The Russian's Acquistion

A poignant ache flooded her at the same time. Before she realized what she was doing, she reached out with all the familiarity that had developed between them last night. Cupping his jaw, she lifted herself on tiptoes, aware of him stiffening as she leaned into him. Her lips almost brushed the puckered line before he abruptly set her away, jerking his head back.

“What are you doing?”

His rebuff tore her in two. She winced, regretting the lapse in her reserve, but he had no idea how few people ever showed concern for her—and after whatever he’d been through…

“Thank you for trying to look out for me.” She forced the words out.

He tugged the lapels of his overcoat as if he were fitting armor back into place and closed a few buttons. Glancing at his watch, he took a step toward the door, speaking over his shoulder dismissively, “You’ll stay in, then? Or call Lazlo for an escort?”

Her silence made him pause. He turned another weighty frown in her direction.

Clair curled her toes in her slippers. It would be so easy to let her self-reliance crumble and allow this protective, strong-willed, incredibly attractive man to run her life. What about when they were through, though? She’d be back to taking care of herself. She had to hold on to her independence.

“I’m not your kidnap victim.” She tried to sound wry, but for some reason her lips trembled and her heart skipped a beat. “I’ll go out if I want to.”

“Despite the risk,” he snapped, temper sharpening his voice.

“It’s not that great a risk!” She folded her arms, stopping short of saying he was overreacting. Obviously his experience had taught him differently. Determined to hold her own, she reasoned, “When you want to do something, who do you ask? No one, right? Same here.”

His jaw tightened. He was used to everyone answering to him, that much was clear. The precisely machined, titanium wheels in his head seemed to whir at top speed as he sought a suitable rejoinder.

“I’m not trying to be obstinate,” she said, checking her flawless manicure.

“But you won’t give me your word.”

“It would be a lie.”

With a hiss of impatience, he set down the briefcase, its weight hitting the tiles with a hard thunk. His mobile sounded and he answered with a staccato burst of Russian before tossing the device on the hall table and shedding his overcoat, his stare holding hers with antagonistic force.

Clair swallowed and fell back a step. “What?”

“You won’t stay at home as I’ve asked, so now I have to take action, don’t I?” He began loosening the knot at his throat.

“What does that mean? You’re going to tie me up?” Genuine alarm made her retreat several feet in the face of his deliberate advance.

“It means I have to change and go with you.” He yanked his tie free and draped it over her shoulder as he passed, voice pithy and displeased, but he still made her grin as he said, “Save the tying up for after dark.”

* * *

Clair reminded herself she was not behaving like a spoiled socialite. She was a fully grown adult making her own decisions, and Aleksy could do the same. She wasn’t keeping him from his work. His pacing and brooding would not make her feel guilty.

She refused to set herself up for criticism either, so she took the precaution of checking the weather even though the sky was intensely blue and the sun glanced brilliantly off Moscow’s blanket of snow. The modiste in Paris had tut-tutted about Moscow’s temperatures, taking advantage of Aleksy’s open account to empty her winter fashion collection into Clair’s possession. After noting the windchill warning, Clair pulled on warm socks over the cuffs of her skinny jeans and layered a snug waffle print under a woolen turtleneck.

Her new faux fur boots were adorable as well as functional, their trim matching a smart leather jacket in the same buff tones. She topped it all with a corduroy baker boy hat and a pair of sunglasses worth more than her last pay packet. When she appeared, Aleksy said nothing, only shrugged into a thick ski jacket and laced up sturdy boots.

Clair paused inside the exit doors to check directions with the doorman. His English was excellent, but he stammered as he answered her questions, one eye on where Aleksy waited with detached patience. Clair took care to write down the street names phonetically so she could find her way back—exactly as she would have done if Aleksy weren’t coming with her.