Afterwards, for an instant, panting and sweaty, he just held her, his eyes closed. Then slowly he released her legs, letting her body slide down his. The passion had been hotter than ever.
But he knew something had changed between them. An unbridgeable gap.
“Get dressed,” he said. “We have dinner reservations.”
“Fine,” she said dully, not meeting his eyes.
He zipped up his pants, and she put on her new clothes, the slim-fitting black pants, sheer black top over a black camisole, and black leather motorcycle jacket he’d bought for her earlier at a department store on Nevsky Prospekt. All afternoon, he’d insisted on buying everything he saw in her size, anything she could possibly want to wear for the rest of her life, for any season and any event.
Compensating, he thought. Though he knew she couldn’t be bought.
Even if he’d bought her.
“Before dinner,” he said brightly, despising the false cheer in his voice, “I wish to buy you something truly special. A fur coat. White mink, perhaps, or Barguzin sable—”
Bree shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“Russian furs are the best in the world.”
Her eyes were cold. “I don’t want a fur.”
He set his jaw. “You’re pouting.”
“No.” She looked away. “I just used to have a dog when I was a kid,” she mumbled. “I loved that dog. We used to explore the forest all summer long. He had a soul. He was my friend.”
She was talking about her dog? Vladimir exhaled. He’d been bracing for her anger, since the only thing she really wanted was the one thing he wouldn’t, couldn’t, give her. Relieved, he lifted his hand and lightly traced the bare skin of her collarbone. “I still don’t understand the connection.”
“I’ll put it in simple terms.” Pulling away from him, she folded her arms. “No fur.”
“As you wish,” he whispered, taking her hand in his own. He felt her shiver. He looked at her. Her expression was completely unreadable. He sighed. “Come.”
Leaving the dressing room, he went out to meet with the salesgirl and finish the details of the order, arranging for the hand-stitched ball gown to be delivered the next day. Vladimir took Bree outside, where his bodyguard awaited them beside his bulletproof limo.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“I’m tired of shopping.”
“You’ll like this.”
Twenty minutes later the limo pulled to a stop. Helping her out himself, Vladimir led her past two security guards into a tiny, high-ceilinged shop in the belle epoque style, with gilded walls and colors like a cloisonné Easter egg. Everything about the jewelry store bespoke elegance, taste and most of all money.
“What are we doing here?” Bree scowled. “I thought we had dinner reservations!”
He gave her a teasing smile. “This won’t take long.”
A short, plump man with wire-rimmed glasses and a short white beard, wearing an old-fashioned pin-striped suit with a vest, came eagerly from behind one of the glass cases. “Welcome, welcome, Your Highness,” he said in Russian.
“Speak in English so she’ll understand.”
“Of course, Prince Vladimir.” Tenting his hands, the jeweler turned to Bree and switched to accented English. “My lady. You are here for a necklace, yes? For the New Year’s Eve ball at the ancient palace of the Romanov tsarina?”
Bree glanced up at Vladimir. “Um. Yes?”
He smiled back at her, feeling a warm glow at the thought of spoiling her. “I wish to buy you a little something to wear with the ball gown.”
“I don’t need it.”