Wasn’t it?
A short time later, however, as he scanned past diamond rings to bracelets and pendants, he recalled the way his father had often taken pains to barter for some treasure or another that his mother had coveted. Once it had been a sewing machine, another time a pair of gold earrings. His father had rubbed his hands in glee at being able to surprise his wife with her heart’s desire.
That’s all he, Aleksy, wanted to do for Clair, but it felt as if he was making false promises. The sparkling rings mocked him. He couldn’t keep this up, keep her, forever, even if he wanted to.
Did he want to?
He clenched a fist, aware of a deep need to have her as readily at hand as everything else that was vital to his existence. Air, water. Clair.
Shaken, he dismissed his misgivings and set down a small fortune on a choker with sapphires in graduated shades of blue, brilliant and sparkling as her eyes when she laughed. He liked seeing her happy. Provoking her to smile didn’t make him a bad person.
His certainty lasted through a pleasant lunch where she practiced her fledgling Russian phrases and he expanded on some of the historical events she’d been reading about. She made him look at his city and country with new eyes, and hers widened with dazzlement when she unwrapped his gift.
“It’s too much,” she protested in a whisper, then teared up as her cake arrived, topped with half a dozen sparklers. “Aleksy!” Her lips trembled and she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him hard.
The most incredible tenderness infused him as he pulled her into his lap, startled by how much emotion he’d drawn out of her with such a little act.
“Your secret is out now, you know,” she said in a strained voice, drawing back enough to swipe under her eyes and offer him a beaming smile.
His heart did a sharp dip and rock in his chest. “Which secret is that?”
“You’re the biggest softie in the world. Not nearly as ominous and gruff as you want to appear.”
His mouth twitched and his conscience gave him a kick. He was misrepresenting himself if she really believed that.
“Can we keep it between us?” he said lightly, not wanting to spoil the mood, but pressing her back into her own chair.
“Of course,” she replied with an enigmatic smile. “I like knowing more about you than anyone else does.”
The remark niggled at him as they finished their coffee and left. His security had told more than one parked car to shove off over the last month, but there hadn’t been any for two or three days. His real secret was still safe.
Nevertheless, he was so distracted by his inner thoughts as they walked out of the building that they were in the scrum of paparazzi before he realized he was their object, not one of the international celebrities also dining here.
The clamor and flash and jostle was bad enough, especially with Clair to protect. He squeezed her to his side, aware of her hardening into a tight ball as the horrific questions were shouted not just in Russian, but English.
“Aleksy! Are you guilty of murder?”
* * *
After Aleksy’s remark about the paparazzi noting whom he’d taken to the Bolshoi, Clair had made a point of searching their names online each day. Sometimes she noticed a photographer aiming a lens at them as they stepped out, but not always. The gossip hunters were sly and determined, however. Every outing was documented whether she was aware it was happening or not, including their impulsive appearance at the Maslenitsa festival.
Being stalked unknowingly made her queasy, but until this circus, her main worry had been the helplessly enamored expression on her face that matched the one worn by his previous lovers. So much for her detachment!
But how could she be impassive when he’d made himself into her own personal playground? Each time they came together she grew a little more possessive of the territory she conquered. Now he’d gone out of his way to do something special for her, buying her a ridiculously extravagant gift and—even more precious—revealing a kind of thoughtfulness that made her feel maybe, just maybe, they were forming a connection that went beyond physical.
Still glowing with a sense of being exceptional in his eyes, she let him carry her along to the sidewalk, where they were suddenly mobbed in a way that truly frightened her. Ducking from the chaos into Aleksy’s solid presence, she tried to make sense of why this was happening and what were they saying?
She realized she understood more than the Russian moniker of Scarface, but other names. Victor Van Eych. His son.
“Did you know about the private investigation?”
“How do you respond to the accusation you sent Van Eych to an early grave?”
“You’ve been arrested for murder before. Are you guilty?”