THE RUSSIAN'S ACQUISTION

by Dani Collins

  “Invitations will be pouring in after last night. I’ll call to let you know where we’re going and what time to be ready.” He collected his briefcase, willing his driver to ring. “I have accounts at all the boutiques on Tverskaya. Ivan will come back after he drops me and you can shop or Lazlo can arrange a private guide if you’d like to tour the city.”

  Clair tried not to gape, but she was still trying to process her reaction to last night’s expulsion from his bed and all she could think was, So this is what a mistress does with her downtime.

  Logically she understood that a strong man like Aleksy would hate that he’d revealed any sort of vulnerability, so she tried not to let his plan to abandon her cut too deeply. She’d spent hours last night coaching herself not to take any of what happened between them to heart. This wasn’t personal; it was convenience. Sex. Good sex.

  She licked her lips, trying not to get off track, but memories still crept through, warming her with insidious desire. She suppressed them, considering the shopping and sightseeing offers. Getting out sounded good, but she didn’t need anything after the spree in Paris. She just wanted to clear her head and remember how to be herself.

  “Don’t bother anyone. I’d rather see where my feet take me,” she decided.

  His macho eyebrows came together like clashing titans. “You want to walk? Alone?”

  The incredible sexism in the remark got her back up. “Do you think I’ll get lost? I’ll print a map before I leave.”

  “It’s not safe,” he impressed on her with another stern frown.

  Clair dismissed that with a wave. “I’ve lived alone in London for five years.”

  “Moscow isn’t London, Clair. Kidnappings are on the rise—”

  “Who’s going to kidnap me?” She splayed a hand on her chest, forcing a laugh, but the need to state the obvious gave a surprising pluck against her heartstrings. “I don’t have any family to threaten. Remember?”

  “Do you think the paparazzi at the Bolshoi haven’t printed photos of the woman with me last night? Even without that you’re young, pretty, well dressed. You don’t speak the language. Opportunists are out there and you should never, ever underestimate what people will do for money. I don’t.” His scar stood out stark white against his flush of emotion.

  Foreboding slithered through her. She knew then that his scar was not the result of a tragically placed ice patch and a broken windshield. Aleksy had been indelibly marked by violence. Internal brakes wanted to screech the whole world to a stop so she could somehow process that, but how? There was no erasing what had happened to him.

  A poignant ache flooded her at the same time. Before she realized what she was doing, she reached out with all the familiarity that had developed between them last night. Cupping his jaw, she lifted herself on tiptoes, aware of him stiffening as she leaned into him. Her lips almost brushed the puckered line before he abruptly set her away, jerking his head back.

  “What are you doing?”

  His rebuff tore her in two. She winced, regretting the lapse in her reserve, but he had no idea how few people ever showed concern for her—and after whatever he’d been through…

  “Thank you for trying to look out for me.” She forced the words out.

  He tugged the lapels of his overcoat as if he were fitting armor back into place and closed a few buttons. Glancing at his watch, he took a step toward the door, speaking over his shoulder dismissively, “You’ll stay in, then? Or call Lazlo for an escort?”

  Her silence made him pause. He turned another weighty frown in her direction.

  Clair curled her toes in her slippers. It would be so easy to let her self-reliance crumble and allow this protective, strong-willed, incredibly attractive man to run her life. What about when they were through, though? She’d be back to taking care of herself. She had to hold on to her independence.

  “I’m not your kidnap victim.” She tried to sound wry, but for some reason her lips trembled and her heart skipped a beat. “I’ll go out if I want to.”

  “Despite the risk,” he snapped, temper sharpening his voice.

  “It’s not that great a risk!” She folded her arms, stopping short of saying he was overreacting. Obviously his experience had taught him differently. Determined to hold her own, she reasoned, “When you want to do something, who do you ask? No one, right? Same here.”

  His jaw tightened. He was used to everyone answering to him, that much was clear. The precisely machined, titanium wheels in his head seemed to whir at top speed as he sought a suitable rejoinder.

  “I’m not trying to be obstinate,” she said, checking her flawless manicure.

  “But you won’t give me your word.”

  “It would be a lie.”

  With a hiss of impatience, he set down the briefcase, its weight hitting the tiles with a hard thunk. His mobile sounded and he answered with a staccato burst of Russian before tossing the device on the hall table and shedding his overcoat, his stare holding hers with antagonistic force.

  Clair swallowed and fell back a step. “What?”

  “You won’t stay at home as I’ve asked, so now I have to take action, don’t I?” He began loosening the knot at his throat.

  “What does that mean? You’re going to tie me up?” Genuine alarm made her retreat several feet in the face of his deliberate advance.

  “It means I have to change and go with you.” He yanked his tie free and draped it over her shoulder as he passed, voice pithy and displeased, but he still made her grin as he said, “Save the tying up for after dark.”

  * * *

  Clair reminded herself she was not behaving like a spoiled socialite. She was a fully grown adult making her own decisions, and Aleksy could do the same. She wasn’t keeping him from his work. His pacing and brooding would not make her feel guilty.

  She refused to set herself up for criticism either, so she took the precaution of checking the weather even though the sky was intensely blue and the sun glanced brilliantly off Moscow’s blanket of snow. The modiste in Paris had tut-tutted about Moscow’s temperatures, taking advantage of Aleksy’s open account to empty her winter fashion collection into Clair’s possession. After noting the windchill warning, Clair pulled on warm socks over the cuffs of her skinny jeans and layered a snug waffle print under a woolen turtleneck.

  Her new faux fur boots were adorable as well as functional, their trim matching a smart leather jacket in the same buff tones. She topped it all with a corduroy baker boy hat and a pair of sunglasses worth more than her last pay packet. When she appeared, Aleksy said nothing, only shrugged into a thick ski jacket and laced up sturdy boots.

  Clair paused inside the exit doors to check directions with the doorman. His English was excellent, but he stammered as he answered her questions, one eye on where Aleksy waited with detached patience. Clair took care to write down the street names phonetically so she could find her way back—exactly as she would have done if Aleksy weren’t coming with her.

  “Planning to ditch me?” he asked as they left the building.

  “Of course not.” Outside, the wind cut like a broadsword, making all her muscles contract and her breath stop in her lungs. She had to clench her teeth against them chattering. “Do you have a preference which way we go?”

  “This is your walk.”

  Clair looked around her, determined not to let his attitude send her slinking back up to the flat. Taking a moment to get her bearings, she started toward the river, not stopping until they were overlooking the frozen water from a bridge twenty minutes later.

  As she marveled at the jagged ice squares forming a broken path in front of the Kremlin, Aleksy withdrew a lip balm from his coat pocket and handed it to her.

  So she wasn’t completely prepared. Smoothing balm over her already drying lips, she thanked him and handed it back,
getting a funny feeling in her center when she watched him use it too.

  “You must be outside in winter often if you’re ready for the weather,” she said.

  “It’s still in my pocket from the last time I went skiing.”

  Oh. Of course. “Do you ski a lot?” Somehow she couldn’t connect that detail to a man who was built like an athlete but didn’t seem given to using his body outdoors when he could watch the financials from a treadmill.

  “When I visit my resort, I do.”

  “Oh.” Of course. “Is your ski hill here in Russia?”

  “Canada. It’s a heli operation. A good investment,” he added.

  “Of course,” she murmured, smiling privately. Heaven forbid Aleksy simply buy something because he liked it. No doubt he thought she was a good investment.

  That thought pinched enough that she wanted to get away from it. She began walking and he paced her, his formidable presence drawing startled looks, but ones of recognition. The average Russian citizen seemed to know him better than she did.

  “What other sorts of enterprises am I keeping you from today? The internet said you got your start in road and rail transport.”

  He took a moment to absorb that she’d been cyber-stalking him, then answered, “Lumber first, then transport. Other types of manufacturing. Real estate of all kinds. A shipyard.” He scowled.

  “That one isn’t such a good investment?” Clair guessed.

  “No, it’s very sound.” His frown cleared to what looked like pride. “All of my ventures have excellent teams in charge.”

  “Then why the dismay?” she asked.

  Aleksy was frowning because he couldn’t think of one thing he was being “kept from” by this stylish blonde in her smart boots and cute hat. The way she was watching him so closely, trying to read his thoughts, was the exact reason he’d wanted to avoid her today. If her penetrating glances weren’t bad enough, she was provoking yet more self-examination and he didn’t like it.

  “I’m thinking of what I would be doing in the office if I were there,” he lied.

  Her fine-boned jaw tensed, accepting the minor set down without comment as she looked away and walked on in silence.

  He’d wanted to seal her lips against further questions, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her. The truth was, he didn’t know what he’d be doing at the office. His strategy had always been to set the personnel in place so a business ran itself, paying him dividends and allowing him to expand to the next challenge. Each new enterprise had been a step toward overtaking Van Eych, but there were no more steps. He’d reached the finish line. Time to put the game away. The work he’d put into amassing his assets suddenly seemed as pointless as tapping a plastic piece around a cardboard path. Yes, the wealth he’d accumulated would always need direction to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life, but it hadn’t accomplished what it was meant to; he was still eaten by guilt.

  And still confronting a gaping emptiness in his life that could never be filled.

  A bright glint flicked in his periphery, dragging his attention over Clair’s head to a man with a camera. He wasn’t dressed for the weather and looked miserable. When Aleksy confronted him with a glare, he scurried off, not giving Aleksy the chance to turn Clair and say, See? He was staked outside the penthouse and followed us.

  Disturbed, Aleksy followed the man with his eyes while he made a mental note to increase his personal security. The typical paparazzo didn’t care if his target saw him. That kind of surveillance spoke of someone sniffing out skeletons in closets. A suffocating feeling rose like a band to close around his chest.

  Clair’s small hand suddenly gripped his down-stuffed sleeve, pouring buoyant lightness into the dark turmoil roiling inside him. Her wonder-struck expression made his heart lurch into a painful, stumbling gallop.

  “When you said the streets were dangerous— Am I imagining things or is that a bear?” Clair tore her gaze from the astonishing sight down the block to catch Aleksy watching her with an expression of heartrending struggle on his face.

  He turned his face quickly to look. By the time he looked back, the only emotion he expressed was sardonic humor. “Maslenitsa.”

  Clair’s nerve endings were still vibrating as she searched for traces of what she had thought she’d seen in his eyes, but whatever had been there was gone. She ducked her head so she wouldn’t give away how dejected his shift in mood made her.

  Get a grip, she ordered herself, and released his arm, repeating the word he’d used. “What is it?”

  “A festival to welcome Spring. Like Mardi Gras. Except we have bears, fistfights and troika rides.”

  “Judging by the first two, I imagine the third is bronco-busting a reindeer? And what makes you think spring has arrived?”

  Aleksy chuckled, the rich sound so unexpected Clair had to swallow her heart back to where it belonged. He soon dispelled her misconception by securing them a ride in a sleigh pulled by three horses. Snuggling her into his side, he let the English-speaking driver tuck them under a blanket and educate her on the festival, which was pagan in origin, but also related to Lent. When Clair expressed too much interest in the bear wrestling contest, the old man turned in his seat. “Not for you, malyutka. Wrestling is for old men who only have vodka to keep them warm.” He winked at Aleksy.

  The man ended by fetching Clair a plate of blini, round pancakes covered in caviar, mushrooms, butter and sour cream.

  “I can’t eat all this. You’ll have to buy me a whole new wardrobe,” Clair protested after a few bites of the deliciously rich food. “Here. Please,” she prompted Aleksy.

  “No.” He held up an adamant hand. “I can’t eat pancakes.”

  “Too many as a child?” she teased, imagining him as a strapping boy gobbling everything in sight.

  “Far too many,” he said grimly. “If you can’t eat it, give it to the dog.”

  She followed his nod to where a German shepherd was licking a plate, the owner unconcerned. Clair let the dog wolf down what was left of her blini and disposed of the trash, her mind stuck on Aleksy’s remark.

  They moved under an ornately carved archway built of ice to a park filled with ice sculptures. The angels, castles and mythical creatures were beginning to thaw, their sharpest edges blurred, but they were still starkly beautiful, transparent and glinting in the sun.

  “The driver said the festival has only been revived recently. You weren’t eating pancakes just for Lent growing up, were you?” she mused aloud, stepping back and hiding behind her camera to keep the question less personal.

  “No, we ate them for survival,” he said flatly, gaze focused somewhere beyond the stunning sculptures.

  “You weren’t working for Grigori then?”

  “I was hardly working at all. My mother wouldn’t let me quit school.”

  Clair lowered her camera. “Somehow I can’t imagine you taking orders from anyone, even your own mother.”

  “I would have given her anything,” he said with a gruff thread of torture weaving through his tone. “I couldn’t give her what she really wanted—my father’s life back. I worked ahead and was in my last semester when Grigori hired me. My mother still worked at first, and at least we ate something besides pancakes. I gave her that much, at least, before she withered away.”

  His bitter self-recrimination caught her off guard, making her want to touch him again, but she was learning. He would talk a little, but only if they kept it to the facts.

  “Cancer?” she guessed, unable to help being affected by his loss. He gave an abbreviated nod and she murmured, “That’s tragic.”

  “It was suicide,” he bit out. “She knew something was wrong and didn’t seek treatment. I would have done anything—” His jaw bit into the word. “But she felt like a burden on me.” His hand opened, empty and draped with futili
ty before he shoved it into his pocket. “And she wanted to be with my father.”

  Clair caught a sharp breath, frozen with the need to offer him comfort, but very aware she couldn’t reveal too much empathy right now.

  “She must have loved him very much,” she murmured, voice involuntarily husky.

  “She was shattered by his death. Broken.” His gaze fixed on a sculpture that had fallen over and splintered into a million pieces, its original form impossible to discern. “I hated seeing her like that. Hated knowing I—” He cut himself off and shuddered, looking around as though he’d just come back into himself. “Are you finished here?”

  Clair huddled in the constricting layer of her jacket, aching for Aleksy even as she silently willed him to finish what he’d started to say, sensing he needed to exorcise a particularly cruel demon. Yes, she needed to keep from becoming too connected to him, but she couldn’t ignore his terrible pain.

  Carefully stowing her camera in her pocket, she put her hand on his arm. He stiffened against her touch, rejecting her attempt to get through to him.

  “I’m sure you did what you could. Don’t blame yourself for something you couldn’t control,” she said.

  “Who else is there to blame?” he countered roughly, utter desolation in the gaze that struck hers like a mallet before he yanked it away.

  A name popped into her head and she spoke it impulsively. “Victor?”

  “Chto?” The word came out in a puff of condensed breath as he swung his head to glare at her.

  “Did Victor—” It sounded stupid as she thought it through, but she’d been keeping up with the headlines in London. Victor’s perfidies were being revealed with glee by the press. Victims were pouring out of the woodwork day by day. Aleksy’s hatred of the man was bone deep. His remark from last night, “after my father was killed,” still rang in her brain. Perhaps she was being melodramatic, but…?

  “Did Victor have anything to do with how you lost your father?” she asked, tensing with dread as she tested this very dangerous ground.