The Russian's Acquisition

Was he hurting? She rubbed where her breastbone felt as if it were coated in acid. For a long time she stood in the lounge, arms wrapped tight around herself, confused. Frightened, but not by Aleksy. By herself.

She wanted to trust a man who’d just confessed to murder.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CLAIR HAD HEARD Russians talk about their dachas. She had gathered they were a type of summer cottage retreat, usually rustic and far enough out of the city to offer a garden plot and a return to nature. The buildings were often little more than shacks, but they were kept in families for generations.

If this was Aleksy’s dacha, he needed to work on his definition of shack. The minute she saw it, her mind heard, Welcome home.

They’d flown over nothing but trees once they’d left the outskirts of Moscow, leaving little to distract from her inner turmoil until she’d glimpsed a palace surrounded by a groomed park. The fountains were off, the canals frozen, but she’d realized they were nearing St. Petersburg. This was a place so beautiful even czars chose to summer here.

Far from summer now, the day was overcast, late afternoon flakes beginning to fall. The fresh dust of snow only made the expansive estate they touched down on look fresh and new. Untouched.

It was very new, she realized, looking at the bare, young fruit trees and nut groves that embraced the charming house. The two-story structure was built along old-fashioned lines with a wraparound porch, shuttered windows, pretty gables and a romantic turret. It was big enough to host a crowd, yet cozy and inviting. Not threatening and not something she would have expected Aleksy to build or buy.

As the pilot prepared to lift into the forbidding sky, stirring up a cloud of powdered ice, Aleksy reached onto a porch beam. “The agent said—here.” He showed her the key, then opened the door, pressing her inside before the man-made storm hit.

The interior smelled of paint, freshly cut wood and newly laid woolen carpet. All the surfaces gleamed. It was tastefully decorated in masculine colors, spacious and unfussy like its owner, but welcoming.

It struck her as a fresh start. A promising one.

Clair swallowed, reminding herself why she was here and who she was with, but choice and logic had been left back in Moscow where the apartment building had been surrounded by long-lens cameras. She really would rather take her chances with this lone wolf than the pack of coyotes baying at those doors.

And this house felt safe, drawing her in despite her misgivings. The main floor made a circle from front parlor to the dining room, passing a staircase that climbed to an inviting landing. Upstairs, a quaint powder room with a jetted tub overlooked what might be a stream if spring ever did arrive. The bedrooms with their gabled windows begged for cradles and rocking horses and train sets.

Did Aleksy harbor fantasies of a family? she wondered with a clench in her chest.

She silently followed him as he inspected everything, pausing at the threshold to the master bedroom, taking in the huge space and vaulted ceiling from the door.

He noticed her hesitation but covered his reaction with an impassive assessment of the enormous bed, the dark blue coverlet and the walk-in closet. She supposed an equally spacious en suite existed beyond the door on the interior wall.

“What do you think?” he asked.

She thought she was in love but didn’t think it would be judicious to say so. “It’s beautiful. You’ve never seen it? Is it yours?” she added as it occurred to her this could be leased as a bolt-hole.

* * *

“It is.” Aleksy searched for signs of approval in her, not sure why it was important to him. The house was only a thing, and he was past believing the acquisition of things ruled Clair, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted her to like his home.

He’d settle for her liking his things since there was no chance she’d feel anything toward him except repulsion.

Gut-wrenching loss threatened to breach the walls he’d used to brace himself when she had demanded answers at the penthouse. He’d known his past would come between them eventually, whether he revealed it or not. It was the reason they had no future, but he would have preferred they had separated naturally, before she knew any of this. It broke something in him to see her view of him damaged. To see her fear him.

The woman who’d lately been greeting him with shy smiles and the warmth of her touch now held him off with a white face and mistrust in her eyes. He cringed and looked away.

“Did you design it?” she asked, yanking him back to reality.

“To some extent.” Aleksy shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the bed. Fantasies of her white-blond hair and peach-flushed skin against the sea of blue tantalized him, but he ruthlessly shut them down. He’d promised not to touch her.