Dealing Her Final Card (Princes Untamed 1)

Bree gave an intake of breath, and her eyes dropped. “Fine. Buy it for me, then. Because you’re right. You can do whatever you want.”

Her voice dripped with icy, repressed fury.

This was turning into a disaster. Vladimir’s intention in bringing her here had been to make her cry out in delight, clapping her hands as she threw her arms around him in joy. But it seemed no cries of joy would be forthcoming.

He forced his clenched hands to relax. “I think we’re done.” Turning away from the jewelry case empty-handed, leaving the disappointed jeweler behind them, Vladimir put his hand on her back. It was an olive branch, an attempt to salvage the evening. “Fine. No diamonds. But you will enjoy dinner.”

“Yes,” she said. “Since you are telling me to enjoy it, I must.”

They were very late for their reservation. But when they finally arrived at the restaurant, adjacent to an exclusive hotel on the Nevsky Prospekt, he had the satisfaction of seeing Bree’s mouth fall open.

Art-nouveau-style stained glass gleamed in a wall of windows. Shadowy balconies and discreet curtained booths overlooked the center parquet floor, filled with tables covered with crisp white linen. White lights edged the second-floor balustrade, and tapering candles graced the tables with flickering light as uniformed waiters glided among the planted palm trees, serving rich, powerful guests.

The maître d’ immediately recognized Vladimir. “Your Highness!” Clapping his hands, he bowed with a flourish and escorted them to the best table.

“Everyone is looking at us,” Bree muttered as they walked across the gleaming parquet.

Relieved she was finally talking to him again, Vladimir reached over to take her hand in his. “They’re looking at you.”

As they were seated, Bree’s cheeks were pink, her eyes glowing in the flickering light of the candles and warmth of the high-ceilinged restaurant. Soaring above them on the ceiling were nineteenth-century frescoes, country scenes of the aristocracy at play.

When the waiter came, Vladimir ordered a short glass of vodka, then turned to Bree. “What would you like to drink?”

She tilted her head. “The same.”

“It’s vodka.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Are you sure?” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as much of a drinker.”

She shrugged. “I can handle myself.”

Her bravado was provocative. He looked at her beautiful, impassive face, at the way her dark eyelashes brushed her pale skin, at the way her stubborn chin lifted from her long, graceful neck. He wondered what she would say if she knew what he was thinking.

“Your Highness?” the waiter said in Russian.

Vladimir turned back to him and gave the order. After the man left, Bree said abruptly, “Where did you learn Russian? It wasn’t at school.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” she admitted. “But I know you and your brother grew up on the same land that now belongs to Josie—or will, in three years.” She tilted her head. “It’s funny we never met. Both of us growing up in the same state.”

“That land was in our family for four generations. A thousand miles from anything. You know.” He drummed his fingertips on the table, looking for the waiter with the vodka. “So we kept to ourselves. My father spoke Russian with us. He was proud of our history. He homeschooled us. In the long winters, we read Pushkin, Tolstoy.” Vladimir’s lips twisted. “It was my mother who made sure our home had food and wood. The land is our legacy. In our blood.”

“Why did your mother sell it to my father?”

His body tightened. “I was desperate for money to start our business. Kasimir absolutely refused to sell. He’d made some deathbed promise to our father. But I knew this was the only way.”

“You had nothing else to sell? You couldn’t take a loan?”

“Mining equipment is expensive. There is no guarantee of success. Banks offered to loan us a pitiful amount—not nearly enough to have the outfit I wanted. We’d already sold the last item of value our family possessed—a necklace that belonged to my great-grandmother—to help fund college in St. Petersburg. Spasiba,” he said to the waiter, who’d just placed their drinks on the table. Reaching for his vodka, he continued, “So I talked to my mother. Alone. And convinced her to sell.”

“Behind your brother’s back?” Bree’s eyes widened. “No wonder he hates you.”

Knocking back his head, Vladimir took a deep drink and felt the welcoming burn down his throat. “I knew what I was doing.”

“Really.” Bree’s cheeks were pink, but her troubled gaze danced in the flickering candlelight. “Do you know what you’re doing now?”