Too Proud to be Bought (10 page)

For some reason he felt bad. ‘Perhaps we can meet up in London some time?’ he suggested.

But Zara was certain she heard evasion in his voice and she forced herself to heed it. Because she knew that their paths would never cross in London—not unless she happened to be working, and how awkward would it be if she tried to follow it up? To try to make their brief fling into something it wasn’t—and destroy her
good memories of it in the process. This place had been like an oasis, she thought. She should look on it as a beautiful interlude after a tough year and put it down to experience.

‘Perhaps,’ she answered politely.

‘Shall I get the bill?’

Zara nodded and picked up her handbag. ‘Yes, please.’

He drove back to the villa and took her to his bedroom—a place of restrained and very masculine luxury—where he proceeded to make love to her. But even as her body splintered with pleasure as he wrapped her in his powerful arms Zara felt curiously distanced by the whole experience. As if some self-protective instinct were already encasing her emotions in ice—to stop her from getting hurt.

In the morning, she awoke to find him getting dressed and she watched from between slitted eyes as he pulled on a silk shirt and tucked it into his dark, tapered trousers. She thought how shuttered his features appeared—as if he was lost in thought and had already moved on.

‘You’re awake,’ he said softly.

She blinked in surprise. ‘You noticed.’

Walking over to the bed, he saw the tumble of her hair spread over his pillows and the rise and fall of her luscious breasts. ‘I notice everything about you. I noticed the way your breathing changed and the way your body stirred. And I’d much rather be
here,’
he said thickly, his hand moving down over the sheet to rest in the fork between her thighs, ‘than on a damned plane.’ He leaned over to plant a lingering kiss on her lips. ‘A car will come and collect you later and take you to the airport. In the meantime help yourself to anything you want. Have a swim. Use the hot tub. I want you to enjoy your last few hours here. And safe journey home, Zara.’

Quickly, she sat up, the sheet falling to her waist as she heard what essentially amounted to a dismissal. The party was over—and it was time to get back to being who she really was. ‘And you.’

He went over to the bureau, where he picked up a long white envelope, which he waggled at her. ‘Oh, and by the way—your cheque is here.’

She blinked. ‘M-my cheque?’

‘Your wages.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Remember? The reason you came here? Big money.’

‘Of course.’
Big money? The reason you came here?
Zara only just stopped herself flinching at his crass references and the sudden mention of money in the bedroom made her want to curl up and die. Awkwardly, she grabbed at the sheet and held it up against her chin.

‘Don’t cover yourself up,’ he said softly.

‘I feel naked.’

‘That’s because you are naked and someone with a body like yours should never sully it with clothes.’ For a moment he just stared at her long and hard—as if committing her to memory—before glittering her a last, brief smile. ‘Goodbye,
angel moy.’

‘Goodbye, Nikolai.’

The words tore at her as she waited until she heard the sound of his car leaving, then she slipped over to the window to see his silver sports car snaking its way over the mountain road towards the airport. Her heart was hammering furiously and some dread feeling at the pit of her stomach made her go to the bureau and pick up the envelope, her fingers trembling as she pulled out the cheque which lay inside.

She stared down at it in disbelief. It was not the amount they had agreed on back in London—it was more
than double that, and a huge payment for the meagre amount of work she’d done, by anyone’s estimation.

Zara felt physically sick. Why had he done this? Made such an expansive gesture after what had happened. Had he actually
paid her for the sex?
Was that what this ridiculous sum was all about?

For a moment she had to sit down until she had recovered herself, telling herself that now was not the time to go to pieces. Her mind raced with possibilities about how she should react, but she knew that only one thing would give her any degree of satisfaction—no matter how foolish it might be in the long run. Her hands were still shaking as she ripped the cheque into tiny shreds, threw them into one of the bureau drawers before closing it shut with a bang. A cleaner wouldn’t dare touch anything in his drawers, she thought grimly—so let
him
find it.

Running down to her staff accommodation at the back of the vast estate, she threw her clothes into the small case—not caring that she was crumpling and creasing them in the process. And then with hot tears spilling down her cheeks she sat huddled on the bed, looking out at the misty Provençal mountains as she waited for the car to take her to the airport.

F
OR
the third time in a row, the phone went dead in his ear and Nikolai stared at it with a growing feeling of disbelief. Had she hung up on him—
again?
He shook his head. No. It was inconceivable. How could the sexy little waitress who should have been grateful for all he’d given her have possibly slammed the phone down on him?

He paced the floor of his penthouse office which gave a picture postcard view of London—and which he had once vowed never to take for granted—but for once the soaring skyline made no impression on him.
What the hell was she playing at?

He clicked his intercom and one of his aides came on the line immediately. ‘That woman, Zara Evans?’ he said crisply. ‘You remember—the one I asked you to find for me?’

‘Da,
Nikolai.’

‘Do we have an address for her?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then send someone round there. Now. I want to know when she’s there and I want to know who she’s with.’

His fury growing as the minutes ticked away, he had to wait until past midnight before word came through that she’d arrived home—alone—presumably after she’d finished one of her shifts. Nikolai knew it would
be sensible to leave what he had to say until the next morning—the trouble was that he wasn’t feeling in a particularly sensible mood. He was feeling impatient, angry and mystified—and none of this was helped by remembering the way she’d kissed him when he had been deep inside her body …

At half-past midnight his limousine came to a halt in front of a tiny mid-terrace house in a run-down part of town he was unfamiliar with. Dustbins stood at the front of each property—presumably because there was nowhere else to store them—and further down the road graffiti had been scrawled on a wall. It was the kind of place where shops were boarded up after dark—or where a car might find its tyres missing in the morning.

The driver turned round with a frown on his face. ‘You sure this is the right place, boss?’ he questioned, in Russian.

For a moment, Nikolai was quiet. It certainly wasn’t the worst place he’d seen in his life—far from it—and every city in the world had areas where the less fortunate lived. But these days he rarely encountered poverty and it took him back to a time and place which he usually kept locked away. Funny how vividly it all came back, if he let it. Memories vivid enough to make the little hairs on the back of his neck stand on end now came into sharp focus. A Moscow tenement, an apartment shared with three other families. The cold eyes and suspicious glances of his hungry neighbours. And a boy who did whatever he could to get a ruble to put food in his mouth.

His mouth hardened as he got out of the car and rang the bell on a fading door. It took a moment or two before a hall light went on and she must have peered out through the spy-hole because he heard her voice and the note of disbelief in it.

‘Nikolai? Is that you?’

‘Expecting someone else?’

‘What…what are you doing here?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Well, I don’t …’ From behind the protection of the closed door, Zara sucked in a deep breath and willed him to go away.
But you don’t want him to go away, do you? Not really. Haven’t you been lying sleepless, night after night—just remembering the way he kissed you? And regretting an impetuous gesture that you could ill afford to make.
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ she finished. ‘And it’s late.’

‘I know it’s late—and if you don’t open the damned door then I’ll keep knocking until all your neighbours wake up.’

‘You can’t do that.’ But she knew that he could—and probably would—so she loosened the chain and opened the door, to see him standing like some unmoveable force on her door step. ‘That’s blackmail,’ she accused.

‘Net,’
he negated grimly as he saw her tug the lapels of her cheap cotton dressing gown closer together. ‘It is known as getting what you want.’

‘Which we both know you always do.’

If only she knew, he thought grimly. If only she knew. ‘Oh, always,’ he agreed mockingly as he stepped inside and looked around the cramped hallway. ‘You look as if you’ve fallen on hard times,’ he observed slowly. ‘Or does it always look like this?’

Zara flushed. ‘I’ve lived here since I was a little girl,’ she defended. ‘And it may not be looking at its best at the moment, but I haven’t really had the chance to do much decorating lately.’

‘But this street …’ His words tailed off and he looked into the defiant green gaze of her eyes.

A fierce sense of pride made her want to explain—though part of her wondered whether someone like Nikolai would have any comprehension of what she was talking about. ‘When I was growing up—it was different. Families lived in this area and people took pride in their houses then. Now most of them are rented out. I’m hoping to put it on the market soon—and, while it may not be a multimillion dollar villa in the south of France, it’s clean,’ she added proudly. ‘And it’s home.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘And presumably you survive on just your waitressing salary—which is not a particularly high salary?’

‘That’s right.’

He stared at her. ‘So how come you dramatically ripped up the cheque I left you?’

Incredulously, she stared back. ‘You know exactly why.’

‘If I knew, then I wouldn’t be asking.’

‘Think about it!’ she bit out as she turned on her heel and walked into the sitting room, hearing his footsteps following behind her. And suddenly, she was terribly afraid that she would go to pieces. Say or do something she might later regret—because the truth was that she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind, or her heart. She’d barely had a single thought that didn’t involve her Russian lover. Sx-lover, she reminded herself fiercely.

Reaching down into a cupboard, she found a dusty bottle of livid-coloured orange liqueur, which had been there for as long as she could remember, and poured a measure into a little glass. ‘Do you want any?’ she asked ungraciously.

‘Tempting. But I think I’ll pass.’

Zara sipped at the fiery spirit, grateful for the instant little boost of energy it gave her. Drinking at midnight
wasn’t a pastime she indulged in regularly, but it had been a long day. There had been a big directors’ lunch, followed by afternoon tea, and then she’d grabbed at an extra job which had come in, only to discover that it had been a windswept party on a river-boat which had been full of drunken stockbrokers who kept being sick over the side.

‘So, why?’ he persisted.

She turned round, trying to buffer herself against the impact he made on her, but it wasn’t easy—especially since all his undeniable attributes seemed amplified when measured against the humble background of her tiny sitting room. He was wearing a dark suit and crisp white shirt, and his only concession to relaxation had been to loosen his tie.

‘You paid me over double what I was owed!’ she accused.

He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s the first time someone’s ever complained that I’ve overpaid them,’ he drawled.

‘Don’t be obtuse, Nikolai—you know exactly what I mean.’

‘No, I don’t. I thought you were good at your job and deserved the extra payment.’

‘What, for the
extra services provided?’

He froze. ‘You think I was paying you for sex?’

‘What else was I supposed to think? ‘

‘You think that I’m the kind of man who
pays for sex?’

‘Can we keep your ego out of it for a moment? This isn’t about
you,
it’s about me,’ she shot back, swallowing down the intense hurt she still felt at the memory of him waving that wretched envelope at her as if she were some
kind of hooker. ‘So why the over-generous gesture, if not for that?’

For a moment he was silent as he battled with his feelings, angry that she was forcing him to offer some kind of explanation—he who never had to explain himself to anyone. But the confusion and the undoubted hurt in her brilliant green eyes made him change the habit of a lifetime. ‘I realised that I’d misjudged you,’ he said heavily. ‘That you were not the woman I thought you to be.’

Zara stared at him warily. ‘And what kind of woman was that?’

‘They’re known in the business as gold-diggers,’ he said acerbically, and saw her wince.

‘How very flattering,’ she said quietly.

‘Oh, you may think it’s nothing but a misogynistic tag but believe me, I’ve met plenty of them in my time.’ His mouth hardened. ‘Which might explain why I’m more than a little suspicious of the opposite sex—most of whom seem to want something from me. Perhaps the money was a compensation for my own sense of guilt when I realised you were nothing like that. And I often tip my staff,’ he added. ‘The sex had absolutely nothing to do with your pay-cheque.’

Zara put down the sticky little glass of liqueur and shrugged. ‘I guess I’m partly to blame. It’s my own fault. I should have just done the job I was supposed to be there for and then I could have walked away with a clear conscience and none of this misunderstanding would have ever happened. I shouldn’t have …’

‘Shouldn’t have, what?’ he prompted softly.

‘Shouldn’t have
let you.’
She swallowed down the poignant and bittersweet memories of their love-making.

‘I shouldn’t have let myself. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do.’

Something in her soft contrition hit him like a slow-motion fist to the solar plexus and Nikolai felt a sharp pang of remorse. ‘But you couldn’t help yourself,’ he said simply. ‘And neither could I. The chemistry between us was so powerful—too powerful to stop. Maybe impossible. Or do you think that kind of reaction between two people happens all the time?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You haven’t had many lovers?’

She stared down at a bare patch in the faded carpet. Why pretend to be something she wasn’t? He knew she’d never swum nude until she’d done it with him and he knew several other things she hadn’t tried before he had taught her how to do them in graphic and glorious detail …

‘No. Actually, I’ve had precisely one before you.’

Dark brows knitted together.
‘One?’

‘Is that so bizarre?’

‘It’s unusual for a woman of your age. At least, it is among the kind of women I usually associate with.’ It seemed to indicate that sex was a big deal for her—something which should have made him turn his back on her and run as fast as his legs could take him. And yet he could feel a sudden warm satisfaction suffusing his veins, the slow smile which curved his lips with pleasure. ‘And was he a good lover?’ he questioned. ‘The man you thought you might marry, perhaps?’

‘Actually, he was neither. Just somebody I was at college with who was more into rugby and beer than giving a woman pleasure.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘Until he found a farmer’s daughter with several thousand acres to her name. It just took him a while to get around to
telling me—and it seemed that everyone else at college knew before I did.’

He mulled over what she had just told him. A man who was not committed to giving a woman pleasure implied that she had not known real pleasure before. Could that explain those little choking tears he’d seen her try to bite back when he had made her come, over and over again?

For the first time since he had stormed in there, he looked at her properly, and that in itself was odd, because a woman’s body was usually the first thing he looked at.

She must have just got ready for bed because her face was scrubbed and a single plait hung down over her cotton dressing gown. It was a commonplace piece of attire—the light material was sprigged with flowers and her legs and feet were bare. She was pretty, yes—and her body was quite delicious. But there were a million women more stunning than Zara Evans. So how come he wanted to bend her into his arms every time he saw her?

‘Zara,’ he said softly.

The note in his voice made her flesh turn to goose-bumps but she continued to stare at the bare patch on the carpet as if her life depended on it. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered.

‘Don’t what?’

‘You know very well what,’ she said, a note of desperation touching her voice.

‘Look at me.’

Zara shook her head. If she looked at him she would be lost—she would drown in the depths of his pale blue eyes and start longing for things which could never be hers.

‘Zara?’

And then she found she couldn’t resist—not a moment longer. Her gaze was drawn upwards to his face, where hunger curved his sensual lips and ice-fire blazed sexual promise from his eyes.

‘Don’t do this,’ she whispered.

‘I can’t help myself—and neither can you.’

He reached out then and pulled her into his arms and she went, unresisting—eager for passion and comfort. And hadn’t it felt like a lifetime since she had run her fingers through the tumble of his hair? Or pressed herself into the hard sinews of his body and raised her face eagerly to his? She could hear the deepening unsteadiness of his breath as he kissed her and the tension in his powerful body which communicated itself to her. His hands were on her breasts now, splaying possessively over their aching weight, and he made a tiny groan as his fingers encountered the rock-hard tips.

‘I’ve been thinking about you every damned night,’ he ground out as he tore his mouth away from hers. ‘About doing this. Touching
this.’
He felt her wild tremble. ‘Have you thought about me, too, Zara?’

‘Yes!
Yes!
‘

‘Then come home with me,’ he demanded hotly. ‘Come home with me now.’

The urgency in his voice took her by surprise and the practised caress of his fingers was setting her blood on fire. But even though it nearly broke her to do so, Zara shook her head, because she could see the danger in what he was suggesting. If she wasn’t careful, he would swallow her up and spit her out—leaving her with nothing but a broken heart. She had to hang onto her independence if she was going to survive. She
had
to. ‘I c-can’t,’ she said breathlessly as she felt him begin to ruck the nightdress
up over her thighs. ‘At least, not tonight. It’s too late. I…have to get up very early in the morning and all my stuff is here.’