Such thoughts were definitely proof she really should step back. To stumble upon him by accident was forgivable. Accidents happened. But to stand here and knowingly watch him bathe was a flagrant breach of his privacy. To see him half-naked and not retreat was an even more grievous sin—or so she had been taught. At the moment, though, Evie couldn’t think why. This was not sinful, it was beautiful. Her eyes were glued to his back, memorising every inch of him; how those broad shoulders gave way to a back tanned from countless hours spent shovelling, hauling, lifting. Prince he might be, but he was no stranger to hard work. Labour had honed every muscle hewn plane of him.
Her eyes gave in to the final temptation, dropping lower, to where his back tapered to a lean waist before disappearing into trousers. He was gorgeously made even out of his clothes. His tailor might be a genius, but the man had quite the body to work with. Genius would be easy.
Such thoughts prodded her conscience. She really ought to go back inside now. At the very least, she ought to look away, but there were a lot of things she ought to have done today—she ought to have gone home, ought to have refused the invitation to dine alone even if it was just to discuss cataloguing techniques. What she ought to do had already lost several battles today and it was about to lose one more. Ought was no match for that back. She’d look just a few seconds longer.
He reached for the clean shirt and Evie knew a moment’s panic. The gesture was too casual. She’d pushed her luck and retreat was no longer an option. She’d been caught. His next words confirmed it. ‘Have you seen enough?’
‘I didn’t mean to intrude,’ she began to apologise. He was going to make her take responsibility for her actions and she probably deserved it. She had been staring. But he was not entirely blameless. He’d known and he’d done nothing to stop her, to interrupt her. ‘You knew I was there?’ It came out as part-question, part-accusation.
Heat prickled low in her stomach as she realised what his knowledge meant. He’d encouraged her voyeurism, the act taking on a higher element of intimacy because it had been shared. He’d been her accomplice, abetting her curiosity the whole while. The best defence she could manage was modest chagrin. ‘What sort of man lets a woman look at him like that?’
She knew. The man who slept in that decadent bed. The man who was striding towards her, hands smoothing back his hair into a sleek, damp tail as he came, a friendly smile on his lips even while his eyes burned like hot coals. She was not ready for his response as he stopped before her. ‘I could ask you the same.’ His voice was low, sensual, the sort of voice a man used when he wanted to seduce a woman. He was...aroused? By her? Had she read that right? His next words had her entirely at sea. ‘What sort of woman looks, Evie?’
A woman who thinks you’re a pagan god come to life, a woman who wants to touch you, who wants to be touched by you in return, a woman who would willingly go to that silk bed of yours and learn all that she doesn’t know if only you would show her. She hadn’t the skill to dissemble, to flirt, to call upon womanly subterfuge. She only had the truth at her disposal and that would not do at all, but she needed an answer. His eyes held hers and this time she could not look away. He was prepared to wait her out, to wait for that answer. What would happen if she uttered those words out loud? Would he grant her fantasy? Would he laugh? Would he remind her that she had reached so far above herself she tried for Olympus itself?
Dinner saved her. Dimitri shot the arriving dishes a disapproving glance before flashing her a wry smile. ‘Apparently, supper is served. Shall we?’
To call dinner a ‘reprieve’ would have been erroneous. Evie had only to step inside the pavilion to know it was more a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. She’d traded the hot flirtation of words for the spicy sensuality of exotic foods eaten in an equally exotic setting. The Queen Anne dining table went unused as Dimitri ushered her towards a low round table set before the curved divan. ‘I much prefer this to a formal table,’ he explained, pulling out piles of silken cushions to sit upon. ‘We get the custom from our Turkish ancestors.’ He helped her to sit, the press of his hand sending a hot rush of awareness to her stomach. ‘In Kuban, we were not always Russian.’
He sat down beside her, not opposite her. ‘I hope you won’t think I am completely barbaric.’ He wasn’t entirely joking.
‘Hardly...’ Evie breathed, her eyes riveted on the array of food set before them. ‘This is...’ she paused, casting about for the right word ‘...exciting.’ A proper lady would regret the use of that word and its naughty implications, but as proper as Evie was, she couldn’t regret this—the chance to partake of exotic dishes, to eat with this intriguing man. ‘What is it all called?’ A proper lady would eat in moderation too, but there was no way she was going to be able to manage that, not with all this possibility set in front of her.
Dimitri smiled. ‘We’ll start with shchi. It’s cabbage soup. Everyone eats it, rich and poor alike.’ She felt herself beginning to relax, falling into the ease she’d felt when they’d looked at the tapestry. This time, it was his turn to be the teacher as he led her through the dishes. There was okoshkra, a salad done with boiled beef and vegetables, which he told her had to be very specific. ‘Not any vegetable will do.’ He gave her another of his endearing winks. ‘One must be a spicy herb, the other a neutral taste like turnips.’
‘And the fish?’ Evie rolled the flavor around on her tongue, familiar and unfamiliar. ‘Carp?’ she guessed.
‘Similar.’ He smiled his approval. ‘Tench.’ He reached for another dish. ‘If you like fish, try this.’
‘Oh! Cold smoked salmon!’ Evie gasped. ‘My favourite. We hardly ever have it.’ A luxury indeed and these slices were cut so thinly as to be nearly transparent, a sure sign of its excellent quality.
Dimitri used a tiny spoon to scoop up a portion of small black balls and spread them on a piece of flatbread. ‘Caviar? We like to think ours is the best in the world.’ Evie thought she would have eaten snakes if he’d offered them to her from his own hand, his dark eyes soft chocolate with amber lights. He was having a good time, with her. The thought was extraordinary to comprehend. Simple Evie Milham, who hadn’t had a beau in her life, was eating dinner, not with a prince necessarily, that wasn’t the important part, but that she was eating with a man who enjoyed her company.
‘It’s good.’ Evie swallowed. Liking it pleased him. She could see it in those eyes. He was proud of his country and he wanted her to like it too. She looked away, their gazes lingering too long over the caviar. ‘You must miss your home. I imagine it’s hard being away.’
Dimitri made one of his customary gestures towards the food and the room beyond. She was getting used to those movements. His body was so much more expressive than an Englishman’s. ‘Kuban is with me wherever I go. It keeps me from missing it too much.’
She cocked her head and studied him, seeing him, seeing his pavilion, in a new light. The silks, the low table, the divan, the dinner were so much more than furniture and food. They were an extension of who he was. The dining table was merely a concession to the world outside of Kuban. ‘Your country must be lovely.’
He reached to the centre of the table and lit a candle, his long fingers flicking out the match flame. The candlelight was a subtle reminder of how late it had become, but Evie could not bring herself to go. Just a few more minutes, she promised herself.
‘It is beautiful, in a wild fashion. One has to know where to look. Kuban is full of rivers and mountains, and grassland too. We grow wheat, and rye. We fish in our rivers. We mine gems in our mountains. It’s a rich land, a diverse land.’ He poured her another glass of wine. Was this her second or her third? She never had more than two glasses at home and never more than one in public.
The room was starting to take on soft, fuzzy edges as the evening deepened. Beside her, the Prince warmed to his subject, stretching out on his pillows as he tol
d her about Kuban; the cold snows in the mountains, the coast of the Black Sea, how Kuban geographically and culturally straddled European Russia, and the infidel influences of the Ottoman Empire. Kuban might be just outside their pavilion, England a thousand miles away, so immersive were his tales, his voice hypnotically low, his eyes starting to burn again, flames of dark agate. This time, Evie could not, would not, look away for fear she’d miss something vital.
Perhaps those stories even explained the man himself—those high cheekbones, the dark eyes, the beautiful smoothness of his olive skin a genetic memory of shared ancestry with Turkish sultans. Evie sipped her wine, letting the stories sweep her away, her mind painting imaginary pictures, mentally sketching patterns. What a fabulous tapestry these stories would make.
‘But for all that, it’s sparsely populated. In the winter, it’s easy to believe there are more wolves than men. It’s too bad the wolves can’t be recruited to help us. Our lack of population has made it difficult militarily to hold it against the Turks.’ His voice was a velvet caress in the growing darkness. ‘We are searching for alternative solutions besides wars we are ill equipped to win despite our material wealth.’
‘I want to see it.’ Her words came slow and sincere in the dark. In that moment, she wanted more than anything to see this wild land, wolves and all. ‘Do you have a picture of it? I want to see it some time.’ An idea started to take hazy shape. She yawned, her words beginning to slur with drowsiness, with wine. ‘I have to go.’
Dimitri straightened up. ‘You can’t go yet, we haven’t had our vodka. No Kubanian meal is complete without it.’ He reached for a bottle of clear liquid. It looked like water as he poured it into two small glasses.
He raised his glass, letting the candlelight catch the liquid and turn it to dancing prisms. ‘To a lovely meal, Evie, and even lovelier company.’ He swallowed his all at once and Evie followed suit. She’d been prepared for it to burn. May and Bea had got drunk once on brandy. They’d said it tasted like fire. But this was smooth. Until it hit her stomach.
‘Oh!’ Evie gasped. An explosion of heat unfurled in her abdomen. ‘That has quite the, um...’
‘Kick?’ he supplied, and they both laughed. ‘I should have warned you.’ She didn’t mind. She liked this feeling, not all of it due to the vodka. She felt warm, relaxed. Nothing mattered except what was happening right here. She hated to leave. All of this would evaporate as soon as she stepped outside. This was her Cinderella moment, but even Cinderella had to leave the ball. Too bad. But girls like her didn’t stay out all night with handsome men. Good girls, quiet girls, didn’t invite scandal. Evie stifled a yawn. Of course, it wasn’t a scandal unless one got caught. Still, she wished she could stay.
Evie put aside notions of staying. She had to leave now while she had the strength and will power to do it. She made to stand, but her feet caught in her skirts. She stumbled, taking a staggering step towards the low round table and bumping her knee.
Dimitri reached out a hand to steady her and came to his feet. ‘Whoa, Evie. I don’t think you’re fit to go anywhere.’ He had both arms about her now, a safe haven. She let him take her weight. She hadn’t realised how tired, how boneless she felt, how right he felt, or was that how right she felt with his arms about her? How would she manage to get home now? Somewhere in the back of her mind came the thought she might get what she wished for.
Chapter Eight
‘I have to go to bed,’ Evie yawned, but it was a weak protest. Even she knew she’d given up the fight. There would be no going home. She’d have been happy to sleep right here, standing up in Dimitri’s arms. She could smell the lingering remnants of his soap with its unique notes of cloves and vanilla, she could feel the masculine heat of his body against hers. She felt warm and safe, a very delightful combination of feelings, a very dangerous combination of feelings. It had her wondering what he would do if she reached up and put her arms around his neck, if she drew him to her, closing the little distance between them. They were so close already, surely it would be the easiest thing in the world to brush her lips against his. So easy, in fact, she was doing it before she could think twice.
It felt natural, right. Her lips skimmed over his, a light feathering touch that lasted a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to send a shot of pure bliss straight through her. Bliss was warm, alluring, drawing her in. She wanted more; more feather brushes of lips on lips, more warm bliss.
She’d not bargained on that, on being the handmaiden of her own addiction. She had only wanted to feel what it might be like to touch him. She had never dreamed she’d want to keep touching him, tasting him. Her lips found his again. She heard him sigh, heard him breathe her name, ‘Evie.’ A caution and an invitation all in one simple word.
‘Dimitri,’ she murmured. ‘Kissing you is like drinking vodka. Warm and soft at first, but with a hidden kick.’
He gave a low growl of a laugh, his eyes dark. ‘I think you’re the one with the hidden kick.’ His mouth hovered just over hers. Her pulse raced, recognising he was in no hurry to move away and she didn’t want him to. She’d barely formed what she wanted in her mind before he did it; his hand cupping her jaw, sliding to the back of her neck, slipping beneath the heavy weight of her hair to cradle her head in his palm; all the better to kiss her, all the better to angle his mouth over hers, to take not just her lips but her mouth in his possession, no feathering passes for him. Nor for her either. They would no longer be enough. He might as well have set her on fire. How could she be content with a mere brushing of lips when all this awaited?
He coaxed her with his tongue, encouraging her to respond in kind, showing her that kissing was a full, tactile experience. Not just mouths met when they kissed, but tongues and bodies. She understood now why people kissed with their eyes shut; it heightened the other senses. She could smell him, taste him, feel him, his hands on her, his body against her. He was warm and hard, all muscle and strength. Perhaps she should drink vodka all the time if it gave her boldness with such a reward.
The kiss changed, becoming more insistent. The finesse was falling away, replaced by something more ragged and hungry. Dimitri had changed it, not she, but she strained towards it none the less. Whatever the kiss demanded, she would give. Whatever Dimitri wanted, she wanted too.
‘We have to stop.’ Dimitri’s voice was hoarse, his mouth, his body, breaking the kiss.
Apparently, she’d been wrong. She didn’t want whatever Dimitri wanted. Her arms were still about his neck. She pressed against him, wanting to pull him down to her, wanting to start it all over again. ‘I don’t want to stop,’ she murmured.
He resisted, unwrapping her arms from his neck. ‘Don’t, Evie. It is hard enough to be the voice of reason at the moment. We need to stop. It’s late. We’re tired, we’ve drank enough wine and vodka to forget our good sense. In the morning we’ll thank ourselves for showing some restraint.’ He smiled to ease the disappointment, she supposed. ‘Let’s put you to bed.’
He led her into the curtained alcove of his private chambers and turned back the silken covers of his bed, her heart leaping irrationally for a few beats. Surely he couldn’t mean... She could barely put the thought into coherent words. Perhaps she had drunk more than she ought.
‘You take the bed. I’ll take the divan. I’ve travelled enough to know it’s comfortable.’ Her heartbeat fell back to normal. No, he didn’t mean that. ‘I’ll send a note to your home and let everyone know you’re safe.’ He tucked the coverlet around her like a good friend, hardly at all like the lover who had plundered her mouth, whose body had strained against hers just moments ago. Fabulous. It hardly seemed fair. Vodka had turned her randy, but apparently it left him with a modicum of reason. But she hadn’t the stamina to worry over it.
Evie closed her eyes. This was nice, being fussed over, and he was right: she was tired. Perhaps she would rest just a short
while. She’d think about that kiss later. A thought came to her and her eyes flew open with a sudden burst of alertness. ‘We forgot!’
‘What did we forget, Evie?’ He sat on the side of the bed, his tone humouring, but she was serious.
‘We forgot to talk about cataloguing.’ She closed her eyes, her voice already a murmur, her wakefulness already vanishing in the trail of his soft laughter, a most seductive sound to go to sleep by.
‘Another night, Evie.’ She felt his weight leave the bed, felt his body bend over hers. ‘Sleep well.’ She had the sensation he might kiss her again. And he did. This time on the forehead because even if she had gone and lost her head, he had kept his.
* * *
What had he been thinking? She’d given him the faintest of kisses and he’d gone and lost his head.
Dimitri stuffed a pillow behind his head, trying to get comfortable on the divan. He’d lied when he’d told Evie drink had driven them to carelessness. It might have driven her to a little boldness, but not him. He’d not drunk so much that he hadn’t a clue what he was doing. He’d been very aware the whole time. By the saints, he’d been aware! His whole body had been damn well aware and she couldn’t have failed to notice. Just as he hadn’t failed to notice this had likely been her first kiss. But that hadn’t stopped her from exploring, experimenting, throwing herself into it wholeheartedly.
There was something intoxicating about knowing he’d been her first kiss. His women, the women he had affaires with, were well past first kisses. He had no illusions there. He was the middle for them. As fine a lover as he might be, he wouldn’t be their last. There would be men after him just as there’d been men before him.
AWAKENING THE SHY MISS Page 7
