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“What an unexpected pleasure,” he drawls, stopping in front of me, and my mind goes completely blank, everything around us disappearing as my thoughts transform into white noise. For the past two-plus years, my PI firm has tracked him, supplying me with a steady stream of photos and videos—which I’ve studied as if I’ll be tested on each one. And still, I’m not prepared for seeing him in person once again. All of my awareness focuses in on him, on the power and the danger and the cruel magnificence that is Alexei Leonov in a perfectly tailored black tux.
A pleasure.He said something about pleasure. Heat licks under my skin and deeper in my core, bringing with it a trickle of adrenaline. The white noise recedes, and I can once again hear the din of music and laughter, all the conversations surrounding us. With effort, I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “What are you doing here?”
Ugh, why did I just say that? Dumb, dumb, dumb. I should’ve—
He laughs, the soft sound mocking. “Oh, you knew I’d be here. Unless your PI firm dropped the ball?”
My pulse surges. “I don’t know what you—”
He tsk-tsks. “I thought we were past such clichéd denials, Alinyonok. I stalk you, you stalk me—isn’t that how our game works?”
I suck in a sharp breath. Coming here was a huge, huge mistake. What did I imagine would happen? Why did I think that by coming here and seeing him, I could somehow ease the guilt that gnaws at me whenever I think about what my brothers are planning to do to his family?
There’s nothing I can do to soothe his grief over his sister’s death, and I certainly can’t prevent his anger over the loss of his nephew. All I’ve accomplished by showing up is dangling myself in front of him, showing him what he can’t have—assuming he still wants it.
There’s a good chance he does not.
The thought steadies me enough to say, “It pays to keep an eye on your enemy.”
Another soft, derisive laugh escapes his throat. “You think I’m your enemy?”
“You’re certainly not my friend.”
“I could be.” A peculiar gleam brightens his dark eyes. “I could be your everything.”
I take a step back, my knees suddenly wobbly again. “Look, I…” I stop and reassess what I was about to say. Given how this conversation has gone so far, my only option is radical honesty. “You’re right. I knew you’d be here. I wanted to see you.”
His lids lower, his gaze growing more intent. “Why?”
“I heard about Ksenia.”
He flinches, ever so slightly, and I plow on, desperate to get the words out before my courage fails me. “I’m sorry. I’m really, truly sorry. I know nothing can take away this kind of pain, and I’m so sorry about that. I—” I stop and swallow thickly. “I know what it’s like to lose the people closest to you.”
Several micro-expressions cross his face, so fast I could be just imagining this unguarded display of emotion. When he speaks, however, his voice is detectably different. Huskier, rougher. “I know you do, Alinyonok. Thank you.”
I dampen my lips. I don’t know where we go from here, but it feels wrong to just walk away, to go back to our adversarial pseudo-relationship and pretend like this moment never happened.
Like I never saw him as a human being instead of the demon shadowing my life.
As I desperately rack my brain for something else to say, he beats me to it. “Have a drink with me?” he asks quietly, snatching a pair of champagne glasses off a passing waiter’s tray—and I must already be drunk because I accept the glass he hands me and let him lead me to a nearby empty table.
As we sit down next to each other, I realize the insanity of what I’m doing and almost jump up to escape, but we’ve attracted more than a few curious glances, so I have to stay for at least a couple of minutes. We don’t need all of Moscow gossiping about us. It’s bad enough that I’m talking to Alexei when our families’ mutual enmity is well known; sitting down and running off a second later would make the tongues wag that much harder.
For lack of anything better to do, I gulp down most of my champagne.
A wry smile tilts one corner of his mouth. “Thirsty?”
“Something like that,” I mutter, and he laughs. Unlike before, it’s a sound of genuine amusement, and it does something to my insides, ignites a warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with my body’s typical response to him.
Not that the typical response is missing. As I cross my legs under the table, I can feel a distinct slickness in my panties, and it makes my face burn.
“So,” he says, thankfully ignoring my blush. “What brings you to Moscow at this time of the year?”
I stiffen, then consciously force my muscles to relax. Shrugging as casually as I can, I take a leisurely sip of my champagne. “New Year’s with family, what else?”
He tilts his head quizzically. “Why this year of all the years? I thought you were supposed to be in Switzerland.”
Fuck. I should’ve known this would turn into an interrogation. For obvious reasons, I can’t say anything about Nikolai calling a family meeting, and I don’t know how else to justify cutting my ski trip short. So I just shrug again and let him draw his own conclusions—which he promptly does.
