You Don't Own Me (The Russian Don 1)

Inexplicably, months later, I still can’t seem to stop myself from drooling over the Mafia don. He is like an ache … an itch that hasn’t been taken care of. I just don’t know what to do about it.

‘More wine?’ Mark asks.

I am about to shake my head when the obvious occurs to me. Why the hell not? What am I waiting for? For my unhealthy obsession with the Russian to magically disappear? Why not be proactive? Why not get totally wasted and sleep with Mark tonight? It’s only a freaking itch. Let him scratch it. It’s high time I move on, and Mark is actually the kind of guy any mother would kill, oh well, maybe not kill, but she’d maybe walk a few miles barefoot on hot coals, to have as her son-in-law. He is kind, well educated, good-looking (he might even be prettier than me), polite, strong, stable, to all intents and purposes, fairly loaded; and he treats me like a Princess.

‘Sure,’ I say, and watch him top up my glass. He does it, as he does everything, deftly with inborn elegance.

I pick up my glass, hold it out to him, and with a slow, sexy smile, say, ‘To tonight.’

My meaning is not lost on him. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. One month I have kept him hanging on. Poor man can hardly believe that tonight he’s getting lucky.

He puts his hand out and grasps mine. I feel his eyes on my body, admiring, caressing. I look down at our entwined fingers, then back up to his face. We share a look, and I am suddenly struck by the rightness of my decision. Mark’s a good man. I should consider myself very fortunate. I smile again and he smiles back super slowly. His eyes are shining. Oh fuck! He’s in love with me. My smile falters.

His grip on my hand tightens. His expression changes, and steely determination glimmers in his eyes. Apparently there’s a lot more to solicitous Mark than meets the eye.

‘I’m a patient man, Dahlia. I know what I want and I’m prepared to wait forever if I need to, so you just take it at your own pace, all right?’

‘All right.’

I stare at him. Half of me pities him, and the other half admires his quiet resolve. I’d love to be that unshakeable. He focuses his gaze on me and I find my eyes sliding away. I reach out for my glass and hurriedly take a large gulp of wine. It goes down the wrong way and I end up in a coughing fit. Mark leaves his chair and comes over to me. He gets on his haunches by my side. My eyes are watering. Thank god for waterproof mascara.

‘Are you all right,’ he asks gently.

I take the napkin away from my mouth and dab under my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m all right,’ I choke.

‘Good,’ he says softly. ‘Because I’m really looking forward to the rest of the night.’

I smile shakily at him and realize that I don’t even need to get drunk to sleep with him. It’s the right thing to do. He’ll help me forget the Russian prick.

‘You can call for the check if you want to. I’m ready to go,’ I tell him.

He grins. He cannot help the victorious look in his eyes. ‘I love the way you Americans call the bill a check,’ he teases.

‘I love the way you English call the check a bill,’ I tell him.

He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a rich sound and I think, yes, maybe I can grow to love this man. He stands up, goes to his side of the table, settles the bill, and we leave.

It is a lovely autumn evening. The sky is filled with splashes of orange and red as we walk to his dark green BMW. He opens the passenger door for me and I thank him and slide in. Inside the car he switches on the music. G.R.L’s Ugly Heart comes on. It is such a sassy, kick ass song about breaking free from a pretty boy with an ugly heart that I know what my sister would say. Take it as a sign from the universe that you’ve made the right decision. I turn to look at Mark’s profile and smile to myself.

The other thing with ugly heart was purely a moment of madness. This, I lecture myself, is reality. This is what my parents had. This is what makes a successful relationship. Not that uncontrollable fire and lust. This is what is required to bring children into the world and nurture them. This is what a woman can grow old beside. This is the something warm and comfortable that I will be able to slip into on a cold, rainy English night. Yes, that’s the right word. It will be comfortable. In time I’ll forget the other’s face. I’ll forget those silvery-blue eyes that seemed to pierce my very soul.