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But from the moment they’d met, Bree had been the one who was dazzled. She’d never met a man like Vladimir: so honest, so open, so protective. For the first time in her life, she’d seen the possibilities of a future beyond the next poker game. She’d seen she could be something more than a cheap con artist with a rusted heart. He’d called her by her full name, Breanna, and made her feel brand-new. I love you, Breanna. Be my wife. Be mine forever.
Now she blinked, staring up at him in the deepening twilight. Vladimir was practically scowling at her, his arms folded, his blue eyes dark.
But the way he’d said her name when he’d held her… His voice had sounded the same as ten years ago. Exactly the same.
Vladimir growled a low Russian curse. “You’re a mess. Go take a shower. Wash the food out of your hair. Get clean clothes.” He snatched the empty saucepan from her hand. “Just go. I will finish this.”
Now, that was truly astonishing. “You—you will cook?”
“You are even more helpless in the kitchen than I remembered,” he said harshly. “Go. I left new clothes for you in the bedroom upstairs. Get cleaned up. Return in a more presentable state.”
Bree’s lips were parted as she stared at him. He was actually being nice to her. No matter how harsh his tone, or how he couched his kindness inside insults, there could be no doubt. He was allowing her to take a shower, to change into clean clothes, like a guest. Not a slave.
Why? What could he possibly gain by kindness, when he held all the power? “Thank you.” She swallowed. “I really appreciate—”
“Save it.” He cut her off. Setting down the pan on the granite island of the outdoor kitchen, he looked at her. “At least until you see the dress I’ve left on your bed. Take a shower and put it on. Afterwards, come back here.” He gave her a hard, sensual smile. “And then…then you can thank me.”
* * *
Vladimir should have known not to make her cook.
He’d thought that Bree, at age twenty-eight, might have improved her skills. No. If possible, she’d grown even more hopeless in the kitchen. The attempt had been a complete disaster, even before the raw yolks had been flung all over—perhaps a merciful end before they could be added to the burned, lumpy mess in the sauté pan.
Cleaning up, he dumped it all out and started fresh. Forty minutes later, he sat at the table on the patio and tasted his finished soufflé, and gave a satisfied sigh.
He would not ask Bree to make food again.
Vladimir knew how to cook. He just preferred not to. When he was growing up, his family had had nothing. His father tried his best to keep up the six-hundred-acre homestead, but he’d had his head in the clouds—the kind of man who would be mulling over a book of Russian philosophy and not notice that their newborn calf had just wandered away from its mother to die in a snowdrift. Vladimir’s mother, a former waitress from the Lower Forty-Eight, had been a little in awe of her intellectual husband, with his royal background. Her days were spent cleaning up the messes her absentminded spouse left behind, to make sure they had enough wood to get through the winter, and food for their two growing boys. It was because of their father’s influence that Vladimir and Kasimir had both applied to one of the oldest mining schools in Europe, in St. Petersburg. It was because of their mother’s influence they’d managed to pay for it, but in a way that had broken her husband’s heart. And that was nothing compared to how Vladimir had found the money to start Xendzov Mining OAO twelve years ago. That had been the spark that started the brothers’ war. That had caus
ed Kasimir to turn on him so viciously.
Vladimir’s eyes narrowed. His brother deserved what he’d gotten—being cut out of the company right before it would have made him insanely rich. He, Vladimir, had deserved to own the company free and clear.
Just as he owned Bree Dalton.
He had a sudden memory of her stricken hazel eyes, of her pale, beautiful face.
You called me Breanna.
Rising from his chair, Vladimir paced three steps across the patio. He stopped, staring at the moonlight sparkling across the pool and the ocean beyond.
She really must think he was a fool. She must have no respect whatsoever for his intelligence, to think that she could look at him with those beautiful luminous eyes and make him believe she’d actually loved him once. It would not work. They both knew it had always been about money for her. It still was.
I’ve never been with a man before. I’ve never even kissed a man since you.
Reaching for his wine glass, he took a long drink and then wiped his mouth. She was a fairly good liar, he’d give her that. But he was immune to her now. Absolutely immune.
Except for her body.
He’d enjoyed watching her scrub his floors, watching the sway of her slender hips, of her backside and breasts as she knelt in front of him. He’d wanted to take her, then and there.
And he would. Soon.
Their kiss had been electric. He still shuddered to remember the softness of her body as she’d clung to him. The scent of her, like orchids and honey. The sweet, erotic taste of her lips. He’d intended to punish her with that savage kiss. Instead, he’d been lost in it, in memory, in yearning, in hot ruthless need.
Gritting his teeth, he roughly tidied up the outdoor kitchen, slamming the dirty pans into the sink. No matter how he tried to deny it, Bree still had power over him. Too much. When he’d seen her slip and fall on this floor, her cry had sliced straight through his heart. And suddenly, without knowing how, he’d found himself beside her, helping her to her feet.
You called me Breanna.
