Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Merely to the private rooms upstairs. There is no need to be afraid.”

She squared her shoulders. “I am not afraid, I am furious. Do you know how long I have been waiting?”

A startled silence filled the entire room as Josef regarded her with astonishment.

“Dimitri Tipova is a very busy man,” he said, his tone chiding. “You are fortunate he agreed to meet with you at all.”

Emma sniffed, refusing to be intimidated. “Ah, yes, you cannot imagine how honored I am to be graced with a few moments of the Beggar Czar’s precious time.”

With a muttered curse, the slender man headed toward the back of the room.

“This way.”

Stiffly, Emma followed in his wake, acutely aware of the hard gazes trained in her direction. Josef pulled open the door and led her up a narrow flight of stairs, then reaching a landing, he motioned her toward a small room with a brocade sofa and two scrolled chairs set beside a marble fireplace.

“Wait here.”

Not bothering to turn, Josef continued toward a door on the opposite side of the landing, shoving it open and stepping through. Ignoring good manners, Emma remained poised on the landing, blatantly attempting to overhear the low conversation between Josef and whoever was waiting in the room.

“She arrived?” A man that Emma presumed was Dimitri Tipova demanded, his dark voice sending an odd tingle down her spine.

“Regrettably,” Josef muttered.

“Why regrettably?”

“The woman is sour enough to curdle milk.”

“No doubt she is concerned for her sister.”

“It is not concern that makes a woman into an overbearing shrew. She is the nasty sort who tosses out orders and expects them to be obeyed.”

“Naturally.” The gorgeous male voice held an edge of resignation. “I should have known Gerhardt would take pleasure in plaguing me with his old maid cousin. No doubt he is seated before a warm fire, relishing his peace while I am stuck with the harridan.”

Emma winced, then gritted her teeth, pretending she wasn’t wounded by the familiar mockery. She had not traveled to St. Petersburg to charm the local thieves.

Stepping over the threshold, she had a brief impression of a small study with bookshelves lining the walls and a porcelain stove set between two leather wing chairs. Then a tall man lifted himself from behind a heavy walnut desk and her mind abruptly refused to function.

He was just so absurdly beautiful.

Her stunned gaze traced the bronze perfection of his features. The wide, intelligent brow. The slender nose and full, sensual lips. The slash of his prominent cheekbones. The chiseled brows that were the same raven-black as his long hair pulled into a tail at his nape.

It was his eyes, however, that stole her breath.

An astonishing gold that shimmered in wicked temptation, they were surely the eyes of the devil.

Or perhaps a fallen angel.

All Emma knew for certain was that he was a compelling combination of lethal power and male sensuality that would make any poor woman go weak in the knees.

An odd, heated excitement fluttered in the pit of her stomach as that golden gaze flared over her tiny form. An excitement that was swiftly replaced with hollow disappointment as his lush lips twisted with a familiar male disapproval.

What did she expect, she mocked her temporary insanity?

That Dimitri Tipova might be unconventional enough not to judge her bold manner? That a man forced to survive in a harsh world was capable of understanding the need for her to do the same?

Thrusting aside the inane thoughts, Emma conjured the icy composure that was her only protection.

“I may be an old maid, but I at least possess a few manners,” she stated, her gaze never wavering from the unnerving golden eyes. “Something sadly lacking among you and your loathsome band of cutthroats.”