Innocent in the Ivory Tower

‘I left that to the chef, dushka.’ He looked faintly curious, as if her questions were not quite what he was expecting.

‘She didn’t mention it, that’s all, and the kitchen was very quiet.’

‘What were you doing in the kitchen?’

‘Talking to Maria.’

Alexei gave her an odd look. ‘Then you were talking to Andrei?’

She nodded. ‘I didn’t know you had a chef. Maria’s been making all my meals. She’s a wonderful cook. I’m sure I’ll put on ten pounds whilst I’m here if I don’t start running again. Why are you staring at me? What I have said?’

‘I hadn’t realised you were so tight with the housekeeper,’ was all he observed, sipping from his glass.

‘She’s been incredible with Kostya, and he’s really taken to her.’

Alexei merely inclined his head, and suddenly Maisy understood the man sitting across from her didn’t really care about any of this. He wasn’t listening to her. He was watching her. He never actually looked directly at her breasts, but Maisy knew that he was seeing them because they had tightened, and suddenly the boning in her dress didn’t feel anywhere near substantial enough.

Men didn’t make a habit of looking at her like this. Especially men sitting across from her, pouring her champagne and looking as if they’d stepped out of a style magazine.

‘Let’s talk about Kostya,’ she said, her high voice betraying a sudden rush of nerves.

‘Drink your champagne, Maisy. You haven’t touched a drop.’

Automatically she lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip. It tasted divine. She took another sip and sucked some of it off her lip. Premier champagne and pink shimmer lipstick—perhaps not the perfect combination.

Alexei watched her lip plump out, all wet and shiny from her tongue and the champagne. He would lick her there, later on, and then he would lick her further down, where she would also be plump and wet and wanting. He shifted in his chair as his body stirred to life.

Maisy put her glass down with a bump and he noticed her hands were trembling a little. Which was good. Hell, his weren’t exactly steady. He lifted his eyes to hers, but instead of desire he saw a little worry line of concern drawing her lovely dark brows together.

‘We really need to talk about Kostya,’ she insisted a little more firmly.

Alexei made a frustrated but resigned sound in the back of his throat. ‘Fine. We talk.’

Maisy folded her hands in her lap. She looked prim and proper—and that, he discovered, revved him up too.

‘Do you intend for Kostya to live here in Ravello?’

As enquiries went it was pretty innocuous and reasonable, yet it was one Alexei knew he wouldn’t answer in any other circumstances. He was so accustomed to guarding his privacy it had become habit never to respond to questions. Refusing to answer, however, wasn’t conducive to persuading Maisy out of that dress, so he settled for neutral. ‘Nyet. Villa Vista Mare is only one of my homes.’

Maisy experienced a sinking feeling. ‘How many do you have?’

‘Seven,’ he said briefly, as if it were of no import.

‘Seven?’ she repeated. ‘What on earth do you need seven homes for?’

‘Convenience,’ he said after a pause.

At that moment a waiter appeared with their entrée—crab bisque—and Maisy smiled at him and waited as she was served.

Alexei wondered a little testily if she showered those smiles on every male she met except him.

‘Does that mean Kostya will be travelling the world with you, to these homes?’

‘Da.’

Maisy sighed deeply, looking past him into the flickering darkness, saying almost to herself, ‘How is this going to work?’

Alexei gestured to her plate. ‘Eat, Maisy. Worry later.’

She nibbled on some crab meat and finally gave him the full impact of her smile. ‘It tastes of the sea,’ she imparted, as if this were a wonder.

‘It should,’ he replied, enjoying her reaction. ‘It came out of it this afternoon.’

The main course received the same enthusiasm and he watched her eat, itself a rare event. Most of the women he sat down at a table with picked their way around a plate and drank like fish. Maisy hardly touched her champagne, but cleaned up her plate.

‘I’ve spoken to a child psychologist, as I told you earlier,’ said Alexei as their plates were cleared. ‘He informs me Kostya needs to feel secure here before he’s told about his parents.’

‘I agree completely.’

Her cheeks were flushed now—a combination of the spices in the main dish and her single half glass of champagne. Alexei knew they had to get this thorny question of Kostya’s welfare sorted before he could dance with her and feed her gelato and watch her lick it off the spoon, and then off his tongue. He also had to get his body under control before he stood up.