My face burns. “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I rarely deny what I enjoy.” The words settle against my skin.
I should step back.
Instead, I look up at him. “And are you enjoying this?”
His answer takes a moment. “Yes,” he says. “Very much.”
The room is too warm suddenly.
The fire is going behind the glass. Snow presses against the windows. Moscow waits beyond the walls, strange and cold and beautiful.
“I should get dressed.”
“You should.”
Neither of us moves.
Finally, Roman steps aside and gestures to the clothing rack. “Choose something warm. I promised to show you Moscow.”
The mention of the city breaks the spell just enough for me to breathe.
I walk toward the rack, aware of his gaze on my back the whole way.
There are coats soft enough to make me forget my pride. Sweaters in cream and gray. A dark green dress that makes my fingers pause on the hanger. Beautiful boots lined with fur.
I touch one sleeve and try not to smile.
“You like that one,” he says.
“I haven’t decided. There’s so much to choose from, thanks to you.”
“You have,” he says simply.
I glance over my shoulder. He’s still watching me. Not as if he bought the clothes to own me. As if he bought them because he wanted to see me warm, dressed, comfortable, and then undressed again by his own hands.
The thought makes my knees feel less reliable.
I turn quickly back to the rack. “I need privacy.”
Roman’s voice is smooth behind me. “You have a room.”
I gather the green dress, a coat, and the boots, then reach blindly for the box of underwear without looking at it.
His low laugh follows me down the hall.
I hate that it makes me smile.
9
ROMAN
Moscow looks exactlyas I left it.
