Читать книгу One Kiss in... Moscow: Kholodov's Last Mistress / The Man She Shouldn't Crave / Strangers When We Meet - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 10

WHAT the hell was he doing? Sergei watched Hannah’s eyes darken—with desire, he knew—and felt that guilt needle him again. He was tired of it; since when had he had a conscience? He couldn’t have done the things he’d done in this life and still keep a conscience. Yet it seemed he had, at least when it came to a woman like Hannah Pearl.

She’d reminded him of Alyona with the flashing in her eyes and the lift of the chin and the way she smiled so whimsically, as if life still offered good things. Hope. She’d even made him mention Alyona, and he never did that.

The realisation made him angry and he uncoiled himself from his chair, crossing to where Hannah waited. He held out a hand to help her rise from her seat and she took it unhesitatingly, her eyes still so heartbreakingly wide.

Did she realise how she looked? Sergei wondered. Did she have any idea of what her sweetness did to him, how it both lacerated him with guilt and filled him with need? Made him want to both believe in and shatter her illusions?

‘Come.’

‘Where?’

She spoke with such trust. Gently Sergei tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. Her skin was achingly soft, and he could smell the snowdrop scent of her hair and see the pulse fluttering in her throat. ‘I have a private dining room for my personal use,’ he told her. ‘We’ll have a drink there.’

‘I think I’ve had enough to drink,’ Hannah said with a breathless little laugh.

Sergei smiled. ‘Dessert, then.’ She was certainly sweet enough.

Hannah stared at him, her eyes wide, and, no matter how innocent she was, Sergei knew she understood where this was leading. She bit her lip, her gaze sweeping downward for a moment and Sergei almost—almost—let her go. Told her to leave.

Forget him. Then she looked up, and he saw a new strength of determination in those violet eyes.

‘Lead the way,’ she said, lightly, and he threaded his fingers through hers and led her to the discreet wood-panelled door in the back of the dining room that led to his own private room.

The door snicked softly shut and he turned to her, the pretence of a drink or dessert dropped.

‘What—?’ she began, and then stopped, so clearly waiting.

‘What am I doing?’ he filled in, in a lazy murmur. ‘I’m going to kiss you.’

‘Kiss me—’ Hannah felt a bolt of amazed longing blaze through her. She could hardly believe this was happening, that a man like Sergei—so powerful, so incredibly attractive—could want her. She stopped, let out a soft sigh that she knew was her surrender. She wanted this. This kiss, and more than that. Wherever it led. Whatever happened. She was innocent, even naive, yes, but she knew what was going on. Knew what Sergei wanted … and what she wanted. This. ‘Kiss you,’ Sergei confirmed. He reached out to cup her face, his palm rough and warm against her cheek. He let his thumb slide down to touch the fullness of her lips. ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’

Hannah let out a little laugh. ‘You’re a man of some experience, I should think. Can’t you tell?’

He laughed back, softly. ‘Yes, I can tell.’

And Hannah wanted him too much to care if she seemed transparent, obvious, eager. She smiled, waited. She wanted this, but she still would prefer him to take the lead.

And Sergei did just that, sliding his hands under her hair, drawing her closer. She came, willingly, even as her heart thudded hard and her head fell back and she waited for the feel of his mouth on hers.

It was so easy. Too easy. Easy enough to be wrong. Sergei pushed the thought aside. He wasn’t going to think about her innocence or optimism or how she made him remember. He was just going to take what was on offer, because that was what he did. That was how he’d survived.

And that was the only kind of man he could be.

He cupped her face with both of his hands, letting his thumbs slide caressingly over her jawbone, enjoying the warm, silken feel of her skin. He slid his hands along her neck, under the heavy mass of her hair, and then he drew her to him, unresisting as he’d known she would be.

The first brush of his lips against hers was exquisitely painful, because he hadn’t expected to kiss her so softly, or feel it so much. Purposefully, wanting to obliterate that sweet longing and replace it with something more primal and stark, he deepened the kiss, nudging her lips further open so his tongue could slide into the moist warmth of her mouth and take sure possession.

She made a little sound, something caught between a gasp of surprise and a moan of longing, and her hands reached up to his shoulders, although whether to pull him closer or simply steady herself Sergei didn’t know. Refused to care.

He’d wanted to stay rational throughout this encounter, cold-bloodedly in control, but already her innocent and unschooled response was making rational thought—or any thought—impossible, and now he deepened their kiss because he needed to, not because he was trying to prove something to her … or to himself.

His hands moved down her body, sliding over her hips, fingers slipping under the soft material of her dress. Another gasp when his hand came in contact with the bare flesh of her thigh. Her every response was artless and open; she was as honest with her body as she had been with everything else.

Sergei slid one hand around the silken length of her thigh, nudging her leg upward towards his hip, his hand sliding down to her ankle as he hooked her leg around him. He moved closer, pressing against her, his arousal—and his intent—unmistakable.

It was enough to break the moment, which, on some level, Sergei knew, was what he wanted. Even if right now his body protested with unfulfilled desire, deepening need.

He still felt the guilt.

Hannah gasped and pulled away, just a little bit. Sergei let her go. Her breath came in gasps and her lips were rosy and swollen, her hair a dark, tumbled cloud around her flushed face. She looked gorgeous.

‘This … this is all going a little fast for me,’ she said, and gave an unsteady laugh.

Sergei smiled. ‘Is it?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said, still so achingly honest and open. ‘But I’m …’ She pressed her hands to her face in a desperate and pointless attempt to cool the blush that scorched her cheeks. ‘I’m not used to this.’

‘I know that,’ he told her. ‘You’re a virgin, aren’t you?’

Hannah’s eyes widened, her face flushing more, if that were even possible. She was positively crimson. ‘It’s obvious, I suppose,’ she said, and Sergei tilted his head in acknowledgement.

‘Very.’

She dropped her hands, her gaze sliding away from his as she let out a rueful little laugh that caught on its final aching note. ‘You must think I’m a complete idiot.’

He could have said no. He could have drawn her into his arms and assured her that she was beautiful, desirable, perfect. All true. And then he could have taken her upstairs and made love to her all night long. In the morning she would be gone, and so would he. Easy.

Sergei said nothing.

Hannah’s head was bowed, her hair falling forward in a dark swirl to hide her face. She looked young and fragile and Sergei could still taste her on his lips. He almost spoke. Then she lifted her head, her eyes darkened to the deepest violet, and took a step forward. She laid her palms flat on his chest, and he could feel the warmth of her hands through the silk of his shirt. His heart thudded hard under her palm. He stared at her, inhaled her honeyed scent, and his heart beat harder.

‘I suppose,’ she said softly, tilting her head back so she could look at him, her hair cascading down her back in a glinting chestnut river, ‘it all depends on whether you mind.’

‘Mind?’ he repeated blankly. The honest, artless placement of her hands on his chest—especially when he’d just, through silence, rejected her—made him incapable of thought.

He’d never been so blindsided by a woman before, not just by her touch but by her whole self. He could see such an openness, such a willingness to be hurt in Hannah’s eyes that it humbled and amazed and angered him all at the same time. No one should be so vulnerable. It could only lead to disappointment and pain.

‘Mind me being an idiot,’ she clarified in a whisper, her voice lilting and playful even though her eyes were dark and wide and he felt her fingers tremble against him. Sergei knew this needed to stop. He also knew how to do it.

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ he assured her in a lazy murmur, and then he closed the space between their mouths in a kiss that was nothing like the gentle embrace of a moment ago. This kiss was hard, demanding, a proof of power.

You don’t move me.

He felt Hannah’s yielding response and he slipped his hands from her shoulders to her hips, pulling her to him in shockingly intimate contact. At least she was shocked, innocent that she was, for he heard her gasp against his mouth before he deepened the kiss once more, an endless demand for her surrender.

And surrender she did, her body becoming soft and pliant, melting towards his as her mouth slackened under his onslaught and her hands came up to clench his hair. Her heart trembled against his and her breath came in mewing gasps; Sergei lost all conscious thought, blindly driven by a need that was far more than merely physical.

Why did this woman—this irritatingly optimistic Pollyanna of a woman—make him feel so much? Need so much? Remember?

His hands slid under her bottom and he pressed her against the door, pulling her legs around his waist, his hands rucking up her skirt. Needing to feel skin against skin. Forgetting that this was just meant to be a way to make her push him away.

Her arms locked around his neck, her head thrown back, her lips parted as her heart thundered against his. His breath came in harsh, tearing gasps, and his fingers brushed the lace of her underwear. ‘Sergei,’ she said, his name a ragged whisper, and the desire and anger that had been rushing through him in a molten river of emotion so he couldn’t tell one from the other froze to an icy stream of lucidity.

She was a virgin.

And he was mauling her against a door, her mouth swollen and maybe even bruised from his kisses.

What was he doing? What had he done? He’d meant to scare her off with a kiss, but this … willing or not, she still didn’t know what she was doing.

He did.

He pushed away from her, half stumbling, a self-loathing so deep and consuming it felt like acid corroding the soul he’d thought he’d lost long ago.

‘Sergei,’ she said again, and this time he knew it was a question, one he couldn’t answer.

He ran his hands through his hair, dragged a breath into his lungs and then let it out in a long, slow shudder. Hannah straightened, fixed her dress. Her hands trembled.

Sergei looked away. It was better this way, he knew. Better to end something he never should have begun … for both their sakes.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. She might be a virgin, innocent and optimistic as Sergei had said, but even with the most positive outlook possible Hannah knew this wasn’t good. Sergei wasn’t even looking at her. And after his mouth—and his hands—the places they’d been on her body, the way they’d made her feel—

Until now. Now she felt pretty close to wretched. She swallowed, her throat dry and aching. ‘I guess I’m more of an idiot than I thought,’ she finally said, trying to sound wry although her voice was little more than a croak. Still she tried to smile. She didn’t know what else to do.

‘Yes, you are,’ Sergei returned, his voice a savage hiss. Hannah jerked back at the fury in his tone. Even though he’d just pushed her away from him, she hadn’t expected it. Yet as she stood there, conscious of her tousled hair and swollen lips and rearranged clothing, her mind started to catch up to where her body had been blazing ahead. And she wondered what would have happened if Sergei hadn’t stopped … and if she would have regretted it.

Even now with her clothes in disarray, her body aching, the only sound their still-ragged breathing, she didn’t think she would have.

‘Sergei, why—?’

‘Don’t.’ He raked a hand through his hair once more, then dropped it to his side. ‘Go to your room,’ he told her, as if she were a naughty child. ‘Grigori will deal with you tomorrow.’

‘Deal with me?’

‘Your passport. Your flight.’ His lips curved in a grim smile. ‘You can be out of this country this time tomorrow night, milaya moya.’

She recognised the Russian. My sweet. And Sergei had never sounded more cynical than when he said the endearment. ‘Why did you push me away?’ she asked quietly.

Sergei’s nostrils flared, lips thinned. He looked so angry, yet minutes ago he’d been kissing her. Touching her. His hands—

‘Don’t, Hannah.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t be so bloody naive!’ He took a step towards her, his eyes blazing. ‘You want to know why I pushed you away? Because I don’t do virgins, milaya moya, especially not ones who barely know how to kiss.’

Ouch. Hannah blinked, swallowed again, and lifted a chin. ‘I don’t believe—’

Sergei let out a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Believe it.’

‘You’re just saying that,’ she insisted, because Sergei was too angry to have pushed her away out of boredom or even disgust.

His mouth twisted in a sneer. ‘There’s optimistic and then there’s deluded. You’re leaning towards the latter.’

Hannah folded her arms. Sergei’s sudden rejection didn’t make sense. She knew she was inexperienced, he’d known that, but she wasn’t so naive that she hadn’t felt the evidence of his desire. She’d felt it in his kiss too, in the way he’d reached for her. She’d felt the answer in herself. ‘I’m not deluded.’

He arched an eyebrow, so coldly in control. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ Although she was starting to feel that maybe she was. She was so out of her element, beyond her experience, yet she still felt instinctively that Sergei wasn’t telling the truth. He hadn’t pushed her away because he’d stopped wanting her, so why?

Because he didn’t want to hurt her.

The thought popped into her mind like a translucent bubble, shining and perfect. Fragile too. For if that wasn’t a deluded thought …

Sergei was surely the coldest, most cynical man she’d ever met.

Cynical about himself.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said slowly.

He let out a harsh laugh. ‘You really are some kind of Pollyanna, always wanting to believe the best of everyone. Well, don’t believe it about me—’

‘You’ve been kind—’ Hannah insisted, because she knew, deep down, it was true.

‘There is no such thing as kind,’ Sergei cut across her. His eyes blazed into hers, icy and hot at the same time, and full of fury. ‘I said everyone has a motive, remember? And usually not a very nice one.’ He took a step towards her, the action menacing. Threatening. Hannah held her ground. ‘You know what my motive has been, milaya moya?’

‘Don’t call me that—’

‘But you are very sweet.’ He touched her cheek, lightly, and Hannah flinched. There was something ugly about his actions, his words, and she knew he was ruining it all on purpose, even if she didn’t understand why. ‘My motive,’ he continued softly, still stroking her cheek, ‘has been to get you into my bed. Why do you think I intervened with those raggedy little pickpockets? You’re very beautiful, in an artless sort of way.’

Hannah swallowed. ‘Your seduction technique needs a little work, then,’ she told him. ‘When we first met you were positively unpleasant.’

His fingers stilled for a second, no more. Then he smiled. Hannah didn’t like this smile, this cruel curving of those mobile lips that was meant to convey just how coldly calculating he truly was.

‘Ah, but it did work, didn’t it? Taken as a whole. For I could have had you right here, against the door.’ His smile widened and his eyes glittered. ‘So I must have been doing something right.’

Hannah lifted her chin, ignored the lightning streak of pain his words caused to blaze through her. ‘Then why did you stop?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ He dropped his hand and stepped away. ‘I stopped wanting you.’

Boldly, she let her gaze drop down to where the evidence of just how much he’d wanted her had pressed against her. ‘Did you?’ she challenged. ‘I may be a virgin, Sergei, but I’m not that innocent.’

Sergei’s gaze flared and narrowed. ‘Admittedly, milaya moya, I could have taken my pleasure right here, but I am a man of more sophisticated tastes than I’m sure you’ve ever experienced. And frankly the effort wasn’t worth the reward. Virgins are so tedious, and tend to get all emotional afterwards. I really didn’t want to have to deal with your tears.’

Each word was a hammer blow, or perhaps a dagger wound, for the pain was sharp and cutting. Maybe she was deluded after all, Hannah thought numbly.

She looked up, saw Sergei watching her closely. Saw how tense he was, his body rigid, thrumming with suppressed emotion. And suddenly she knew she wasn’t deluded after all. If he’d been bored by her, he’d have turned away already. Dismissed her with a drawl. He wouldn’t be here, as cagey as a crouched tiger, watching, waiting.

She took a step forward, and now she was the one to touch his cheek. Gently, her caress a balm. ‘No, Sergei,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t believe that. You’re trying to push me away and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because you’re afraid of hurting me, or maybe you’re just afraid. And maybe tonight was just meant to be that—a night. I’m not quite so deluded that I think there’s something more between us so quickly, but—’ She swallowed, her hand resting on his cheek, felt the muscle bunch in his jaw. ‘But I also know you’re not telling me the truth.’ She spoke out of deep instinct, and felt her own words resonate through her. She was not imagining this—

‘Sergei.’

Hannah stilled as the door to the private dining room was thrown open. She turned and saw a woman stumble in. She was dressed in a stretchy black Lycra tube top and a red leather skirt that rode high on her thighs. Stiletto-heeled knee-high boots in black patent leather completed the outrageous outfit. Her hair fell nearly to her waist, tangled and peroxideblonde, her face beautiful yet ravaged and overly made-up. She exuded cheap and blatant sexuality, and from the way she smiled at Sergei it was clear they knew each other very well.

‘Sergei …’ She let out a drunken giggle before speaking in Russian too slurred for Hannah even to attempt to understand.

‘No,’ Sergei said flatly, stepping away from Hannah, speaking English no doubt for her unhappy benefit. ‘You weren’t interrupting something. In fact, Varya,’ he continued, his voice turning so very smooth, ‘I’ve been expecting you.’

Hannah watched in shock as Sergei approached the woman—Varya—and snaked an arm around her waist, both steadying her and drawing her to him. She went unresistingly, naturally, curving into his solid strength as she leaned her head against his shoulder and giggled again. He murmured in Russian and she answered, her head still lolling against his shoulder, and when Sergei dropped a deliberate kiss on her forehead and drew her even closer Hannah felt her whole world come crashing down.

It was a strange feeling, surreal, just as the rest of this evening had been. Why the sight of Sergei with this woman should make her feel as if all the values and beliefs she’d built her life on were toppling Hannah couldn’t yet say; all she knew was at that moment everything she’d counted on, everything she’d believed in, felt false. As if all the cynical implications Sergei had made were true, and her own optimistic assertions had been no more than the misguided sputterings of a naive schoolgirl.

She really was deluded. About everything.

‘Well.’ From somewhere she found her voice, croaky and hoarse as it was. ‘I guess I’ll leave both of you to it.’

Varya glanced at her blearily and Sergei just gave her a coolly challenging smile. ‘Why don’t you?’ he said, and turned back to Varya.

Blindly Hannah walked from the room. One leg in front of the other, step by torturous step, until she was at the door. From behind her she heard Sergei murmur something to Varya, something that sounded loving.

Hannah paused. Something didn’t feel right about this. Surely a man of such sophisticated tastes as Sergei would choose someone other than a worn-out-looking woman like Varya. All of his actions had seemed so deliberate, so …

staged.

What was happening?

Her hand still on the doorknob, she turned around. Varya’s head was still lolling on Sergei’s shoulder, and he gazed down at her with an expression, Hannah thought, of unbearable sadness.

Then he looked up and saw her still standing there, and his expression froze, icier than ever.

Hannah didn’t know where she found the words, only that she meant them. Deeply. ‘You’re a better man than you think you are, Sergei.’

Something flashed across his face but was gone before Hannah could guess what it was. ‘Deluded,’ he drawled softly, and turned away.

Bleakly Hannah thought he must be right, and without another word she left the room.

Sergei heard the door click softly shut and let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

‘You’re always so good to me, Sergei,’ Varya mumbled in Russian, her head still on his shoulder. Her breath stank of cheap vodka. Sighing, Sergei stroked her hair.

‘Have you seen Grigori?’

‘I don’t want him to see me like this,’ Varya said, her voice ending on a hiccuppy sob. She’d always been a sentimental drunk.

‘Then let’s get you cleaned up.’ Sergei started leading her towards the door in the back of the room that led to a private corridor. Hannah’s shocked face was imprinted in his mind’s eye, and the hurt and honesty in those wide violet eyes lacerated his soul with guilt and regret. Regret he couldn’t afford to feel. It was better this way, he knew. He couldn’t have timed Varya’s entrance more perfectly. It had been a sure-fire way to rid himself of Hannah, and destroy the illusions she’d so optimistically harboured.

You’re a better man than you think you are.

She really was appallingly naive.

With his arm around her he guided Varya down the corridor to a suite of rooms he kept reserved solely for her use. Varya’s reappearances were fairly regular yet still unpredictable; he never knew when she was going to stumble back into his life. Still, his entire staff knew always to let her through. She had the most unrestricted access to him of any acquaintance, man or woman. They had too much history together for anything else.

Varya sat on the edge of the bed sniffling softly while Sergei ran a large bubble bath. He ordered a tray of food and fresh clothes delivered to the room and when he’d rung off Varya looked up at him with liquid eyes, mascara now streaking her cheeks.

‘You’re so good to me, Sergei. You should pretend you don’t know me and never speak to me again.’ She gave another hiccuppy sob.

Sergei smiled and sat next to her on the bed, tucking a hank of hair behind her ear. ‘I could never pretend such a thing, Varya. We’ve known each other since we were children.’

She offered him a watery smile. ‘Not much of a childhood, eh?’

‘No.’ Sergei observed her with a weary despair. Every time Varya drifted back into his life, she looked more worn, more used. The lines on her face, the caked make-up, the bloodshot eyes … all of it told a story he’d tried so hard to rewrite. Yet Varya had never wanted to take a handout, and she’d always felt ill at ease in Sergei’s new world. She only came to him when she was desperate, and left as soon as she could.

‘You’re good to me,’ Varya said again, sniff ling. ‘But you’re so alone, Serozyha,’ she continued, using her pet name for him from childhood. ‘So lonely. You never let anyone close. Not even me.’

I find that very sad. ‘Old habits die hard, Varya.’

She looked up at him blearily. ‘I want you to be happy.’

Happy? Sergei couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such an emotion. Satisfaction, yes. Triumph, certainly. But a genuine joy? Never. ‘Let’s worry about you,’ Sergei replied, helping her up from the bed. ‘Come get in the bath.’ He helped her undress, as if she were a child, knowing in her current state she couldn’t do it by herself. When she finally sank beneath the bubbles and closed her eyes, Sergei left her in peace but kept the door ajar so he could check on her.

A knock sounded on the door of the suite, and after Sergei called to enter Grigori slipped into the room. His face was pale except for the port-wine birthmark that had been the reason he’d been abandoned, and had made his childhood at the orphanage a misery.

‘Sergei, I’m so sorry. Security told me that Varya had been looking for you, but I didn’t realise she’d found you in the restaurant—’

‘It’s all right,’ Sergei cut off his assistant’s frantic apologies. ‘I’m glad she found me.’

Grigori still looked anxious, although whether for his sake or Varya’s Sergei didn’t know. Grigori had never told Sergei he loved Varya, but it was obvious from the naked need on his face.

‘Is she—?’

‘She needs a bath and a hot meal and about twelve hours’ sleep,’ Sergei said. Grigori nodded; they both knew Varya needed a lot more than that, just as they knew she would never take it. Life on the street had been a lot harder for her than it had been for them. A woman was far more vulnerable and those hard years had marked Varya for ever.

‘And Miss Pearl …?’ he asked, hesitantly, and Sergei looked away. He could still feel the softness of her hand on his cheek, the kind urgency of her words. She’d wanted to believe in him. He was glad he’d shattered at least that illusion. He turned back to Grigori.

‘You can help her with her visa and passport tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend ever to see her again.’