One Kiss in... Moscow: Kholodov's Last Mistress / The Man She Shouldn't Crave / Strangers When We Meet

‘No,’ she said, hands on her hips, ‘I’m not cold. I’m angry.’

‘Angry?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You know that word?’

Now his smile disappeared and he tossed his phone onto the sofa, leaning forward so Hannah could see the dangerous glitter in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said softly. ‘I know that word.’

‘I don’t want you to buy me clothes, Sergei.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘You have an objection to being clothed?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Actually, I don’t.’ He gazed at her levelly, staring her down, and from the ice in his eyes Hannah knew he wasn’t going to try to understand what she meant, or where she was coming from. He didn’t want to. And how could she explain? It wasn’t just about the clothes. It was about everything, about them, and what she’d agreed to by coming with him on this trip. Just how much of her soul—and body—she felt she was selling.

She hadn’t realised it would be like this. Feel like this.

‘If you object to the gowns, forget them,’ Sergei said abruptly. ‘Just wear the lavender one tonight. It matches your eyes.’

And just like that she felt her fury trickle away, to her own shame. ‘Tonight?’

‘We are attending a charity gala.’ Sergei continued, his voice gentling, ‘Why don’t you get dressed?’

‘In what clothes? The saleswoman got rid of mine.’

‘Pick whatever you want—’

‘I don’t want any of it.’

Sergei let out an exasperated breath. ‘Most women I know don’t object to my buying them a few clothes,’ he finally said, his voice deliberately mild, and tears stung Hannah’s eyes.

‘Exactly,’ she said, and, realising how limited her options were at the moment, standing as she was in the middle of the dressing room in her underwear, she turned on her heel and went back to the changing area.

Sergei let out an irritated breath and turned back to the text he’d been composing on his BlackBerry. Only now he’d forgotten what it was about.

Why was Hannah being so prickly? So difficult? He’d thought he’d been treating her, buying her a few nice things. Just as he’d said, most women—

Except Hannah wasn’t like most women.

Sergei swore under his breath. He rose from the sofa and restlessly paced the confines of the dressing room. The last few days had been good, he’d thought. Simple. He knew what to do with a woman when he was taking her to Paris, wining and dining and pleasuring her until the small hours of the night. He’d been smugly satisfied to have Hannah exactly where he wanted her, in his bed, out of his mind. He’d finally reverted to his former self, efficient and distant, with a woman adorning his arm.

The realisation had relieved him … until now.

Now he felt edgy again, and restless, and annoyed by it all. By Hannah. How did she do this to him? Affect him so much? He’d been closing people out for years, ever since he was a child. Even Grigori and Varya didn’t get close.

And Alyona—

Sergei put a halt to that thought. So he felt a bit restless. He’d get over it. And he’d keep Hannah exactly where he wanted her. Maybe, he thought grimly, she needed a little reminder of just what kind of arrangement they had.

Several hours later Hannah stood in front of the full-length mirror in the sumptuous bedroom of their royal suite. She kept staring at her reflection because she couldn’t quite believe it was her. Sergei had had two women from the hotel’s spa come up and work on her for most of the afternoon, massaging, smoothing, waxing, and plucking until she felt sleek and shiny, and looked it too. Her hair had been pulled up into a smooth coil at the base of her neck, and expertly applied make-up made her eyes look huge and smoky, her lips bee-stung and dusky pink. She looked sexy, which was a revelation. She’d never thought of herself as sexy before … not until Sergei had come into her life, anyway.

She smoothed her hands down the front of the lavender gown Sergei had asked her to wear tonight. With its halter top and fluted skirt, the material lovingly moulded itself to her body. A sheer gauzy wrap and a pair of amethyst-encrusted stiletto heels completed the really rather amazing outfit.

Slowly Hannah drew in a breath and let it out again. After her little outburst at the boutique earlier, she’d decided not to object to Sergei’s indulgences again. What was the point? This was what was on offer, and she’d known that when she’d said yes to him at the hotel. No matter now she might be feeling frustrated or, worse, hurt.

‘This is it,’ she told her reflection. ‘This is what you agreed to.’

‘Are you talking to yourself?’ Sergei strolled into the bedroom, looking devastatingly attractive in black tie. He carried a small velvet box in his hands, which he snapped open as he stood behind Hannah, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror.

‘Krasivaya,’ he murmured, and dropped a kiss onto her bare shoulder. Beautiful. ‘I have something for you,’ he added as he withdrew a stunning diamond and amethyst choker from the velvet box. ‘May I?’

Wordlessly Hannah nodded, and Sergei slipped the choker around her neck. It was gorgeous, but the stones were cold and their edges pricked the tender skin of her throat. Hannah swallowed, and felt the jewels constricting her neck. ‘You may keep it,’ Sergei said, carelessly, and Hannah almost quipped, For services rendered?

She held her tongue, bit her cheek. No need to spoil the moment. No point. ‘Thank you,’ she said after a moment, and she knew she didn’t sound very grateful. Sergei’s narrowed gaze met hers in the mirror.

‘Do you object to jewels as well as clothes?’

She saw colour slash his cheekbones and knew he was annoyed. Maybe even hurt. No, that was just wishful thinking … wishing that Sergei’s emotions were engaged, as hers insisted on being. Hannah drew in another deep breath.

‘It’s a very generous gift,’ she finally said, and Sergei let out a short laugh.

‘Very diplomatic, Hannah. You always were candid.’

He held her gaze in the mirror, his eyes like ice, and Hannah could not look away. Even though he didn’t move, she felt as if he were stepping away from her yet again, for his emotional withdrawal was so evident. She touched the choker, the jewels still cold and sharp under her fingers. ‘Thank you,’ she said again and with a little sigh Sergei nodded and turned away.

‘We need to leave in ten minutes,’ he said over his shoulder and then he was gone.

Hannah gazed at her reflection once more. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and dazed. She didn’t look quite so sexy any more. She looked … sad.

Impatiently she turned away from the mirror. Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. You knew what you were getting into. If you don’t like it, you can leave.

She stilled, the possibility rippling through her. Leave. She could rip off this constraining choker, this elegant gown, and be out of here in minutes. She’d never see Sergei again.

And that, Hannah acknowledged hollowly, was why she stayed.

‘Ready?’ Sergei called from the suite’s lounge, and reaching for her wrap—which provided no warmth—Hannah went.

An hour later she stood next to Sergei, a flute of champagne clenched in one hand, her cheeks aching from smiling as Sergei talked business with one well-heeled guest after another. Beyond the barest flicker of a glance or nod from his companions, she was ignored. Talk about feeling like an ornament.

As Sergei launched into another deep conversation—this time in French—Hannah decided to get some fresh air. Obviously she didn’t need to be here, except as Sergei’s accessory. She murmured her excuses—that nobody seemed to hear—and then crossed the elegant hotel ballroom, the clink of crystal and the conversation of five hundred of Paris society’s darlings a cacophony of sound all around her. A wall of French doors led onto a terrace, and Hannah slipped through them with a little sigh of relief.

The spring air was warm and fragrant, the night quiet, the sound from inside no more than a distant murmur. Hannah moved to the railing that looked out over a private garden, now lost in shadows although she could smell roses and lilac. She breathed in deeply and let the peace of the night wash over her and steal through her soul. At least she tried to.

How, she wondered bleakly, could she feel so sad when she was standing on the terrace of a luxurious hotel, wearing a beautiful dress, with a gorgeous man inside who undoubtedly would take her home in a few hours and make love to her for most of the night?

She should be walking on air. Instead she felt empty.

‘There you are. Sergei’s latest.’