The Russian's Acquisition

A nightmare? Reaching out with instinctive compassion, she lightly touched the tensed muscles of his neck, thumb accidentally lining up with the ridge of his scar on his chin. “Aleksy.”

He clamped a swift hand around her wrist, the strength of his grip painful enough to make her cry his name again in a warning.

With a jolt he woke, but his grip stayed locked tight. “Clair.” He sounded…fraught, his tone demanding she answer.

“Yes, it’s me.” She tried to rotate her arm and ease his unbreakable hold. “Where were you?”

He drew a shaken breath, letting his fingers loosen, then just as quickly caught her arm again, closing around her fine bones, exploring lightly for damage. “Did I bruise you? I’ll get ice.” He released her and started to leave the bed.

“No, I’m fine.” She dropped a staying palm on his chest, startled to find it soaked with perspiration. “You’re sweating. Do you have nightmares often?”

“Never,” he replied shortly, dragging the corner of the sheet over himself, dislodging her touch as he dried himself.

Smarting from his brush-off, she curled her fist into the blankets and drew them up over her chest. “Maybe it was my being here. I was just leaving, so…” She trailed off.

He didn’t say anything.

She waited too long. Nausea clenched in her stomach as she realized he wasn’t going to protest and ask her to stay. Aghast at herself for making the mistake of fishing for signs she was needed—or at least not unwanted—she forced her stiff limbs to ease toward the edge of the bed. Funny how she had spent years conquering feelings of bereft abandonment, learning never to set herself up for it, yet the tsunami of worthlessness could sweep over her as fresh and coldly devastating as ever.

This was exactly why she avoided intimacy. He was too far inside her if he could bring her to the brink of anguished rejection this easily. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Years of practice allowed her to swallow the lump of unshed tears trying to lodge itself against the back of her throat. She wouldn’t cry, refused to. She found her way down the hall to the spare room and crawled into the icy bed with dry eyes, telling herself the ache clawing at her insides was for Aleksy.

What would haunt him so badly he’d have nightmares? She’d been distracted by his misjudgment of her and the foundation earlier, but he’d said Grigori had given him his first job after his father was killed. He had shut down and diverted her by asking about her own history, but she had a feeling the touchy subject of his scar was related. The way he’d just called her name as if he’d been frightened for her stayed with her, filling her with an urge to go back and ask him about it. Offer comfort.

Rolling onto her back, she flung an arm over her eyes and reminded herself not to give or ask too much. This relationship was temporary and if she got any more emotionally involved with Aleksy, she’d be too deeply attached when it ended. Look how she was reacting to being separated by just a wall. She didn’t want her heart broken when half a world stood between them.

Better to stay exactly where she would spend the rest of her life: alone.

* * *

Aleksy stared unseeingly at the frozen river, still deeply perturbed by his nightmare. He hadn’t had one since his mother was alive, yet the dream and the memory it contained had ambushed him with deadly accuracy.

Except this time, when he’d heard his name, Clair’s voice had called it and torment had nearly ripped open his chest.

Soft footsteps padded on the tiles behind him. Not the bustle of his housekeeper and he felt Clair’s presence like a tangible force anyway. Her sexuality radiated into him, synchronizing to his own. He wanted to touch her with the immediacy that swept through him every time he was near her.

He hesitated to turn, though, dreading what he might see. He had meant to be gone by now, but his driver was caught in one of Moscow’s world-famous traffic jams, so he was loitering in his own foyer, mind jammed with unwanted introspection. When he pivoted, he caught her hovering indecisively, showered and dressed, hair glittering like sunlight in icicles. She took in his suit and tie beneath his open overcoat, then the briefcase on the floor. Her eyes were underlined with bruised half circles. No sleep either? Or something else?

Apprehension made his voice unintentionally severe. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she answered. Her cloak of composure slid firmly into place, hiding anything she might have betrayed.

He felt his mouth twist in dismay, but really, it was for the best. He’d saturated himself in her last night, allowing his own well-built defenses to waver so he could draw her in as tightly as possible, but apparently letting down his guard had allowed his subconscious to come out of hiding. That was so disturbing he didn’t know what else to do but run.