One Kiss in... Moscow: Kholodov's Last Mistress / The Man She Shouldn't Crave / Strangers When We Meet

Even so, those rare moments were enough to make her feel different, lighter, almost a return to the woman she’d once been. The woman who believed in hope, and happiness, and maybe even love.

No. She couldn’t go there. Couldn’t afford to think like that, because she knew it wasn’t true. Hadn’t the last year taught her anything? Matthew’s deception, her parents’ trickery, even Sergei himself. His brutal rejection back in Moscow still had the power to wound, and now she was only here because he wanted her to be. And when he stopped …

‘Hannah?’ Impatience edged Sergei’s voice and Hannah took a deep breath.

‘Coming.’ She left the changing room, her steps awkward and mincing in the tight black column of a dress. Sergei’s eyes narrowed as he took in the latest fashion.

‘No.’ He turned back to his BlackBerry, punched in a few numbers.

‘No?’ Hannah stood there, feeling ridiculous and a little bit vulnerable, hating that Sergei said no so quickly. Held so much sway.

He looked up again, and in his eyes she saw another swift assessment and dismissal of the dress, of her. ‘No.’

‘Of course,’ the saleswoman murmured, attempting to lead her away. ‘We’ll try something else.’

Hannah jerked her arm away from the woman and stared at Sergei. ‘Why no?’

‘Because I don’t like black.’

‘You were dressed all in black when I first met you,’ Hannah pointed out. ‘You liked it well enough then.’

Sergei’s eyes narrowed. ‘All right,’ he said, his tone clearly conveying that she was stretching his patience, ‘I don’t like black on you. It makes you look washed out.’

Hannah blinked. Ouch, even if she kind of agreed with him. She still didn’t like how autocratic and distant he was being. She’d wanted to resist this whole shopping expedition, but she hadn’t had the strength or a really good reason to. She was already accepting his largesse by getting on the plane, staying in the hotel, sleeping with him every night. Wasn’t this all part of the package?

Yet still something about it felt wrong. Sordid and cheap, no matter how much money Sergei was shelling out. Silently she turned and went back to the dressing room.

‘Perhaps something brighter …’ the saleswoman murmured, ruffling through racks of clothing, but Hannah just shook her head.

‘I’m done.’

The saleswoman looked alarmed; Hannah supposed Sergei’s mistresses weren’t meant to object to him dropping a fortune on their clothes. Yet already she was tired of playing the game. Fed up with acting like being showered with clothes and ordered around was what she wanted. The only times she’d enjoyed these last three days were the ones where she didn’t feel like an expensive ornament, the moments where they had actually been real with each other. She could count them on one hand.

She slid the dress off and rummaged through the discarded gowns for the simple jeans and tee shirt she’d entered the boutique in. They weren’t there. She looked up, saw the saleswoman eyeing her with obvious apprehension.

‘Where are my clothes?’

‘Mr Kholodov asked me to get rid of them—’

‘Rid of them?’ Without another word she stalked out of the changing room, the rings of the curtain clattering against one another as she pushed it aside.

Sergei looked up from his BlackBerry, his eyes flaring as he took her in standing there in just her underwear. At least her bra and panties, worn as they might be, were her own.

Then the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile and he lounged back against the sofa, his thumb still punching buttons. ‘Aren’t you a little cold?’

‘No,’ she said, hands on her hips, ‘I’m not cold. I’m angry.’

‘Angry?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘You know that word?’

Now his smile disappeared and he tossed his phone onto the sofa, leaning forward so Hannah could see the dangerous glitter in his eyes. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said softly. ‘I know that word.’

‘I don’t want you to buy me clothes, Sergei.’

He arched an eyebrow. ‘You have an objection to being clothed?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Actually, I don’t.’ He gazed at her levelly, staring her down, and from the ice in his eyes Hannah knew he wasn’t going to try to understand what she meant, or where she was coming from. He didn’t want to. And how could she explain? It wasn’t just about the clothes. It was about everything, about them, and what she’d agreed to by coming with him on this trip. Just how much of her soul—and body—she felt she was selling.

She hadn’t realised it would be like this. Feel like this.

‘If you object to the gowns, forget them,’ Sergei said abruptly. ‘Just wear the lavender one tonight. It matches your eyes.’

And just like that she felt her fury trickle away, to her own shame. ‘Tonight?’

‘We are attending a charity gala.’ Sergei continued, his voice gentling, ‘Why don’t you get dressed?’

‘In what clothes? The saleswoman got rid of mine.’

‘Pick whatever you want—’

‘I don’t want any of it.’

Sergei let out an exasperated breath. ‘Most women I know don’t object to my buying them a few clothes,’ he finally said, his voice deliberately mild, and tears stung Hannah’s eyes.

‘Exactly,’ she said, and, realising how limited her options were at the moment, standing as she was in the middle of the dressing room in her underwear, she turned on her heel and went back to the changing area.

Sergei let out an irritated breath and turned back to the text he’d been composing on his BlackBerry. Only now he’d forgotten what it was about.

Why was Hannah being so prickly? So difficult? He’d thought he’d been treating her, buying her a few nice things. Just as he’d said, most women—

Except Hannah wasn’t like most women.

Sergei swore under his breath. He rose from the sofa and restlessly paced the confines of the dressing room. The last few days had been good, he’d thought. Simple. He knew what to do with a woman when he was taking her to Paris, wining and dining and pleasuring her until the small hours of the night. He’d been smugly satisfied to have Hannah exactly where he wanted her, in his bed, out of his mind. He’d finally reverted to his former self, efficient and distant, with a woman adorning his arm.

The realisation had relieved him … until now.

Now he felt edgy again, and restless, and annoyed by it all. By Hannah. How did she do this to him? Affect him so much? He’d been closing people out for years, ever since he was a child. Even Grigori and Varya didn’t get close.

And Alyona—

Sergei put a halt to that thought. So he felt a bit restless. He’d get over it. And he’d keep Hannah exactly where he wanted her. Maybe, he thought grimly, she needed a little reminder of just what kind of arrangement they had.

Several hours later Hannah stood in front of the full-length mirror in the sumptuous bedroom of their royal suite. She kept staring at her reflection because she couldn’t quite believe it was her. Sergei had had two women from the hotel’s spa come up and work on her for most of the afternoon, massaging, smoothing, waxing, and plucking until she felt sleek and shiny, and looked it too. Her hair had been pulled up into a smooth coil at the base of her neck, and expertly applied make-up made her eyes look huge and smoky, her lips bee-stung and dusky pink. She looked sexy, which was a revelation. She’d never thought of herself as sexy before … not until Sergei had come into her life, anyway.

She smoothed her hands down the front of the lavender gown Sergei had asked her to wear tonight. With its halter top and fluted skirt, the material lovingly moulded itself to her body. A sheer gauzy wrap and a pair of amethyst-encrusted stiletto heels completed the really rather amazing outfit.

Slowly Hannah drew in a breath and let it out again. After her little outburst at the boutique earlier, she’d decided not to object to Sergei’s indulgences again. What was the point? This was what was on offer, and she’d known that when she’d said yes to him at the hotel. No matter now she might be feeling frustrated or, worse, hurt.

‘This is it,’ she told her reflection. ‘This is what you agreed to.’

‘Are you talking to yourself?’ Sergei strolled into the bedroom, looking devastatingly attractive in black tie. He carried a small velvet box in his hands, which he snapped open as he stood behind Hannah, his gaze meeting hers in the mirror.

‘Krasivaya,’ he murmured, and dropped a kiss onto her bare shoulder. Beautiful. ‘I have something for you,’ he added as he withdrew a stunning diamond and amethyst choker from the velvet box. ‘May I?’

Wordlessly Hannah nodded, and Sergei slipped the choker around her neck. It was gorgeous, but the stones were cold and their edges pricked the tender skin of her throat. Hannah swallowed, and felt the jewels constricting her neck. ‘You may keep it,’ Sergei said, carelessly, and Hannah almost quipped, For services rendered?

She held her tongue, bit her cheek. No need to spoil the moment. No point. ‘Thank you,’ she said after a moment, and she knew she didn’t sound very grateful. Sergei’s narrowed gaze met hers in the mirror.

‘Do you object to jewels as well as clothes?’

She saw colour slash his cheekbones and knew he was annoyed. Maybe even hurt. No, that was just wishful thinking … wishing that Sergei’s emotions were engaged, as hers insisted on being. Hannah drew in another deep breath.

‘It’s a very generous gift,’ she finally said, and Sergei let out a short laugh.

‘Very diplomatic, Hannah. You always were candid.’

He held her gaze in the mirror, his eyes like ice, and Hannah could not look away. Even though he didn’t move, she felt as if he were stepping away from her yet again, for his emotional withdrawal was so evident. She touched the choker, the jewels still cold and sharp under her fingers. ‘Thank you,’ she said again and with a little sigh Sergei nodded and turned away.

‘We need to leave in ten minutes,’ he said over his shoulder and then he was gone.

Hannah gazed at her reflection once more. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and dazed. She didn’t look quite so sexy any more. She looked … sad.

Impatiently she turned away from the mirror. Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. You knew what you were getting into. If you don’t like it, you can leave.

She stilled, the possibility rippling through her. Leave. She could rip off this constraining choker, this elegant gown, and be out of here in minutes. She’d never see Sergei again.

And that, Hannah acknowledged hollowly, was why she stayed.

‘Ready?’ Sergei called from the suite’s lounge, and reaching for her wrap—which provided no warmth—Hannah went.

An hour later she stood next to Sergei, a flute of champagne clenched in one hand, her cheeks aching from smiling as Sergei talked business with one well-heeled guest after another. Beyond the barest flicker of a glance or nod from his companions, she was ignored. Talk about feeling like an ornament.

As Sergei launched into another deep conversation—this time in French—Hannah decided to get some fresh air. Obviously she didn’t need to be here, except as Sergei’s accessory. She murmured her excuses—that nobody seemed to hear—and then crossed the elegant hotel ballroom, the clink of crystal and the conversation of five hundred of Paris society’s darlings a cacophony of sound all around her. A wall of French doors led onto a terrace, and Hannah slipped through them with a little sigh of relief.

The spring air was warm and fragrant, the night quiet, the sound from inside no more than a distant murmur. Hannah moved to the railing that looked out over a private garden, now lost in shadows although she could smell roses and lilac. She breathed in deeply and let the peace of the night wash over her and steal through her soul. At least she tried to.

How, she wondered bleakly, could she feel so sad when she was standing on the terrace of a luxurious hotel, wearing a beautiful dress, with a gorgeous man inside who undoubtedly would take her home in a few hours and make love to her for most of the night?

She should be walking on air. Instead she felt empty.

‘There you are. Sergei’s latest.’

Hannah froze, then forced herself to turn around. In the darkness she could barely make out the face of the man who stood there, lounging in the doorway. She could still feel how he was studying her, his gaze arrogant as he completed an insultingly thorough sweep of her body.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know you,’ she said stiffly. He came closer, and she saw the sardonic cast of his features; he was handsome, but his mouth was thin and cruel and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘You could get to know me,’ he offered in a soft drawl. ‘When Sergei’s done with you.’

Hannah recoiled physically from his blatantly crude suggestion. ‘Excuse me,’ she said coldly, and made to move past him, her legs weak and watery with the shock of such an awful encounter. He grabbed her arm, and Hannah froze again, her skin crawling at the feel of his fingers on her bare flesh.

‘It’s happened before, you know. I don’t mind taking Sergei’s leftovers.’

She shook his arm off, her body trembling with affront and even fear. ‘You’re disgusting.’

He laughed, the sound one of genuine amusement. ‘So self-righteous. You are his mistress, aren’t you?’

And this time Hannah froze both inside and out. Not just her body, but her heart. She stood there, as unable to move as if she were encased in ice.

His mistress. That was exactly what she was. And this clearly was how she should expect to be treated.

‘Well?’ the man demanded, his voice turning surly and slurred. He was clearly drunk; perhaps he wouldn’t have taken such obnoxious liberties with her otherwise. Still the bleak truth of her position both in society and Sergei’s life remained, unavoidable, undeniable.

‘Yes,’ Hannah said stiffly, ‘that’s exactly what I am. Sergei’s mistress. Never yours.’ And with her head held high and her heart still icy, she stalked past him, only to give a little scream of fear when yet another hand clamped around her wrist and someone swung her around.

She stared in shock at Sergei, his eyes blazing blue fire. ‘What the hell,’ he demanded, ‘do you think you’re doing?’

CHAPTER NINE

‘WHAT I’m doing—’ Hannah gasped, startled by the raw fury in Sergei’s blazing gaze.

‘Don’t say another word. We’re leaving.’ He glanced beyond her to the man who still lounged, smirking, on the terrace. ‘And you, de Fourney,’ he said in a low growl, ‘I’ll deal with you later. Consider this your warning.’

The undisguised menace in Sergei’s voice made Hannah shiver even as she hurried to keep up with him, his hand still clamped around her wrist.

‘Sergei, what is wrong with you?’ she demanded in a harsh whisper as he pushed through the hotel’s front doors. ‘Why are you so angry?’

‘What were you doing with de Fourney?’

‘The man on the terrace?’ She jerked her arm away from him, forcing him to stop and turn to face her although he still seethed barely leashed anger. ‘Are you actually so—so bone-headed to be jealous of that slimy toad?’

‘I’m not jealous.’

‘Then why are you acting like some kind of Neanderthal?’ Hannah demanded. ‘Dragging me back to your stupid cave?’

‘I’ll remind you,’ he told her softly, ‘my cave costs five thousand dollars a night.’

She felt as if he’d slapped her. ‘Thanks for making me feel cheaper than I already did,’ she whispered, and pushed past him.

‘Hannah—’ He caught up with her, and a driver leapt to attention, opening the door of the limo idling by the kerb. Hannah slid inside, knowing she had no choice. What could she do? Where could she go? She was virtually Sergei’s prisoner. Worse … his mistress.

She closed her eyes, wishing she could stem the wave of pain that engulfed her at the thought. Sergei slid in next to her and slammed the door.

She still didn’t understand why he was angry. If he’d overheard one second of her conversation with that jerk he could hardly be jealous.

She glanced at him, saw his harsh profile, his jaw bunched so tight Hannah thought he might break a tooth. Biting her lip, she turned away and stared out of the window as the limo slid seamlessly into the traffic near the Arc de Triomphe.

They didn’t speak all the way back to the hotel. The tension in the limo was heavy, thick with anger Hannah didn’t fully understand. Finally as she entered the royal suite, her heels clicking on the marble floor of the elegant foyer, she confronted him. She threw her wrap onto a fragile-looking antique chaise as Sergei jerked off his tie and tossed it onto a chair.

‘What,’ Hannah asked, her anger a hot, hurting lump in her chest, ‘do you think you’re doing?’

He turned around, his jaw still working, his fury evident in every taut line of his muscular body. ‘What were you doing, talking to that zhopa? Guy de Fourney?’

‘Is that his name? Obviously the two of you are good friends.’

‘What?’ Sergei glared at her. ‘He is as sleazy and corrupt as they come. I have nothing to do with him.’

‘Nothing?’ Hannah repeated, her voice silky despite the tremors that now racked her body. ‘He indicated otherwise.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Why shouldn’t I? He said he’s—’ she swallowed, her voice hitching revealingly ‘—had your leftovers.’

Sergei stared at her for a long moment. Then he swore in Russian. ‘That man is—’ He slashed a hand through the air. ‘He seeks to offend.’

‘I don’t know if he meant to be offensive,’ Hannah replied with a lift of her chin. ‘He was just stating facts, wasn’t he?’

‘No,’ Sergei ground out, ‘he wasn’t.’

‘So he hasn’t shared a mistress of yours?’

Sergei’s face darkened dangerously. ‘Shared? Of course not! What do you think—?’

She folded her arms, half wondering why she was pushing this. Did she really want to know? ‘He didn’t ever have sex with a woman you’ve had sex with?’ she demanded, her voice only just level. Sergei said nothing. Silence was damning. ‘See,’ Hannah said softly. ‘He was just speaking the truth.’

‘That is not the truth!’ Sergei snapped. ‘Not the way he said it. And in any case I hardly keep track of the man’s movements.’

‘Or those of your discarded mistresses.’

He let out a low breath. ‘Very well. I do believe it is possible that once a woman I—A woman went to him after she’d been with me.’ His expression razored her, sharp and cutting. ‘But that hardly matters—’

‘Oh, no?’ Hannah interjected. He was right; it didn’t matter, not really. What mattered was how cheap the exchange with Guy de Fourney had made her feel. How cheap this affair made her feel.

Sergei stabbed a finger towards her. ‘I have no interest in what a piece of trash like Guy de Fourney says. I care what you say,’ he continued. For the first time since she’d met him his accent, usually faint, became so pronounced that Hannah stepped closer to understand him. ‘You called yourself my mistress.’

She blinked, baffled by his remark. ‘That’s what I am.’

‘No, it is not.’ He folded his arms, still furious and maybe even—hurt? Was it possible?

‘What do you intend to call me, then?’ she demanded. ‘You whisk me away to Paris, you buy me clothes, you have sex with me every night—’ Her voice rose, all the hurt she’d been holding in tumbling from her lips. ‘You buy me this—this dog collar!’ With one jerk she pulled the choker from her neck, the stones cutting her skin deep enough to draw tiny droplets of blood. Hannah flung the necklace onto the floor; it landed with an expensive-sounding clatter.

‘Hannah—’ Her name was an inadvertent cry as Sergei stretched a hand out to her, his horrified gaze on the bloody marks on her neck.

‘Isn’t it all true? Isn’t this what we agreed on?’ Hannah demanded. She felt tears sting her eyes and she blinked them away furiously. ‘Isn’t this what you want?’

Sergei crossed to stand in front of her. He withdrew a perfectly starched handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently dabbed at the scratches on her throat. ‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘it isn’t what I want.’

Hannah closed her eyes. Tears leaked out from under her lids, and she brushed them away, impatient, embarrassed.

‘I didn’t mean to make you cry.’ Sergei touched his thumb to her eye, her cheek, wiping away the traces of her tears. ‘Please don’t cry, Hannah.’ His voice sounded choked. ‘I cannot bear it.’

She opened her eyes, surprised and moved to see his harshly handsome face contorted in anguish. ‘I’m sorry.’ She drew in a ragged breath and blinked hard, forcing the lump that had risen into her throat back down. She could still feel it, hot and heavy in her chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, more composed now. She took a step away from him. ‘I don’t understand you, Sergei. You made it quite clear what you wanted back in New York. This was meant to be fun, a fling, and I accepted that. I’m trying to accept it, anyway. But even when I do you still get angry. Back at the hotel—you treated me like a—a possession! Something you can just drag around.’

The anguish had left Sergei’s face, his expression wiped as clean as a slate. ‘I’m sorry,’ he finally said, his voice neutral. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

‘Why were you so angry?’ Hannah demanded rawly. ‘When I was just stating facts? Because I am your mistress, aren’t I? That’s how all those people at the charity event tonight think of me. The ornament on your arm.’ It hurt to say it, but she wanted to be clear. She wanted Sergei to know she wasn’t fooled.

Sergei pressed his lips together. So much for anguish; now he just looked annoyed. ‘I don’t know how they think of you—’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Fine.’ He rubbed a hand over his face, then dropped it abruptly. ‘Fine. Yes. They think of you as my mistress. I’ve never—I’ve never been with the same woman for very long. No one would think now that I was in a—a proper relationship.’

‘And we’re not in a proper relationship,’ Hannah pointed out. ‘We’re not equals in this. You dress me up like a doll and parade me around and sleep with me and when you’ve had enough you’ll send me back where I came from.’ It hurt so much to say it, but she knew she had to. For her own sake as much as Sergei’s. She needed the reminder of just what it was they were doing here.

‘Don’t,’ Sergei said sharply. ‘Don’t make what is between us sound so—so sordid.’

‘But it is sordid, Sergei.’ It was to her, anyway. ‘Like I said before, I’m just stating facts.’

His jaw tightened and he folded his arms. ‘I don’t like those facts.’

‘Don’t you?’ She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. ‘Because those are your facts. The rules you set down—’

‘I don’t remember making any rules.’

Hannah stared at him, genuinely confused. What was Sergei trying to tell her? That he didn’t want this? The thought was surely laughable. ‘Why are you arguing the point?’ she asked quietly. ‘Do you just not like someone spelling it out to you? Because if you’ve never even been in a proper relationship before, somehow I don’t think you’re looking to start.’

Sergei stared at her, his gaze level and yet fathomless, his mouth a hard line. ‘Maybe I am,’ he said at last, and despite the fierce thrill of hope that rippled through her Hannah shook her head.

‘No, you’re not.’

Sergei’s lips curved in a grim smile. ‘You’re so sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

‘And here I thought you believed the best in everyone,’ he drawled softly.

She swallowed and then hardened her resolve. ‘Not any more.’

He shook his head. ‘What happened to your optimism, Hannah? Because a year ago—’

‘I’m not the same person I was a year ago, Sergei. And you probably aren’t either.’

‘No,’ he agreed quietly, ‘I’m not.’