4
Dmitry
She looked like some kind of siren sent to tempt men to their deaths. I’d chosen burgundy silk to go against that pretty tan of hers and because I happened to like the color, but I hadn’t been prepared for her to look as good as she did in it. Like a fine bottle of wine, she was beguiling and well-shaped. I had been prepared forprettyagain, but what she served me was something so much more—like a woman wreathed in fire, but with a demeanor no less icy.
She all but glared at me in disdain when she arrived, and I was having a hard time remaining as friendly and charming as I had sought to in the face of her continued assault. It was why my snorted laughter at her words came as a surprise both to her and myself.
“Da,” I breathed out, regaining my composure and again gesturing to the waiter to come over so that I could remedy her lack of alcohol. “I failed to notice it because I arranged for it to be so. You are my wife; therefore, you have your own detail.”
Her eyebrows rose, her black eyes widening as a pretty pink blush stole across her cheekbones. “Detail? Like . . . bodyguards?” Her voice broke over the words, her embarrassment clear, and it was the first chink in her armor that I had been allowed to witness.
I wanted to chisel away at it until I could slide that silk down her shoulders and work my hands up under it.I wanted to see where that tan made lines in her naturally ivory flesh.
“Da,” I answered neutrally, as if I weren’t imagining her six different shades of undressed in my own mind. “Pietre, red wine for my wife,spaseeba. And another vodka for myself.” I didn’t so much as break my gaze to order but caught Pietre’s approving nod from the corner of my eye. My smile fell as I saw a look of distaste cross my wife’s features.
“You did say red wine,” I reminded her.
“You could at least look at someone while you order them around,” she responded crossly, dropping her gaze and instead reaching out to begin loading her plate with the food in front of her. She didn’t pick up tiny portions of anything, going so far as to add a second and third spoonful where it suited her. I wasn’t even allowed to appreciate that though, with the way that she snapped at me.
She was lecturing me.
“Did I not say please prettily enough for your liking, wife?” I asked silkily, nodding my head in thanks concurrently as our drinks were slid unobtrusively onto our table.
“You didn’t say please at all,” she answered frostily, picking up her own glass of wine and taking a sip. Her eyes finally lifted back to mine, the challenge in them clear.
“I did . . . or do you not count it when I say it in Russian?” My bewilderment was back, eyebrows lifting at the way that her lips pulled into a thin line.A wonder, that, with how full they were naturally.
“Just because someone works for you, doesn’t make them less than,” she sighed, ignoring my other question and focusing instead on what had apparently bothered her. “I would hate to think of a client treating me that way solely because they pay me.”
“A client?” My voice lifted with curiosity, my eyes narrowing slightly. Apparently, we were having this conversation over dinner, despite my best efforts to make this as enjoyable a first meal as I could. I had wanted to get to know her better, not spar with her and wonder if I should have requested her side be removed of knives.
“When I find a social work position open in the area,” she answered off-handedly, spearing the pocket of pastry with much aplomb. She was refusing to acknowledge how good the food was verbally, but at least I could view the appreciation.
“A job?” I laughed, pausing to take another sip of my vodka. “You won’t have a job. I hope you haven’t already started looking.”
“Excuse me?” Her fork clattered to her plate as she dropped it, her icy black gaze lifting to mine in disbelief. “I will so! I’ve worked too hard for this position—I went to school for four years to make it happen.”
Again, my eyebrows lifted, though this time with a certain deal of respect. I had read it in her file of course; I had just somehow forgotten that fact. Her anger bled out of her, raw and effervescent, like a heartbeat. “While that’s admirable, surely, that was before you were my wife,” I reminded her. “Your place now is in my home . . . and the timing, right now, of you being out in an uncontrolled environment is . . . unfavorable.”
I chose my words carefully, glancing around I reflected on the family strain and the danger that could come from it, but I could see her picking up on those cues. Her face tightened, her nostrils flaring somewhat.
“In your home,” she repeated, tension lining her words. “So, because your family is at war and things are uncertain, I have to stay hidden away like some damsel locked in a tower, so as not to damage your reputation?”
“Our family,” I corrected smoothly, finishing my vodka and again lifting my fingers for a refill. “So as not to be kidnapped or murdered in the name of blackmail. But, by all means, if you wish to be locked in a tower and play a game of princess. . .” I trailed off, my lips lifting savagely as that pretty blush coated her cheekbones once again. Even with the bickering back and forth, I wanted to chase that blush further south. . . .
“Listen.” My tone grew more serious as I laid my napkin on my finished plate. “I’m aware this situation isn’t what either of us asked for. From what I heard you weren’t even aware that we were due to be married until not too long before the wedding. I didn’t ask for a bride, I have no use for one. But you are here, da? And we are wed. I suggest we try to make the best of the situation.”
I paused as the waiter refilled our drinks, watching her pour over my words as if considering them, and for the first time I thought I saw the hint of a smile. A wry, bitter sort of smile, but a smile, nonetheless. “And I’m supposed to ignore the fact that you killed my mother?” The depths of her eyes glittered with some unknown emotion. I felt myself soften, if only slightly, to the predicament that she must be in.
“Nyet,” I answered shortly. “Because I did not kill your mother. You want me to apologize for her death? I am sorry for your loss, I am sorry for your pain. . . . But I will not apologize for a death I had nothing to do with, in carrying out or planning. I have enough blood on my hands without you adding a name to the end of my trigger that does not belong.”
She eyed me warily, seeming to chew over my words. Then, silently, she downed the last of her wine and danced her fingers along the line of her lips. I stood from my chair, helped her out of hers, and took her hand possessively in mine.
“So, what,” she asked as I led her through the doors of the restaurant and down the hallway, “We pretend we are just two people and go out dancing now or something?”
I laughed at the incredulity in her tone, spinning her about until she faced me and all but backing her up against the door of the exit. “Nyet,” I chuckled, lowering my face until my nose brushed up the side of hers. “Now, I am going to meet with my father. I ask him for a favor, on this, the day after my wedding, and I let the driver take you home. Maybe when I come home in an hour or so, we can get to know each other.”
I knew my voice was layered with suggestion. I could see her reacting to it, lifting on her toes and meeting my gaze with another almost smile teasing her lips, as if there were some secret joke hidden in my words that only she understood. I bent forward, covering my lips with her own, surprised by the heated response they were met with.