Kholodov's Last Mistress

‘Yes,’ Hannah agreed. Her knees suddenly felt watery, her whole body shaky. The tension over their disagreement had been replaced by something else, something just as tense. And tempting.

She didn’t think she was imagining the way Sergei was looking at her, his gaze roving over her so slowly, so … seductively. She certainly wasn’t imagining the answering, quivering need she felt in herself, every nerve leaping to life, every sense singing to awareness. He might be cynical, but he was also sexy. Incredibly so, and her body responded to him on the most basic—and thrilling—level.

She swallowed, tried to find another topic of conversation, anything to diffuse the sudden tension that had tautened the very air between them. ‘What about your parents?’ she said. ‘You must have depended on them, at least when you were a child.’

Sergei’s eyes narrowed as his gaze snapped back to her face, his expression colder than ever. Clearly she’d picked the wrong topic. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m an orphan, like you are. No family to run your little shop, and no family to run my business.’

And no family to depend on. ‘When did your parents die?’ she asked quietly.

‘A long time ago.’

He couldn’t be much more than thirty-five, she guessed. ‘When you were a child?’

His eyes narrowed, lips thinning into a hard line. ‘I don’t know, actually. No one bothered to tell me. I was raised by my grandmother.’ Hannah stared at him in surprise, and Sergei leaned forward. ‘All these questions,’ he mocked softly. ‘You’re so very curious, aren’t you? Don’t worry, Hannah. I survived.’

‘Life is about more than survival.’ Clearly he didn’t like personal questions. ‘In any case, I’m sorry about your parents. It must have been hard to lose them, whatever age you were.’ Sergei lifted one shoulder in something like an accepting shrug, his expression completely closed.

Andrei came and cleared their plates, replacing them with the next course of pelmeni, a kind of Russian ravioli with minced lamb filling encased in paper-thin dough. Hannah took a bite and her eyes widened in appreciation; this was no peasant food.

Sergei noted her reaction with a faint smile, the tension that had tautened between them thankfully dissipating. ‘You like it? Anatoli, the chef here, is world-famous. His signature is haute cuisine, Russian style.’

‘It’s delicious,’ Hannah said, and took another bite. She smiled, deciding to keep the mood light. ‘So you don’t want to talk about your business,’ she said, ‘or at least anything personal.’

Sergei arched his eyebrows. ‘I don’t remember saying that.’

‘Maybe not in so many words,’ Hannah allowed, ‘but I think it was pretty clear, don’t you?’

He stared at her, nonplussed, and Hannah gazed evenly back. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not when she knew underneath all that arrogant bluster there was a kind heart. Or at least a somewhat kind heart. He’d looked out for her, hadn’t he, in his own brusque and bossy way? She’d seen compassion in his eyes. And she trusted him, instinctively, implicitly, no matter how coldly arrogant he could seem. Underneath the bluster there was something real and good, and she felt bone-deep she was right to trust that.

His mouth twitched in something that just hinted at a smile and he set his wine glass back down on the table. ‘You’re very candid, aren’t you?’

‘If you’re saying I’m honest, then yes. But not nosy,’ she added, daring to tease just a little. ‘If I were nosy, I’d ask you why you don’t want to talk about personal things.’

His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring slightly even as he smiled and picked up his wine glass once more. ‘Good thing you’re not nosy, then.’

Hannah watched him, curiosity sharpening inside her. Sergei Kholodov was, she decided, a man with secrets. Ones he had no intention of telling her. Yet she was intrigued and a little bit intimidated … and attracted. Definitely attracted. The desire she felt was heady and new, for men like Sergei Kholodov—or even men under the age of fifty—generally didn’t come to Hadley Springs all that often, much less ask her out on dates. And this was a date … wasn’t it?

‘Good thing,’ she finally agreed, and Sergei’s mouth curved into a smile that suddenly seemed to Hannah both predatory and possessive.

‘In any case,’ he said, his tone turning lazy and even sensual, his gaze heavy-lidded, ‘I’d much rather talk about you.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘ME?’ HANNAH stared at him, registering that lazy tone, that sensual smile. A thrill raced through her. ‘I don’t know why,’ she told him. ‘We’ve already talked about me. And I’m very boring.’

Sergei’s smile deepened, his gaze sweeping slowly—so slowly—over her. ‘That remains to be seen.’

She let out a little laugh. ‘Trust me.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

Hannah shrugged and gave up the argument. He’d learn soon enough how mundane her life seemed, especially to a millionaire like him. ‘Okay.’ She spread her hands, gave him a playfully challenging smile. ‘Shoot.’

‘Tell me more about this shop,’ Sergei said and Hannah blinked. What had she been expecting, that he would demand to know her most intimate secrets, or lack of them? Well, sort of.

‘I told you about it already,’ she said. ‘There’s not much more to tell.’ He said nothing, merely watched her, and so Hannah elaborated, ‘It’s a little shop. Just a little shop.’

‘Knitting, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘You like to knit?’

Hannah stared at him, swallowed. It was a logical question, an innocuous question, and yet it felt both loaded and knowing. Something about the way Sergei gazed at her with that shrewd assessment made Hannah feel as if he’d stripped away her secrets and seen right into her soul.

Which was absurd, because she didn’t have any secrets. ‘Not really,’ she said, smiling. ‘My mother taught me when I was little, but I never got past purling. She gave up on me eventually, much to my relief.’

‘I see.’ And in those two words Hannah heard how much he saw, or at least thought he saw. He really did have a dark view of the world, she decided, reading the worst into everything. He was starting to make her do that a little bit too, and she didn’t like it.

‘I like the business side of it,’ she said, even though that wasn’t quite true. She didn’t mind it would be more accurate.

‘And so you continue with this shop alone.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ He was still watching her, his eyes narrowed, lips parted. Everything about him seemed sharp and hard except for those lips. They were soft, mobile, warm-looking. She was really quite fascinated with them. Hannah jerked her gaze upwards. ‘I can’t imagine doing anything else,’ she said simply. ‘And I have lots of plans to improve it.’

‘It needs improving?’

‘Doesn’t everything? In any case, as I said before, the shop was everything to my mom and dad. I can’t just let that go.’

‘But to you?’

‘It’s very important to me,’ she said firmly, but she felt, for the first time, as if she was lying. The realisation jolted her, like when you thought there was one more step on a staircase.

‘Tell me about this trip of yours,’ Sergei said. ‘Have you been to many places?’

‘A few.’ She smiled, glad not to think about the shop any more. ‘I bought a rail pass and have been working my way through Europe. Moscow was the last stop.’

‘Which would account for the flight you missed about two hours ago.’

She swallowed, reality landing with an unwelcome thud. ‘Right.’

‘With my help, I don’t think it should be difficult to reschedule your flight tomorrow.’

Relief mingled with reality. Even so, as glad as she would be to have her passport sorted, she didn’t want this night to end. Yet if she believed Sergei—which she did—she’d be back in Hadley Springs in twenty-four hours. ‘You can pull some serious strings, I guess,’ Hannah said. It was hard to imagine that kind of power.

Sergei shrugged one shoulder, the movement one of careless and understated authority. ‘In Russia it is all about who you know.’

‘Well, I obviously didn’t know the right people. The lady at the embassy wasn’t interested in my sob story at all.’ Hannah smiled wryly before quickly adding, ‘She was helpful and nice, of course—’