Page 37 of The Beast of Moscow

Damn.

She appreciated his honesty, but Vera still blinked a bit at the dip in his tone. She’d almost call it murderous if his expression had changed to match. But it didn’t. “He’s funny, really. I like him.”

The man lifted one thick, dark eyebrow and for a second, she was lost in the lines of his face. Vera liked older men. She wasn’t a liar, so if she was asked where that preference of hers began, she would say it was from the start. Always had, although more than once, it had placed her amid people who had more life experience than her. She sought that out in people—in men. Their experience and stability. She wanted to feel a certain way in the arms of a man, and those her age typically didn’t invoke what she was looking for.

She hadn’t expected to find that sense of domineering, possessiveness standing in the den of a stranger. Even if he was a handsome one. It took Vera off guard.

“Are you okay?” she asked him.

Vaslav chuckled. “Better than I was that day in the gallery.”

“Hmm.”

“Not what you were looking for?”

“Well, I did get to ask you—that’s more than I knew before,” she returned easily.

Vaslav was a beautiful man, but she wondered if people could handle the intensity of his stare long enough to notice. Or did the scar that marred the right side of his face only add to the man’s severity?

His angular jaw and a strong chin hardened his feature, making that scar more noticeable in the way it twisted and pulled with his expressions. All the same, she could appreciate the way his wider nose fit the rest of his chiseled profile, and despite the way his gaze squinted a bit in his stare, like one would in anger, he still smiled.

Or rather, she saw a hint of one.

“I’m sorry,” Vera said.

Vaslav stood up from his chair, working on rolling up one white silk sleeve before moving onto the other. “For what? Tea?”

Vera nodded. “I have time for a cup.”

“And the apology?”

“I don’t typically stare.” Her cheeks burned at the admission, but hell, she had been the one to call him out for the same. Even if it was only a joke. “I don’t want to offend—you have a very interesting face.”

She had to stare up at him, then, as he rounded his desk and paused in his steps. He’d been reaching for something on his desk, but paused at the same time, giving her a quick look.

“An interesting face is one way to put it, Vera.”

It was the first time he said her name; in his deep drawl, it felt commanding, accompanying a tug in her belly that she hadn’t expected.

She couldn’t stop herself from replying, “I never said that I didn’t like it.”

12.

She preened her throat-length bob often; as a nervous tic, she toyed with it or swept back the few wavy pieces of dark hair at the front of her oval-shaped face. Whenever she wanted just an extra second to think about her next words, or even every time he glanced to the side and found her staring at him again.

Vaslav hadn’t expected that to happen. That if he did get her here, she’d even agree to stay. He’d been told before that he didn’t exactly give off a friendly vibe.

His desire to meet the broken ballerina that had captured his attention was nothing more than a short distraction for the chaos that was his current life. He certainly hadn’t assumed she would so easily agree to something like tea with a stranger, under otherwise shady circumstances. It wasn’t as if he were a normal man who could approach Vera Avdonin in the way someone else might. He couldn’t exactly bump into her at the coffee shop on the corner when every unplanned minute outside of his strict schedule could mean terrible consequences for him.

Or someone else.

Getting her there—for something as innocuous as tea—seemed impossible, and Vaslav figured that was where it would probably end. Except the woman showed up, dainty shoulders draped in what he bet was a buttery soft cashmere shawl. Beside him where they sat having tea, close enough that he could smell her. When she wasn’t using loose strands of her hair as a distraction, she played with the fringe on her shawl.

He couldn’t help but notice those little things, almost obsessively curious if he could find any more of her comforting quirks in between their quiet, safe conversation about the weather and house.

“This—” Vera tipped her small chin toward the cup she lifted for another sip. “I’m a fan.”

“A man in Ontario, Canada makes it. He’s ... a bit of an artisan. I met him one day by chance on a business trip when I was stuck in between flights in an airport, and he gave me a few bags of tea.”