Too Proud to be Bought

‘How very perceptive of you.’ But Nikolai felt his mouth tighten with an odd kind of disappointment. So it had not been an instant eyes-across-a-room thing after all. She had heard of him—he would have staked his fortune on that. He had seen the signs of suppressed recognition too many times in the past and he had seen it flare in her eyes. But he didn’t know why he should be either surprised or disappointed—because women always played these games, didn’t they? They lied. They indulged in subterfuge. They would open their pretty eyes very wide and insist that black was white—and sometimes he suspected they even ended up believing it themselves. ‘You know many Russians, perhaps?’

‘No. None at all.’

‘Until now, of course.’

‘Until now,’ she agreed, with a slightly nervous smile. Would he be appalled if he knew who she was—an imposter who had no right to be here? She searched for clues in his face. Good guy or bad guy? Or just a wickedly hot guy who was used to getting whatever he wanted from a woman?

‘And you are?’ he prompted.

His icy eyes were cutting through her defences as he waited for her to respond and for a moment Zara was half tempted to give him a false name. A bogus identity to go with her one-off appearance—until she told herself how stupid that was. She would never see him again after tonight. A name like hers meant nothing to a man like this.

‘I’m…Zara,’ she said falteringly. ‘Zara Evans.’

‘A beautiful name,’ he mused softly, observing that cute tremble of her lips. ‘To go with a very beautiful woman.’

The throwaway compliment made her skin glow—it seemed like for ever since someone had paid her one, and nobody had ever called her beautiful before. But Zara told herself that she mustn’t fall for his charm. He probably came out with statements like that every minute of every day—slick, perfectly timed statements, which were guaranteed to have women falling under his spell. She opened her mouth to say something smart and instead it came out as a breathless little ‘th-thank you’ and she could have kicked herself.

‘Can I get you a drink, Zara?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thanks—I’ve already had one.’

‘Oh, I think you’re allowed more than one.’ He stared straight into her eyes. ‘Though no more than two.’ He smiled slightly to show he was teasing her.

He was making it sound as if the two of them were involved in some kind of conspiracy and the thought of that made Zara draw herself up short. What the hell did she think she was doing? This wasn’t why she was supposed to be here—and if she had lost her nerve about foisting one of Emma’s cards on him, then she ought to make herself scarce.

Because this man was dangerous—hadn’t he told her so himself? ‘Actually, I’d better go.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ Her words tailed away as she tried to think of a good reason why she might wish to leave a party when she had only just arrived.

‘You don’t really have a reason, do you?’ he questioned as he saw her bite her lip in a moment of indecision, which was oddly appealing. ‘Not when there is music playing and I’m being plagued by an urgent desire to dance with you, which simply won’t go away. So come here.’

To Zara’s horror, he reached out and laced her fingers with his and began to lead her through the throngs of people. Well, maybe horror wasn’t the right word, she conceded as people began to part to let them through. Excitement might have been more accurate. She could feel hot colour flaring at her cheeks as she became aware of heads turning to watch them and the pulse at her wrist began to hammer wildly beneath his fingertips. But it wasn’t until he had halted by the small space of floor directly in front of the musicians that she tipped her head up to gaze at him.

‘We can’t dance!’ she whispered.

‘Why not?’

‘Because—’

‘Stop saying “because”. Come and dance with me instead.’ His icy eyes glittered out a cool challenge. ‘You know you want to.’

And the awful thing was that he was right. She did. There was a melting, yearning pool in the pit of her stomach, which was longing for him to pull her into his arms—and when he did she gave an instinctive intake of breath, which caused his fingers to tighten around her waist.

‘You see?’ he murmured. ‘It’s what you wanted all along.’

Zara felt dizzy. What could she do? His hands had moved down and were now lying on her hips, the fingers splayed against the silk of her dress with a lazy and proprietary ease so that for a moment it felt as if he were touching the bare flesh beneath.

‘Relax,’ he instructed softly.

‘How can I relax when everybody is looking at us? ‘

‘You should just ignore them—or get used to it. The men are looking at us because they envy me, and the women because they wish they were standing where you were standing, milaya moya.’

It was an arrogant assessment, though Zara doubted that the first part was true. Why would the men envy Nikolai? Especially when there were loads of women in the room who were more attractive than her—rich, titled women who would probably be dancing confidently instead of worrying that they were going to spear his foot with one of their lethal heels.

Yet the soft music was very seductive and more seductive still was the way in which he pulled her towards him—almost before she realised he’d done it. She could feel the jut of his hips against hers and suddenly she became aware of the formidable heat of his hard body pressing into hers and could sense the desire which radiated from his powerful frame. Zara swallowed.

‘Relax. You seem rather uptight,’ he commented as an irresistible tug of desire shot through him.

She felt the almost careless caress of his thumb at her waist. What could she say—that the last time she’d had a slow dance with a man had been at some awful, noisy club, and it had felt nothing like this?

‘I’m not used to dancing,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

Her face inches away from his shoulder, Zara wondered how best to answer him. Even if she hadn’t been tied to the sickroom for the past however many months, she still couldn’t have imagined herself whirling around a formal ballroom like this. It seemed rather old-fashioned.

She risked a glance up at his hard-boned face. How old was he? Difficult to say, but certainly a lot older than her. He had experience written on every sculpted angle and there were faint lines of cynicism etching the sides of his mouth. Yet there was nothing old-fashioned about the way he was holding her, or the way it was making her pulse rocket. It felt elemental. As if dancing were something far too intimate to be doing in front of a crowd of people…‘Because—’

‘There you go. That wretched word again.’ He pulled her closer and felt her soft flesh yielding to his as he bent his head to her long neck and, closing his eyes, he inhaled her subtle scent. Was it roses he could smell? ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that repetition is boring?’

‘You asked me a question and I was answering it,’ she protested.

‘I know I did. But suddenly I’m much more interested in the language of your body.’

‘That’s outrageous!’

He bent his lips to her ear. ‘I know it is. But you’re making me feel outrageous. Don’t you feel a little outrageous, too, Zara?’

‘No.’

‘Yes, you do,’ he demurred softly. ‘Go on. Be brave. Admit it.’

End the dance, she told herself fiercely as she began to feel even more out of her depth. End it now. Walk out of the ballroom and don’t stop until you’ve reached the street. If you do it firmly then he’s not likely to risk a scene by trying to stop you.

But it was difficult to do anything other than to let the sweet strains of the string instruments lull her and the power of his touch wash over her senses. Zara could feel the slide of silk over her skin as she moved in time to the music, and she could feel the barely touching sensation of his fingers pressing against her flesh. A shiver of longing rippled over her flesh, a sensation so unexpected and unwanted that she felt the sudden thunder of her heart. Did he feel it, too? Was that why he positioned himself so that they were fractionally closer and her body seemed to be silently screaming that it wanted to be closer still? She had to stop all this—she had to, before she made a complete and utter fool of herself.

She pulled away from him with the reluctance of someone who was being forced to leave a warm fire to face a freezing blizzard outside. ‘I really must go,’ she said.

He nodded, knowing that if he stayed on the dance-floor with this rapidly escalating sense of arousal, then soon any kind of movement might prove impossible. And yet her abrupt ending of the dance made him reluctant to let the evening end—and he wasn’t quite sure why. Because he was the one who usually called all the shots, who made the decision when to leave and when to stay?

‘Okay. I’ll take you home.’ He saw her lips open and he shook his head. ‘And before you go through the motions of protesting, you must realise that I’m not going to allow you to go home on your own.’ Especially not looking like that, he thought. Not with the tight buds of her nipples outlined with such erotic clarity against the gleam of the emerald silk. ‘Unless you have your own car waiting outside?’ he questioned unevenly.

Could she swing it? Zara wondered. Convince him that one of those purring black limos which were clogging the streets around the embassy actually belonged to her? And then what? She could imagine him insisting on seeing her to the car and then the shame of having to admit that she was nothing but a fraud. She shook her head. ‘No, I came by taxi. Um, where do you live?’ she hedged.

‘I have a house on the other side of the park.’

In a moment of real indecision, she looked at him until she realised that she was about to throw away a heavensent opportunity. Why not take up his offer? Mightn’t she get the chance to hand over Emma’s business card before she said goodnight? He had already admired the way she looked, so maybe she could turn round and tell him it was all her friend’s handiwork. ‘Okay, then…thank you—I will. But as I live a little…farther out—the car can drop you off first, and then take me on to my place afterwards.’

Nikolai ran a thoughtful finger over his lips. He thought that sounded like a very abrupt conclusion to an evening he had no desire to see end. At least, not yet. With a sudden ache, he acknowledged the sharpening to his senses which this fresh-faced minx seemed to have provoked. He’d been working so hard lately. Tu

‘Let’s go,’ he murmured.

CHAPTER TWO

A BLACK limousine was waiting as they emerged from the ambassador’s residence into the fragrant warmth of the evening and Zara felt as if she were stepping into a different world. Smoothly, the chauffeur opened the door for her and she sank onto the back seat and started looking around with a sense of wonder. What a car! The interior looked and smelt of pure luxury, all subtle and intoxicating and soft cream leather. And when Nikolai slid his long-legged frame in beside her and turned his head to look at her she could feel the sudden thunder of her heart. In the dim, enclosed space his proximity seemed even more potent than it had done on the dance-floor and Zara found herself wondering about the wisdom of travelling home with such a devastatingly sexy stranger.

‘You know, it’s still very early,’ he observed slowly, watching the tiny pulse which flickered so frantically at her temple.

Zara found that there was nowhere to look other than at the compelling gleam in his eyes. ‘So it is,’ she observed lightly.

He liked the way that her hair was a woven mass of caramel and sunshine and he wanted to remove all the clips and see it tumble down around her shoulders. He could see the outline of her legs through the silk of her dress—slender, lean legs—and he felt another sharp ache of desire. ‘And we’re very close to my house,’ he said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. ‘You could always come in for a quick drink, if you wanted.’

Zara’s thoughts were scrambled by the frantically conflicting messages firing between body and brain. A strange man inviting you into his house for a nightcap was a definite no-no. And yet this was not any man—this just happened to be the most devastatingly attractive man she’d ever met. Wasn’t Cinderella allowed a little glimpse of the prince’s palace before her clothes returned to rags?

‘I could.’

‘But you’re not sure?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you want to.’

Zara gave an uncertain laugh. ‘It isn’t always wise just to do what you want.’

‘No? I’ve always thought exactly the opposite. That life is much too short to be dictated to by social etiquette.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What if I give you my word that we’ll have one quick drink and then my car will take you wherever you want to go? How does that sound?’

It sounded like mad-ness—complete and utter mad-ness—and yet it also sounded like the most tantalising offer she had received in a long time. Zara’s world had been coloured bleak and sombre by recent events—could anyone really blame her if she wanted to peek at a more vibrant version of how life could be lived? One where shiny limousines picked you up from fancy parties and silent drivers sat and took you wherever you wanted to go.

But something stopped her and maybe it was the realisation that this was outside her realm of experience on so many levels. Instinct told her she was dealing with a seasoned and experienced man. He was like a lion, she thought suddenly, her eyes straying to his thick mane of hair—deep and lustrous as beaten-gold. And a woman should not go into a lion’s lair unless she was expecting to be eaten …

She shook her head. ‘It’s very sweet of you,’ she said, and drew a breath with the same kind of determination which had seen her successfully battle with the doctors to keep her godmother at home during the final days of her life. ‘But I don’t think it’s such a good idea.’

He could see that she meant it and for a moment Nikolai was surprised. Usually, he had to fight women off and had taken her acceptance as a given—especially when invitations to his home were precious and few. Yet her refusal intrigued as well as surprised him.

‘Are you sure?’ he questioned.

‘Quite sure,’ she said, with more conviction than she felt.

‘Well, in that case …’

There was a heartbeat of a pause as he leaned across the space and stared down into her widening eyes and soft lips. ‘I’ll just have to kiss you goodnight right here—won’t I, milaya moya?’

Her fingers gripped the soft leather seat. ‘And do you always kiss women you hardly know goodnight?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Not always, net. But you have been tantalising me all night—ever since you started ru

If only he knew why she had been ru

‘Shut up,’ he said, almost gently as he bent his mouth to hers.

Afterwards, she blamed the champagne—and his experience—because she did nothing to stop him. But it was more than cold wine on an empty stomach. It was hunger and it was curiosity. It had been a long time since Zara had been kissed. And no man had ever kissed her the way Nikolai Komarov proceeded to do in the back seat of his chauffeur-driven limousine.

All it took was one careless graze of his mouth and she began to tremble in response, causing him to make a small sound of assertion underneath his breath as he pulled her closer. And perhaps it was the comfort of being held like that which made Zara want to melt against him. The warm human contact which made her feel normal again, instead of the person who had become invisible and isolated from the rest of the world by sickness. How long since she had been cuddled—or felt any kind of security? With a hungry little cry, she lifted her fingers and tangled them in the thick, beaten gold of his hair and lost herself in the sweetness of his kiss.

Nikolai gave an unsteady laugh as his hand slid across her back, the rawness of her response startling him a little. He had expected sophistication—an erotic routine which she had gone through many times before. And yet the helpless trembling of her body did not go with her smooth, sleek image. Not at all. And wasn’t there more than a little tenderness about the way she held him? He swallowed as he drew his mouth away and smoothed a fallen strand of hair away from her cheek—because tenderness wasn’t something he encountered very often and it was curiously persuasive.

‘You have great passion, I think,’ he murmured.

‘Do I?’ she breathed.

‘Da. Beautiful passion.’

His mouth sought hers once more and it was then that the kiss began to change. Zara gasped as his lips suddenly became more seeking and she found her own opening beneath them. She could sense the tension in his body as his hands splayed over her back, where her flimsy evening dress was cut away to reveal a large keyhole in the material. She could feel his fingers kneading against her bare skin as time slowed and she felt as if she had entered an intimate little world. One where Nikolai’s tongue inside the warm cavern of her mouth made her feel as if she were being dragged down into some dark and erotic vortex.

‘Nikolai—’

‘What?’ he growled.

‘This is—’

‘Amazing,’ he purred, briefly lifting his head so that his eyes glittered out their unashamed desire, before tracing his finger over the fleshy trembling of her bottom lip. ‘Da. Da. I know it is.’

She had been about to say that it was wrong—and yet her body was telling her otherwise. Could something be wrong when it felt so right? she pondered distractedly. When his fingers were now tiptoeing down her neck towards her breasts, before skating with practised ease to alight on the aching swell of one silk-covered nipple.

Zara swallowed down the dryness in her throat. ‘This is cr-crazy,’ she gasped as his mouth bent to one aching breast.

Nikolai flicked his tongue over the thin silk, which was the only barrier between him and her bare nipple, as he heard her whispered little gasp. Did it make her feel better if she let herself protest about what they were doing, he wondered cynically, even though she clearly wanted him just as much as he wanted her?

But women were contrary creatures—he knew that. Often they liked to disguise their own earthy desire for fear that a man was judging them for being too ‘easy'. Should he reassure her now that he didn’t give a curse about convention and that she could be as ‘easy’ as she liked.

He drifted his hand down over one slender hip, his mouth briefly leaving the now-moist material of her gown and noting that he had left a darkened ring over her breast. ‘You do realise that you have the most fantastic body?’ he questioned. ‘And that your dress shows it off quite beautifully.’

She shook her head, only dimly aware that she was blowing the opportunity to talk about the dress. ‘St-stop it,’ she whispered.

‘Stop complimenting you? I thought all women liked to be complimented.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she breathed. ‘I meant, that you shouldn’t be doing…that.’

‘But you like me doing that.’ He felt her little squirm of acquiescence. ‘And you don’t want me to stop it, do you?’

‘I…do.’

‘No, you don’t. You want me to move my hand down to your ankle, don’t you? Like this.’

‘Nikolai!’ Zara swallowed as his index finger made a provocative little circling movement there.

‘And then I think you want me slowly to slide it up underneath your dress. Like this, da?’

‘Nikolai,’ she breathed as she felt the brush of his hand resting on the curve of her calf.

‘Why, you’re not even wearing any stockings,’ he observed unevenly. ‘Just bare legs. What a very wicked young lady you are. No wonder that dress was clinging so provocatively to you as you walked into the ballroom.’

‘Oh!’ She could feel the sudden spring of her body in response to his feather-light touch—as if it had been woken from a deep, deep sleep and all her senses had suddenly come to urgent life.

‘Listen, we’re really very close to my house,’ he said unevenly as the car slid to a halt at some traffic lights. He was so aroused by their encounter that he could barely get the words out and only supreme self-control stopped him from continuing what they were doing. But he really couldn’t make love to her in the middle of a busy London street, could he? Not with his chauffeur sitting behind the darkened screen and the possibility of some damned traffic warden rapping on the window. ‘Why don’t you change your mind and come up for a drink?’

Zara stilled. Perhaps it was the blatant falsehood about having a drink when they both knew what was really on his mind—and on hers—which made common sense crash into her mind like a dark spectre. That and the fact that she was making out in the back of a car with a man she barely knew—and she was risking ruining her friend’s precious dress along with her own reputation!

Her heart thudding, she pushed his hand away and slithered to the far end of the seat, her trembling fingers groping for her feathered handbag, which lay beside her like a wounded bird. ‘No!’

His eyes narrowed but he felt the unmistakeable flicker of irritation. ‘Isn’t it a little late in the day for game-playing?’

‘I’m not playing …’ But the words died on her lips because she was. She was playing games. Dangerous games.

Pretending to be something she wasn’t. Masquerading as his wealthy equal. Maybe that kind of women did make easy love to men they’d just met at a party—but she wasn’t one of them. She amended her choice of words to allow her to extricate herself with a modicum of dignity. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s very late—and I’m tired.’

Nikolai felt the sharp spear of disappointment. Saw from the look on her face that she meant it—and he bit back his frustration. Of course she was playing games, probably in the mistaken belief that her refusal would make him think more highly of her. His mouth hardened. Did he have the time or the inclination to go through the necessary number of dates which she decreed obligatory before she let him take her to bed? Was she, he asked himself brutally, worth it?

His eyes drank in the wide green eyes, the flushed cheeks and the kiss-bruised lips and he felt a pulse begin to flicker at his temple. Yes, she was worth it—for novelty value as well as her curiously fresh-faced appeal. Because when was the last time a woman had actually turned him down?

‘Well, I think that’s a pity,’ he said softly, reaching for his jacket pocket. But before Nikolai could extract one of the business cards he kept there he saw that she was pushing open the car door and swinging her shapely legs out and his brows knitted together in disbelief.

‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

‘Home.’

‘I told you that my driver would take you wherever you wanted to go.’

Zara shook her head. ‘And I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want a lift, thank you.’

‘You don’t?’ His eyes narrowed incredulously. ‘Why not?’

Zara shook her head as she tried to calm her frantic thoughts. Before she had been ashamed and worried that he might judge her humble little home if he saw it, but now it was much more than that. There was still shame, yes—but the overriding sense of shame was directed at her own appalling behaviour. She had behaved wantonly with a man she barely knew, displaying a fierce sexual hunger which was slightly terrifying. And Nikolai Komarov was the man who had made her feel that way. She didn’t want another thing from him—and she certainly didn’t want his driver reporting back where she lived.

Why not? questioned a rogue voice inside her head. Are you afraid that if he turned up unexpectedly on your doorstep, you might not be able to turn him away?

‘I think we both know why,’ she said quietly. ‘We hardly know one another and we’ve just behaved in a way which was very…inappropriate.’ She gazed into the ice-blue eyes and steeled herself against their sensual impact. ‘And in view of that I think it’s probably better if I make my own way home. It was nice to have met you…Nikolai.’

Stepping onto the pavement and taking a moment to steady herself on her high heels, Zara tugged down the silk-satin of her crumpled dress and turned to dart through a gate which led straight into the park, determined that this time he should not follow her.

For a moment Nikolai didn’t move, frustration warring with admiration at her unexpected display of independence and feistiness and, yes, downright prudishness. She had walked away without taking his details and she had left him wanting more. She had walked away. He felt the drumming acceleration of his heart and the hot rush of blood to his groin. Now his hunter instincts were screaming to be satisfied and he slid his cell-phone from the pocket of his jacket and dialled up one of his aides.

Speaking rapidly in Russian, he clipped out the facts.

‘Her name is Zara Evans,’ he said, tasting her name as if her lips were still open beneath his, fingers of his free hand tapping impatiently against one hard, tense thigh. ‘No, no—I don’t know where she lives. In fact, I don’t know a damned thing about her.’ Except that he wanted her with a hunger he hadn’t felt in a long time. A speculative smile curved the edges of his mouth as he stared up at the leather ceiling of the car. ‘Just find her.’

CHAPTER THREE

ZARA picked up the tray of canapés and pi

The other waitresses were chatting as they made their way past priceless paintings which lined the corridor leading towards the gardens at the back of the house. But Zara wasn’t in the mood for chatting, even though cocktail parties in private houses were usually her favourite kind of job. They were short enough not to allow boredom to creep in, they paid well—and were often held in the most luscious of locations. Like tonight. This was such a huge and beautiful setting that it was hard to believe that she was in the centre of London. But then, only the super-rich could afford to live in somewhere like Kensington Palace Gardens—a place which had been tagged by the envious as ‘Billionaires’ Row'. Only the favoured few waitresses had been chosen for such a plum job and the bonus payment should have given Zara cause to smile, but smiling wasn’t coming very easily at the moment.

For days now, she’d been listless and distracted, her mind going round and round in circles. Preoccupied with the man who’d been haunting her dreams and waking hours ever since he’d taken her in his arms and made her body thrill to his experienced touch.

Nikolai Komarov. The icy-eyed Russian who had kissed her so passionately in the back of his luxury car after the embassy party last week. The man she had been trying desperately hard not to think about, but—no matter how much she tried to push the thoughts away—just the memory of the way he’d touched her made her heart hammer and her body ache.

Angrily, she straightened her shoulders. At least she should be grateful that there had been no repercussions after the event. Her friend’s mum, her boss, hadn’t found out that she’d gatecrashed the party—so at least her job was secure. She hadn’t even told Emma about what had happened, she’d simply returned the dry-cleaned dress to her friend a couple of days later and told her that she’d been unable to get a card to the influential Russian billionaire. And that much was true. If she’d thrust a card at him after letting him kiss her like that, wouldn’t it have looked like some primitive form of barter?

But the whole experience had left Zara feeling vulnerable—wondering how she could have behaved like that. Images of the intimate way he’d touched her kept coming back to haunt her with provocative clarity. She remembered the way his lips had sucked on her silk-covered breast. The way his fingers had drifted almost negligently over her bare leg. It had made her feel positively…wanton.

And added to her feelings of remorse was the financial insecurity which was still looming large and ugly on the horizon. The bills which had accumulated during her godmother’s illness still had to be paid. How on earth was she going to be able to honour them when waitressing paid so poorly and she was ill-equipped to be employed in any other capacity? Maybe she was going to have to sell the house after all, losing her toehold on the precious property market and at a time when prices were at an all-time low. Still, there was absolutely nothing she could do about it—at least, not tonight. She was here to do a job and so she had better just get out there and do it.

Resolutely putting her troubles to one side, she stepped out through tall French windows to the gardens, where she could see trees, bright flowerbeds, lawns and fountains. It looked more like an elegant public space than a private garden, she thought. Groups of people stood around in the warm summer evening—the women wearing pretty dresses and the men tieless and relatively casual. Waiters had already been circulating with chilled bottles of vintage champagne, and at the far end of the garden sat a woman with a fall of dark hair, who was playing gently on a harp.

‘Crayfish wrapped in toasted-sesame rice and topped with golden caviar?’ recited Zara as, with a smile, she offered her tray to group of bony-looking women in strappy little dresses—but they all shook their heads regretfully. Only the men accepted, devouring the costly treats in a careless mouthful, oblivious to the calorie-count they contained.

She moved from group to group, her smile not fading until she glanced to the end of the sunlit garden and saw a man standing there. She blinked and then blinked again, as if unable to believe what she was seeing. Because, standing perfectly still with his eyes trained on her, just as they had been when she’d first seen him, was Nikolai Komarov. Incredulity making her heart race, she registered the devastating combination of icy blue eyes, hair of beaten gold—and a body which was all honed muscular perfection.

Zara felt her feet stumble to a halt as she shook her head, thinking that she had simply imagined him, like someone who was parched from thirst imagining the gleam of water in the distance. Or perhaps the bright sunlight had blinded her to reality, making her think that because a man was tall and statuesque and stood as still as a waxwork it might be Nikolai Komarov.

But there could be no mistake. No other man looked like him. And no other man radiated that particular quality of power and domination …

She swallowed down the sudden lump in her throat as he began to walk across the grass towards her and she looked around her frantically, as if searching for some means of escape. But what could she do? Put her tray down on the lawn and run? And where could she run to in this enclosed garden, especially when at the very far end there were a couple of burly-looking security men, who didn’t look as if they’d let anyone go anywhere without their boss’s say-so?

She could see his face more closely now and his eyes looked so pale and cold that her heart began to hammer as he approached—and she could do absolutely nothing about the guilty prickle of her skin as her body acknowledged his devastating presence.

There was a pause before he spoke. A lifetime of a pause while he studied her with a look which managed to be both dispassionate and intense.

‘Hello, Zara,’ he said, in a voice edged with sensual danger.

For a moment she didn’t reply, as if she still might wake up and find she had been dreaming. But he stood as solid as granite before her, as real as any man had a right to be, and she felt the rush of colour to her cheeks. ‘Nikolai,’ she breathed.

‘The very same,’ he agreed, clipping the words out as if they were bullets, his groin hardening as she said his name in that breathless way. And all he could think of was that she was nothing but a fraud, a liar and a cheat—just like the rest of her sex. It was ironic how predictable women could be. At first he’d thought that he’d just been scarred by a bad experience. That the template set down for him by his lying and cheating mother—who had walked away and left him without a backward glance—was somehow unique. But he had been wrong. After her desertion—the precious bond between mother and son forgotten in her pursuit of wealth—he had discovered a whole world of ambitious and deceitful women out there. His mouth twisted. When would he ever learn that they were all the same?

He fixed her with a cool look. ‘Surprised?’ he questioned sarcastically.

Her throat was still as dry as sandpaper. ‘Of course I’m surprised,’ she croaked…‘Why…why are you here? I don’t…I don’t understand. What’s going on?’

Nikolai’s eyes narrowed. He had been waiting for her, yes, but the reality of seeing her again still took some getting used to—especially when she looked so dramatically different. Tonight those pert breasts were not showcased by the slippery green satin which had drawn his mouth to them like a magnet—and nor was she towering and tall in a pair of sexy high heels. Instead, she was wearing a plain black skirt, white blouse and apron—an outfit which should have done her no favours at all. And yet somehow the functional uniform did little to disguise the lush curves of her body, drawing attention to every sinuous line of it. Or maybe that was because he had a good idea what lay beneath.

‘Don’t you?’ He felt the breath thicken in his throat. ‘No ideas at all? ‘

She shook her head, her confusion made worse by the explicit memory of his kisses. ‘None.’

‘Think about it.’

From jumbled fragments, the facts began to form some kind of picture in her mind. The only solution which made any kind of sense and yet one which filled her with foreboding as she thought about the possible repercussions. ‘Is this…is this your house?’

‘Bravo!’ His lips curved into a mocking line. ‘It’s one of them. Do you like it?’

What could she say? Start protesting that her views on his property portfolio were irrelevant? Or just take the question at face-value and hope that her presence here was some kind of ghastly coincidence? ‘It’s a very beautiful house,’ she said carefully.

‘I know it is.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘I saw your reaction when you arrived.’

‘You did?’

‘Sure I did, angel moy. I was standing at my window when your minibus bumped its way up the drive. And I observed the look on your face as you jumped out.’ It was a look he knew well. That wide-eyed look of awe and wistfulness. The look of someone dazzled by his vast wealth; who coveted it for themselves. Some called it greed, others called it envy—all Nikolai knew was that money changed everything. It made people do extraordinary things. Debase themselves. Sell out. Betray even the strongest of bonds and shatter them beyond recognition. It took the very best of human qualities and it twisted them inside out until they were black and unrecognisable. Didn’t he know that—better than anyone?

Zara saw something dark and haunted pass over his shuttered features and a little shiver of dread began to whisper its way down her spine. ‘Why am I here?’ she whispered.

‘Oh, come on—there’s no need to make it sound like I’m preparing you for a human sacrifice.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s simple. You’re working for me. I specifically requested you. It’s my party. Didn’t anybody tell you?’

She shook her head. ‘We aren’t always told clients’ names in advance—we weren’t tonight.’

‘Well, my cover is blown, angel moy—and now you do. I’m your client and you’re working for me. You’ll be serving food. Handing out drinks. Making sure my guests have everything they need. That I have everything I need. You know the drill—you’re a waitress, aren’t you? That’s what you do. At least, that’s what you do some of the time. I have to say that I’m a little puzzled about your real identity, or indeed about your motives—but now is not the time to discuss it. We’ll have plenty of time for that later.’

His eyes glittered as they took in her trembling lips and he found that he wanted to crush them beneath his own in an angry kiss. And then? He pushed desire to the back of his mind. Desire could wait. His thick dark lashes lowered fractionally to reveal narrow shards of blue ice. ‘I’m looking forward to getting to know you better, Zara.’

And with that final silky whisper, which sounded more like a threat, he walked away to a group who were standing beneath a flowering tree—leaving Zara staring after him in disbelief. Why had he ‘specifically requested’ her, as he had put it—somehow managing to make her sound like some sort of commodity he’d purchased? In fact, why had he brought her here at all?

She realised that her tray needed replenishing, just as she realised that there was no means of escape—short of causing some kind of scene, which would heap dishonour not just on her, but on all the other staff. Nothing to do other than to carry on as she normally would and hope that he might give her some kind of reasonable explanation later. Yet even as she thought it she felt an overwhelming sense of unease, because Nikolai Komarov did not look like a man who did reasonable.

Trying to banish his image from her mind, she moved from guest to guest, wondering how she could endure a whole evening of having to stare into his impossibly handsome and mocking face. But as she continued to circulate she noticed that he barely glanced at her—and, ironically, Zara found this even worse.

Only once did she look up to meet his cold and imperious gaze and it felt like a lash of freezing rainwater flicked over her. She found herself swallowing down a growing sense of foreboding. Was he angry that she had pretended to be something she wasn’t—that the woman he had kissed so passionately in his car was nothing more than a common little waitress? And yet, if she stopped to think about it, could she blame him? Just one glance at the women here who were hanging onto his every word showed that he usually mixed with supermodels and glossy heiresses. How shocked he must have been to have discovered who she really was!

By nine, most of the guests had left and Zara helped carry the last of the dirty dishes down to the kitchen.

The catering tonight had been especially lavish and the clearing up seemed to take much longer than usual—and yet she willed for it never to end. Surely Nikolai Komarov had something better to do than to hang around waiting for her to finish work? She went outside for one last check that everything was tidy to find the garden deserted and she gave a sigh of relief.

She had just retrieved a champagne glass from one of the flowerbeds and was heading back into the house when she saw Nikolai walking out onto the terrace and Zara’s footsteps faltered to a halt. Had he seen her? He had removed his jacket to reveal a soft shirt of snowy silk and the top two buttons of the shirt were unbuttoned, revealing an enticing V of bare flesh—but the casual look made him no less formidable.

She felt her mouth drying as she stared up at the sensual curve of his lips and the icy gleam of his eyes. Yes, he had seen her.

‘So who exactly are you?’ he questioned as his footsteps brought him to a halt in front of her.

‘You know who I am. I told you. Zara Evans.’

‘Net.’ Impatiently, he shook his head and gave an imperious wave of his hand, as if he were swatting away some imaginary fly. ‘Your name may or may not have changed—but you certainly have done.’ His gaze flicked to the sturdy black shoes she wore with her uniform. ‘You’ll agree that you represent a rather dramatic fall from grace—from riches to rags within days?’

‘No. There are no riches. The rags are the real me.’ She bit her lip—as if suddenly becoming aware of the huge disparity between their two lives and the risk she had taken in pretending that she was his equal. How stupid could she have been? ‘I’m really a waitress.’

‘As I was to discover for myself.’

‘How? How did you find out?’

Cynically, Nikolai’s mouth hardened. Didn’t she realise that there wasn’t any information in the world which was off-limits if you had the money to pay someone to play detective? Tracking down a waitress had been child’s play.

‘That part was easy—you can find anyone you want if you have the means,’ he drawled. ‘But what I really want to know is why you were masquerading as a guest at the ambassador’s party. Why you played that erotic hide-and-seek which had me following you like a puppy-dog.’ And he had fallen right into it, hadn’t he? Lids half hooding his eyes, he watched closely for her reaction. Was she a celebrity stalker? he wondered. One of those women who fixed a wealthy man in their sights and pursued him? What did she want from him? ‘Were you deliberately targeting me?’

Zara’s heart gave a guilty lurch. Would it sound stupid if she told him that, yes, she had been looking out for him, but that the motive had been nothing but an i

‘Please don’t be disingenuous,’ he warned, and as he saw the rise in colour to her cheeks he knew she was hiding something. ‘Powerful men are subjected to all kinds of come-ons from women—some cleverer than others. Usually I can see through them, but your approach was novel.’ And sexy, he conceded. She had made him chase her. For once, he’d felt the thrill of the hunt, the blood pumping hotly through his veins as he’d followed the silken curves of her bottom.

His reaction had taken him aback. It had been a primitive, subliminal response and it had been inordinately compelling. Why, hadn’t the thought of finding her again filled him with a heady kind of anticipation—until he had discovered her true identity and suspected that he might be the victim of some kind of crude scam? ‘I want the truth,’ he snapped. ‘Or is that too big an ask?’

Zara saw the glitter of danger which was hardening his eyes and realised that she was doing herself no favours by being evasive.

‘Okay. I had no right to be at the party—at least, not as a guest,’ she admitted. ‘I gatecrashed it—though I knew most of the waitresses, obviously, since I work with them most of the time. I was modelling the dress for a friend of mine, Emma. Her mother owns the catering agency I work for. That’s how she knew who was going to be on the guest-list.’

His expression didn’t alter. ‘Go on.’

‘Emma’s a fashion student—and she’s very ambitious.’

He frowned. ‘A fashion student?’

‘That’s right. She’s good at designing evening gowns and she wanted a bit of exposure.’

‘Exposure being the operative word,’ he drawled. ‘You certainly left very little to the imagination.’

Something in his tone brought another rush of colour to Zara’s cheeks. ‘The dress I was wearing was no more revealing than plenty of others there.’

But no other woman in the room had possessed her firm and slinky young body, Nikolai remembered with a sudden ache. Whatever it was she had, it had appealed to him on a very fundamental level. It still did. Even the drab knee-length skirt and i

‘So what exactly was your brief?’ he demanded.

‘I was supposed to give you one of her business cards.’

‘Hoping that I’d play fairy godfather and give her the big break she deserved?’ he questioned sarcastically.

‘Something like that.’

‘But you didn’t, did you?’ he said thoughtfully. ‘So what happened, Zara? Did you decide to jettison that idea when something better came along? Did you think that by capitalising on the undoubted chemistry between us you could aim even higher than a mere marketing opportunity?’ He raised his eyebrows in a mocking question. ‘Maybe you thought that if you could get your claws into me, then you might benefit far more than just getting a cut from the sale of your friend’s clothes?’

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CONTENTS

Cover

Extract

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright