Lap of Luxury (Love Don't Cost a Thing)

“Because it’s just too pathetic. Did he meet her in hotel rooms and get his cock sucked for ten grand a time?

“Actually,” I say icily, “it was all done very tastefully. Private dining rooms at La Fleche D’or. Shopping at Chanel. Vacations abroad in his private jet. He treated Ciara like a gentleman should.”

I look down at my borrowed clothing and the yacht around me. I’m sitting on a god-knows-how-many million-pound superyacht, but there’s been nothing gentlemanly about the way Damir has treated me. Ciara may have been lied to at first, but at least she wasn’t kidnapped. I bet she was eager to go with Mr. Ravnikar when she saw how much he loved her. They must be so happy together right now.

“How touching,” Damir says dryly.

“Mr. Ravnikar worked hard to win Ciara over. He has class and sensitivity, two things you clearly lack, and he’d never, ever hurt her. He’s going to protect the woman he loves with everything he’s got.”

Damir shouts with laughter again. “Is that what you think you want? A big soppy teddy like my brother to paw at you and buy you handbags? Please. I can give you something much, much better.”

“Like what?”

He grins wider.

I shift in my chair, feeling the pinch of my shredded virginity. Whatever he has planned for me next it will probably be something horrible. And I’ll come like a runaway train.

“Mr. Ravnikar isn’t a soppy teddy. He has manners and a sense of honor.”

“Stop calling him Mr. Ravnikar. He’s not your boss anymore.”

“What should I call him, then? Misha?”

Damir’s eyes turn black and cold. “No.”

I take a pert sip of my juice. That wiped the smile off his face. “I’ve heard you call him Misha.”

“Only to remind him of something that happened long ago.”

“Which was?”

Damir pours us both more coffee, adds cream and sugar to mine, and then sits back, steaming cup in his hand. Instead of answering my question, he says, “I’m curious to know some things.”

Yeah. So am I. Such as, What the hell are we going to do now, you crazy bastard? “Oh?” I say, letting him go first. It’s only polite. He’s the kidnapper, after all.

Damir frowns, looking genuinely perplexed. “Why did he want to help Ciara in the first place? My brother was never moved by gold-diggers before.”

“Ciara wasn’t a gold-digger, and Mr. Ravnikar—Mikhail—wanted to help her before he even met her. That footage of her at the funeral seemed to get to him. I walked in and saw him watching it and he got all funny.”

“What do you mean “funny”?”

“I don’t know. All brooding and touchy. He saw you looming over Ciara and it made him grumpy or something. Grumpier than usual.”

Damir’s jaw bunches in anger. “Did he, now?” he says softly.

“I suggested the sugar daddy thing and to my surprise, he went for it.”

“And then that little grasping bitch wound him around her little finger.”

“No. I told you, she’s not like that. She made Mikhail work for it, even as terrified and desperate as she was.” Terrified because of you. “She pushed him away again and again because she was too proud to take money from someone she didn’t know.”

Damir makes an impatient gesture. He’s determined to think the worst of Ciara. In his strange way, I think Damir actually loved Mikhail, and Mikhail may have loved him, too. It’s a shame it all fell apart, because I doubt there’s another soul in the world who could ever love Damir Ravnikar.

There’s a storm raging behind Damir’s blue-gray eyes and he glares at the horizon.

“I don’t know why he wanted to help her,” I say slowly, “but you do, don’t you?”

Damir starts breathing faster, his chest lifting with short, angry breaths. “Yes. I know why. Our father used to hit our mother, and Misha loved his mama.” He sneers this like loving his mother was a terrible personality fault. “She’s the one who called him Misha. When he saw me having a little talk with Ciara, those old memories must have come back. Everyone’s always said I look just like our father.”