrician in every nuance of her pose, a veritable blue-blood.

In the shimmering gold gown, her hair braided tightly and cast over one shoulder, a tiara resting on her head like a crown, she could have been a young medieval queen, proud, indomitable, and beautiful—yes, Anastasia had captured a beauty that wasn’t easily discernible…

Sweet Christ, what was he thinking? She was an actress! It was all an act, the pose, the pretense.

He touched Anastasia’s shoulder to gain her attention. “Has she seen this yet?”

“No.”

“She won’t let me,” Katherine put in, having heard his question. “She guards it like the crown jewels. Is it so awful?”

“No, not at all.” He felt Anastasia stiffen at such a bland answer in regard to her masterpiece. “Ah, Katherine, would you mind stepping outside for a few moments? I would like a private word with my sister.”

“Of course.”

Katherine was miffed that he had treated her with the casual indifference he would show any lackey. But what had she really expected after all this time? His total neglect spoke for itself. Yet Anastasia had come too close to the truth. Katherine had been hoping without realizing it—for what, she wasn’t sure. But now there was a great chasm inside her filled with sorrow. Realistically, she knew his indifference was just as well. Emotionally, she felt like crying.

Inside the cabin, Anastasia turned around to face her brother. He was staring again at the portrait. “Well?” She didn’t even try to mask her resentment.

“Why haven’t you shown this to her?”

Anastasia was distracted by the unexpected question. “Why?” And again, thoughtfully, “Why? Because I have had a subject become impatient when she did not see an immediate likeness and refuse to sit long enough for me to finish.” She shrugged now. “It probably wasn’t necessary with Katherine. She knows enough about painting to understand not to judge an unfinished work. And she has been an excellent
subject, not even minding sitting for hours at a time. I have been able to get so much done. As you can see, it is almost finished.”

Dimitri was still staring at the portrait, wondering what Katherine thought about while she sat so patiently hour after hour. Did she ever think about him? Did she ever remember their one night together? Had his last gambit worked? Not as far as he could tell. She had barely glanced at him.

“I want the portrait,” he said abruptly.

“You
what?
”

He looked at her impatiently. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Nastya.”