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She looked at herself in the mirror.
She was pale. She needed makeup. Some blusher. Lipstick.
But she wasn’t in the mood for makeup, for trying to look a way she didn’t feel. She reached for the doorknob, hesitated, took a breath and opened the door.
The room service waiter had just finished setting a small round table beside the window.
Automatically, she hurried across the room to sign the check, but Kaz pulled out his wallet, took out several bills and handed them to the waiter.
“You look beautiful,” Kaz said, once they were alone.
She blushed. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t know what you’d want, so I ordered sandwiches and salads.”
“That’s fine.”
“Come on,” he said gently. “Sit down. Let’s eat and watch the snow, and plan what we’re going to do next.”
He pulled out her chair. She started to slip into it, but he caught her wrist and when she tilted her head back and looked at him, he bent his head and kissed her.
She sighed; her lips parted. She brought up one hand and wrapped it around the nape of his neck and he turned her fully toward him and drew her close.
His body was hard. Wonderfully hard. And aroused. She’d never felt a man’s arousal against her, she’d never let a man get close enough for such a thing to happen, and though she’d had some curiosity about it, she’d never been tempted to do anything to satisfy that curiosity.
Now, feeling the pressure of Kaz’s erection against her belly, she wanted to wrap herself around him. Her arms. Her legs. All of her, every inch of her in contact with him.
A soft moan escaped her throat. Kaz groaned. He drew her even closer; she could feel the race of his heart or perhaps it was hers; she could feel the tension radiating through his body.
She had to stop this from going any further.
But she didn’t want to stop it. She wanted this. Wanted to learn. Wanted to come alive under his touch…
He clasped her hand. Drew it from his neck. Kissed the palm, then folded her fingers over the kiss.
And eased her into her chair.
Her heart was beating wildly. It was pounding. She wondered if he could hear it, because she certainly could; the drumming of her pulse rang in her ears.
“You’re going to eat something,” he said as he took the chair across from her. “And we’re going to talk.”
He put things on a plate. Tiny crustless sandwiches of smoked salmon, crème fraîche and capers; thinly sliced cucumber and watercress on wafer-thin crackers; rounds of toast topped with caviar.
“It looks delicious.”
He handed her the plate. She ate one sandwich. Ate another. And then she tucked into the rest.
She ate everything. Delicately. Neatly. But she ate every bite, except for the time she looked up and saw him holding a tiny sandwich in his big hand, and laughter burst from her lips.
“What?” he said, puzzled but smiling, and then he looked at the sandwich almost hidden between two of his fingers and he started to laugh and she laughed even harder, until her belly hurt and she was gasping for air.
It was the first time she could remember laughing since her mother had fallen ill.
No, she thought in amazement, no. It was the first time she could remember ever laughing that freely and openly in her entire life.
And in that instant, she knew that everything she’d heard her father and his friends say about Kazimir Savitch was a lie.
He was not a thief; he was not immoral. He was an honest, hardworking man.
