Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

DIMITRI SHOULD HAVE been amused.

The tiny female wrapped in layers of wool barely came to his chin and weighed less than his wolfhound. To have her burst into his room and chide him as if he were a naughty child rather than the most dangerous man in St. Petersburg was absurd.

It wasn’t amusement he felt, howev

er, as his gaze rested on the honey curls that peeked from her scarf to lie against the purity of her ivory skin and the steady hazel eyes that held unwavering strength.

There was something about her that challenged him at his most primitive level.

He wanted to loom over her until she dropped her bold gaze in silent defeat. He wanted to bluntly inform her that he was an unrepentant tyrant who expected immediate obedience from others.

He wanted to haul her against his body until the defiance faded from her beautiful eyes and her lush lips softened in invitation…

Thankfully unaware of the currents of prickling awareness that swirled through the air, Josef folded his arms over his chest.

“What did I say? Curdled milk,” he muttered.

Dimitri never allowed his gaze to stray from Emma Linley-Kirov’s stubborn expression.

“That will be all.”

“Are you certain? There is nothing more dangerous than an angry female.”

“Thank you, Josef, I believe you have done quite enough,” Dimitri dryly assured his friend, waiting for his servant to leave the room before he rounded the desk and perched on the corner.

His lips twisted as her gaze skimmed down his tailored, cinnamon jacket that he had paired with a cream satin waistcoat. He had tied his crisp cravat in an Oriental knot and a diamond the size of a thimble winked in the perfect folds. Clearly the woman had expected him to be a savage rather than the sort of sophisticated gentleman who could appear comfortable in the finest home.

“There is a saying that listeners rarely hear good of themselves,” he at last broke the silence.

An indefinable emotion flared through her eyes before she was jutting her chin in silent condemnation.

“I am indifferent to your opinion of me, sir—”

“Dimitri,” he smoothly corrected.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I am no gentleman as you have so graciously implied. You will call me Dimitri.”

Her lips tightened, whether in disapproval at the informality or at being given an order, it was impossible to determine.

“If you insist,” she grudgingly conceded.

“I do.”

“Can we please discuss my sister?” she snapped. “I have wasted enough of my day.”

Dimitri narrowed his gaze, shoving from the desk and prowling toward the woman regarding him with an imperious scowl. A surge of male satisfaction raced through him as she instinctively backed away from his approaching form, even as his more civilized nature was shocked by his fierce reaction to the delicate slip of a woman.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Herding her until she was pressed flat against the bookcase, he reached to grasp the shelves on either side of her shoulders.

“Perhaps we should discuss the nature of our—” his brooding gaze lowered to the tempting curve of her lips “—relationship, Emma.”

Heat flared beneath her ivory skin, but her eyes shimmered with rebellion.

“There is no relationship, merely a set of unfortunate circumstances that have forced us to join our resources for the time being.”