White Nights (White Nights 1)

“Rubies,” he says, “to go with your dress. The rest are diamonds.”

I open my mouth to say I can’t accept such a gift, but he speaks before I have a chance to utter the words.

“Please don’t say you can’t accept them. It’s a gift from the heart, one I can well afford, and the stones are conflict-free.”

The white and red gemstones catch the light and reflect it back in small rainbows. “I… It’s very pretty, but—”

“Good.”

He takes the box from my hand, removes one of the earrings, and leans closer to fit it in my ear. My stomach tightens from the mere brush of his fingers over the shell of my ear. I’m already impossibly turned on by the time he’s fitted the other earring.

He takes a step back to study his work. “Perfect.” Taking my shoulders, he turns me toward the mirror hanging above the dresser. “Take a look. They suit you.”

The earrings are indeed intricate pieces of art. They look priceless.

Lowering his head, he brushes his lips over my neck in a tender caress. “We’d better go or we’ll be late.”

Goosebumps run over my arm and tingle down my spine. “Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome, Katyusha.”

He places a soft kiss on my temple and takes my hand. “Yuri will drive us. I may have to down a few shots of vodka with some business partners tonight.”

In the foyer, he produces a faux-fur coat that he drapes over my shoulders. “This should keep you warm enough between the house and the car. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for the shoes, except this.”

I utter a squeal as he lifts me into his arms. Folding my hands around his neck, I cuddle closer to the warmth of his strong body. Yuri appears with a matching faux-fur blanket that he wraps around my legs, covering me all the way to my feet.

“You’re very considerate, Mr. Volkov,” I say with my nose pressed against his neck.

“Just taking care of what’s mine.”

He’s careful to deposit me on the back seat without creasing my dress. After spreading out my skirt and adjusting the fur blanket around me, he comes around and takes the seat next to me.

The minute Yuri pulls onto the street, Alex takes out his phone. He’s busy typing messages as we drive, but I don’t mind, because he places his free hand on my knee, drawing lazy patterns with this thumb. It’s a subtle way of keeping me connected to him and telling me he’s aware of my presence even if his mind is occupied elsewhere.

I’ve been working back-to-back shifts all week and haven’t had a chance to ask him much about the party. In the little free time I’ve had, we’ve been mostly occupied in other ways that ended up with no talking and a lot of action in his bed. Since he’s busy, I refrain from asking where we’re headed. I’ll just have to wait and see.

I’m surprised when Yuri pulls up in front of the city hall.

“Wow,” I say, turning to Alex when he finally puts away his phone. “What kind of a dinner is this?”

“Senator Keaton’s wife organized a fundraiser for the Autism Society.”

“That’s a worthy cause,” I say when he helps me from the car.

I discard the blanket but pull the coat tightly around me as we make our way up the steps and inside the hall.

The minute we clear the doors, cameras flash in our faces. The lights are blinding and the mob that descends on us is more than a little frightening, but Alex folds his strong hand around mine in a reassuring way, grounding me as he shelters me against his large frame.

Thankfully, someone more famous enters behind us, and we’re relieved from the unwelcome attention. After checking in my coat, we make our way through the lobby to the main hall.

I regard Alex’s broad frame. He didn’t even put on a coat. “Aren’t you cold?”

He smiles down at me. “This isn’t cold. I’m from Russia, remember?”

The interior has been decorated like a winter wonderland, complete with an igloo on an icy landscape in the center. Artificial snowflakes fall from the ceiling, clinging to the elegant dresses and tuxedos of the high society in attendance. A brass band set up on the stage is playing a waltz.

Cocktail tables are scattered around. They’re all occupied, so Alex steers me to a quieter corner in the back, grabbing two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter on his way. People glance at us as we walk by, and I catch more than a few envious—and in some cases, contemptuous—looks in my direction from the female attendees.

“The house parties are normally better,” Alex says, bending low to brush the words against my ear. “The big ones like these are always overdone with the decoration and lacking in the quality of the food.”