by Eve Black
Gregor opened the door and stopped her before she could make a break for it.
“Mr. Pavlovich is waiting for you at the hotel,” Gregor intoned, his strong Russian accent only emphasizing his chilly demeanor. If Spanish was a language of love and passion, Russian was a language of ice and rocks.
Mr. Pavlovich? So that was the name of her husband-to-be. It was a good, strong name, at least. Mariana Pavlovich… Wait! Where have I heard that last name before?
“Come,” Gregor said, snatching the answer from the tip of her brain. “We should not keep him waiting. He is most eager to see you.”
Somewhat relieved that she wouldn’t have to meet her groom just then, she let herself relax a bit. Until she realized what else he’d said: He is most eager to see you…
A fist of anxiety and self-doubt punched her in the gut. He was eager now, but would he feel the same way once he actually met her? No, she wasn’t ugly—had been called pretty on more than one occasion—but she wasn’t billionaire marriage material. Not really. Not when he could have picked any number of Russian beauties to marry. Sure, she had no idea what he looked like, he could probably be a Hugh Hefner-esque man, old and creepy, but his money could have bought him more than enough marriage-minded women.
So why did he go through the agency? Why did he ask for a woman of Latin-American heritage?
Gregor cleared his throat, and Mariana remembered he had spoken.
“That’s fine,” she replied, offering the man a polite smile. “I assume transportation has been provided.” She was using her corporate lawyer tone, and she didn’t regret it. It was her go-to when she felt out of her element—like when she was in a new country, surrounded by hostiles, and headed into the den of the bear!
“Of course, Miss Sanchez,” Gregor said, indicating that she should follow behind him as he descended the steel stairs someone had rolled up against the plane. Thankfully, her mental image of Russia wasn’t what greeted her. She always thought of the country as cold, frigid. But the early evening sun shone down on them, and the air was crisp yet refreshing, like the first bite of autumn before the lion of winter. Mariana pulled her light coat tighter around her shoulders and tried to hold her hair out of her eyes, but the wind whipping across the tarmac ruined any chance of her making her hair behave. Thick, straight as a pin, and long, her only hope of saving herself from embarrassment was to wind it into a braid. But what kind of picture would that present to her future husband? The Latina with the wild black hair, black V-neck cashmere sweater, and blood-colored skirt; the very picture of spicy.
Gregor escorted her to a waiting black car and she climbed into the backseat. It was as comfortable as her seat on the plane. Once her luggage was loaded into the trunk, Gregor climbed into the passenger seat, nodding to the driver who was just as Friday-faced as Gregor. They left the airport and proceeded into Moscow.
Never having set foot in Russia before, everything was new to her; big buildings, a purple and red sunset, and glittering but intermittent street lights.
So, this will be my home for the next month…
She realized the discordance of it; she was burning with excitement—with a scooch of trepidation—about this new adventure, but she was also chilled by the anticipation and fear of the unknown. As she stared out the window at the busy city buzzing by, her heart climbing higher into her throat, Mariana couldn’t help but wonder: Have I made a mistake?
3
Mariana tried to hide her shock at the size of the hotel they were pulling up to, but she failed.
“Holy shit,” she murmured, and Gregor ignored her.
The driver stopped the car and Gregor got out, coming to the back to open the door for her.
Swallowing the ball of uncertainty in her throat, she forced herself to slide from the seat and put her feet on the ground. Her three-inch, black Louboutins had been a laborious choice as well—though they weren’t practical travel wear, they were certainly eye-catching. Again, she was hoping that whoever her fiancé was, he appreciated all the effort she went to in order to be appealing.
Standing, Mariana’s gaze landed on the doors leading into the hotel lobby. Two men stood, dressed in black coats and black ties, staring at her with bored expressions. If this is what men in Russia were like, she didn’t hold out much hope for a warm welcome from her fiancé. The men at the door wore name tags, so they weren’t like Gregor—whatever Gregor was—and they were holding the doors open for her. With a flick of his wrist, Gregor indicated she should go ahead of him, and she did, throwing back her shoulders, forcing a rod of steel and determination down her back, and pushing her chin into the air. What the hell was she doing acting like a frightened little girl? She was a powerful, professional woman!
You’re damn right!
With a little more brass than she’d felt since leaving Chicago, Mariana strode through the hotel doors and into the lobby, which looked more like a museum housing Russian historical artifacts than a hotel lobby. Gold and glass were everywhere, and the furnishings were dark wood covered in blacks and deep reds. It was beautiful, flashy, just the kind of place a billionaire would stay when he was in town.
Gregor led her to the golden elevator, and Mariana stepped into it without hesitation. But she held her breath all the way up to the top floor. The penthouse suite. Of course, a billionaire would want the biggest, most elegant of rooms.
What better place to meet a complete stranger?
And consummate a marriage? Struck by that thought, Mariana, again, wondered about her groom. Was he handsome? Ugly? Old? Young? An asshole? Charming? Would she like him on sight or would it take months or even years? And what would he think about her? Did he have all the same questions about her?
The questions swirled about in her head, making her dizzy—not that holding her breath helped. She exhaled, then took a deep, steadying inhale.
This was the first step into a new life, a life of something with more meaning than steel and concrete offices and depositions.
As the elevator dinged, indicating their floor, Mariana straightened her shoulders and stared straight ahead, both eager and terrified of her first sight of Mr. Pavlovich.
But the foyer was empty. The elevator doors opened into an empty vestibule of sorts. Beside her, Gregor cleared his throat.
“Please, Miss Sanchez,” he said, stretching his arm out before them. “I will send up your bags.”
Wait…he wasn’t staying? He was just leaving her there? Alone?
He must have read the burgeoning panic on her face because he intoned, “Mr. Pavlovich wishes to meet you. Alone.” His expression one of stone, Mariana knew she was on her own, which was ridiculous—why did she feel as though Gregor’s presence would make her first meeting with her future husband any easier?
Stop being a wuss! Suck it up! You’ve faced down entire teams of corporate legal counsel, snapping their jaws at you to intimidate you into settling out of court. You can handle one man.
Somewhat emboldened by her internal pep talk, she offered Gregor a single nod then stepped off the elevator and onto the white marble floors of the penthouse.
As the elevator doors slid shut behind her, she steeled herself and walked forward, her heels click-clacking on the marble. Beyond the vestibule the room opened into a space large enough to hold court. Furnished in creams, golds, burnished reds and yellows, the room reminded her of a sunset. Without thought, she tugged off her coat, tossed it over a chair to her right, and her feet carried her further into the suite, her mind still swirling. For all her questions, they would be answered soon—as soon as she saw the man she was to marry.
Mariana stopped in the middle of the large, unoccupied room, and she held her breath. Where was Mr. Pavlovich? She’d expected him to greet her at the airport, but he hadn’t. Then, she expected him to meet her in the lobby, but he hadn’t. Then—though she probably should have guessed—she’d expected him to meet her off the elevator. He hadn’t. Already, her intended was proving unpredictable.<
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She didn’t like that; feeling unsteady, as though she were treading over sand instead of marble.
Deep rumbling emanated from a room to the right. She turned, spying a closed door. Suddenly her every sense was tuned to the slab of dark wood separating her from whom she suspected was Mr. Pavlovich. Without a doubt her future husband was in there, probably conducting business—billionaires had to work sometime, right? Not wanting to interrupt whatever was going on, Mariana stood still, listening.
The man was speaking in Russian, his voice deep enough to raise goosebumps over her skin, and she trembled. It was the first sound to ever do that. And if his voice could do that…
More deep rumbling, louder this time. Whatever was going on, he didn’t sound pleased.
Oh, great. He’s gonna be all pissed when he meets me. My luck he’ll take one look at me and chuck me out on my fat ass. Attorney Mariana Sanchez was all badass confidence in gray suits, standing before a courtroom, tearing contracts to shreds, but here, now…she was simply lonely Mariana Sanchez, desperate single woman, hoping to make a connection that would last a lifetime. She’d never been so scared—or so thrilled—in all her life.
Suddenly in need of fresh air, Mariana turned to find a door to the terrace—every penthouse had a terrace. Finding it, she click-clacked her way to it, throwing open the door. The chill of the night air slapped her face, and she sucked in a shocked breath. It was bracing. Mind-clearing.
But that clarity turned to mush in an instant. He was there…behind her. He hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t announced his presence, she simply felt him, watching her. Why wasn’t he saying something? Was something wrong? Was he taking her measure before she could even gaze upon his face? Again, her thoughts raced with questions only one man could answer.
This is it! Time to put up or shut the hell up!
Holding her breath, Mariana squared her shoulders and pushed away from the railing where she’d been leaning. Turning, she nearly lost all ability to think—before her was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
Hair so black it was nearly pitch, and eyes that burned the color of priceless emeralds. Tall, with broad shoulders that strained the confines of his obviously tailored suit coat. She would bet a month’s worth of retainer fees that beneath the crisp white shirt he wore, every inch of him was hardened steel, covered in toned flesh. Chiseled jaw, straight nose, and full, smirking lips. The man was a god among men, a man who made her heart thud wildly and her belly clench heatedly.
And he was staring at her with a chilling intensity in his eyes.
“Hello, Mariana,” he drawled, the corners of his sensual mouth rising to flash his perfect white teeth—like a wolf brandishing his most menacing weapons.
She blinked at him, her voice lost somewhere beneath her utter shock at how gorgeous he was, and how her body was responding to him—as if it were caught up in the snare of his masculinity.
His mesmerizing gaze swept over her, taking in the flare of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and finally landing on her face once more. “I have been waiting for you…”
4
Mine, his mind growled even as he smiled at his woman across the terrace. He’d known she arrived, had been waiting for her, but a call from Lyuba had curtailed his first official meeting with the woman he’d been hungering to taste for two years.
But now, she was here, staring at him, her big chocolate eyes wide, her lush, pink lips parted in surprise, and her long black hair waving like ink ribbons in the chill night wind. The light from the LED sconces on either side of the door did little to illuminate her, but he didn’t need any light to know each feature, each curve, each hollow of her face and body. He’d memorized her. Studied her.
As he’d done with everything he’d ruthlessly pursued.
She was wearing a tight, form-fitting skirt that hid nothing from his gaze. The heels on her feet emphasized the shapeliness of her calves, and the length of her legs. The light sweater she wore covered most of her breasts, but he could see the swell of them beneath the soft looking fabric. Perfectly sized for his large hands. What color were her nipples? Would they be a dark pink, or more a chocolate brown to accent the creamy brown of her skin? Mariana was a vision, his every fantasy come to life, and he couldn’t wait to pull her into him, feel her warmth against him. God, it was a yearning he was having a difficult time ignoring.
Willing his heart to beat a steady rhythm and his cock to settle the hell down, he offered Mariana a slow, appreciative smile. “Hello, Mariana,” he drawled, his mouth forming words even as his hands ached to reach out and touch in her a proper greeting. Fuck proper. He wanted to bend her over the railing and pound into her hot wetness until she screamed—and all of Moscow knew she was his. “I have been waiting for you…” For too fucking long.
She blinked, snapping her mouth shut as if to keep from blurting something.
“How was your trip?” he asked, his voice a little deeper than he’d anticipated, but what could be expected? He was holding back two years’ worth of sexual tension. “I hope you aren’t too tired after your journey to join me for dinner.” One step at a time, Vitali. Feed her…before you feast on her.
Mariana’s gaze landed on his mouth, laser-focused on his lips as he spoke.
As if snapped from a fog, she lifted her chin and pinned him with a cool expression. “I believe I am at a disadvantage; you know my name, but I don’t know yours,” she intoned, her husky voice only succeeding in stirring up the blood in his cock again. What would that husky voice of hers do when she was moaning beneath him as he thrust into her? His belly tightened, the ache in his balls growing all the more excruciating.
“Vitali,” he answered, watching as she tucked an errant lock of dark hair behind her ear. So fucking sexy. “Vitali Pavlovich.”
“Vitali,” she said, almost hesitantly. The sound of his name on her lips—in that fucking husky voice—flipped a switch in his brain. Fuck waiting until tomorrow to marry this woman, he’d have the priest meet them here, in the penthouse. They’d be married within the hour…then, he could take his sweet time, getting to know every hot, silky, curvy inch of his new wife.
Pulling his phone from his breast pocket, he dialed Gregor. In Russian, he commanded, “Call Father Itszack. Have him meet us here now. Offer him another ten-thousand in church donations for his expediency.” As he spoke, he watched Mariana watching him, her soft brown eyes taking in his face, continuing to watch his mouth—she seemed particularly taken with his lips.
The feeling is mutual. Her lips were the perfect shape, a lush bow he wanted to plunder.
After hanging up with Gregor, he offered his bride another smile, one he hoped wasn’t loaded with the sexual ferocity he was feeling in his blood. It wouldn’t do to scare her off before he had the chance to seduce her as he’d been wanting to do for far too long.
“Come inside,” he coaxed. “We’ll have dinner brought up, and we can chat.”
She raised a single inky eyebrow, her shoulders relaxing a mite. “Alright.”
Reaching out, Vitali waited for her to take his hand. She gave it a quick glance before bringing her own hand up to place in his. Electricity on par with a lightning strike snapped through him, making his breath catch. Her eyes widened at the contact, her mouth opening on a silent gasp.
She felt it, too, that connection, that instant attraction.
He fought the urge to growl, instead, he waited for her to say something—anything—to help him dispel the thrumming in his ears, the sound of his heart pounding in his chest.
Damn…this woman…
As if taking his direction, Mariana led the way off the terrace and into the penthouse. He’d picked the largest penthouse in the city, not because he needed the space, but because he deserved the luxury. He could afford to buy the whole hotel if he wanted—he’d worked hard for every single billion of his billion-dollar empire, and now he would spend a little time enjoying the fruits of his labors…with this woman beside him
.
Once inside the penthouse, he took over, leading her to the large leather couches in the center of the large room. The couches were set in a semi-circle, facing the windows over the terrace, and there was a long, low coffee table in front of them. He waited for her to take a seat—watching her ass as she did so—and then, took the seat beside her. Close enough to smell her scent; something warm, inviting…wholly intoxicating. Vitali let his gaze roam over her as she sat, stiffly, taking in the room, obviously avoiding looking at him.
Was she nervous? She had no reason to be, and he wanted her to be comfortable—needed her to be comfortable. The urge to see to his woman’s comfort—to her every need—was overwhelming. And he dare not look closely at why.
Leaning back and crossing his leg, ankle over knee, he forced himself to relax. He could tell his own tension was only feeding hers; her body fairly vibrated with anxiety, and her eyes flicked from surface to surface, trying to find something to help ease that anxiety.
Ease her in, Vitali…
“I want you to be comfortable around me,” he said, his voice immediately making her stiffen further. No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. “Please, Mariana,” he leaned forward and waited for her to turn to him. She took a deep breath and finally turned her head to meet his gaze.
Beautiful.
“Vitali,” she clipped, her nervousness showing in her voice.
“I think that I need to explain some things; about who I am and why you are here.”
Again, she cocked that sexy eyebrow. “I am here because I fit your requirements to a T.”
