The Most Coveted Prize Page 7
It made her feel unbearably tender towards him that he should seek to contain their mutual desire in order to give it the right setting, and that feeling increased when he told her, ‘I want to make it special for you.’
‘You are what makes it special,’ Alena replied shakily, her voice betraying her emotions. ‘You are special, Kiryl. Special, and wonderful, and … and I am so lucky to have met you.’
Instinctively Kiryl tensed—against both her words and her emotion—wanting to reject them, wanting to tell her that the last thing he wanted from anyone was an emotional connection. Emotional connections had no place in his life. They never had and they never would. He had learned young that it was safer to shut himself away from his emotions. Except, of course, those that drove him to obliterate the memory of his father’s rejection by achieving for himself what his father had not been able to achieve.
Alena’s open vulnerability irritated him like a piece of grit in his shoe, demanding his attention even though he didn’t want to give it. It had been her parents’ responsibility to prepare her for the harsh realities of life. Now it was her brother’s. If they hadn’t taken care to do that then why should it irk him so much? Especially when her vulnerability was the foundation on which he was building his plans to win that all-important contract.
What was it that was really causing his irritation? Surely not his conscience? Kiryl shrugged aside that thought. He did not have a conscience—not where the all-important task he had set himself was concerned. So why the irritation? After all, it would make things far more difficult for him if she were suspicious of him and his motives.
And, no matter how ready she might be to let him see how she felt about him now, she would be more than suspicious, a few weeks from now, when he walked away from her with his prize, leaving her with her dreams and her pride shattered.
Kiryl tensed his mind against his own thoughts. Her future pain was no concern of his. She was no concern of his. She had her rich, protective brother to take care of her, and she had grown up with loving parents. The contrast between their childhoods couldn’t have been greater. She a child born of a union between two people who had loved one another and who would no doubt have welcomed the birth of a child to celebrate and cement that love. He a child born of a union rooted in abuse and contempt on the part of his father and gullibility on the part of his mother—a child loathed by his father and abandoned by his mother, who had died leaving him unprotected.
Kiryl frowned. He didn’t want to be dragged back to the pain of his childhood. It was over, after all, and he had severed every link that had ever connected him to it. He had re-invented, recreated himself as the man he was now. A man proud to say that his mother had been a Romany and that he had the gifts, the skills, everything he did have, to become what he now was. Unlike Alena, he had had no advantages to help him through life, but he had still been able to achieve his goals. Almost.
‘I’ve arranged a surprise for you,’ he told her.
‘A surprise? What kind of surprise?’ Alena demanded.
‘The kind that requires a passport. You do have a passport, I trust?’
A passport? He was taking her away somewhere? Alena’s heart leapt. ‘Yes, of course,’ she agreed. ‘But …’
‘No more questions,’ Kiryl told her autocratically, before looking pointedly at his plain, discreetly expensive gold watch, its strap glinting warmly against the sinewy strength of the tanned flesh of his wrist.
Kiryl had good hands—strong hands. A man’s hands, with lean fingers and clean, well-kept unmanicured nails.
‘I’ll give you five minutes in which to make your choice—either to say yes and come with me or to say no and stay here.’
‘Five minutes? But …’
‘Trust me, Alena,’ Kiryl told her fiercely. ‘Trust what you feel and trust me. Perhaps what happened between us yesterday happened too fast—for both of us. But passion—a man’s passion for a woman and hers for him—can be like that … That doesn’t make it wrong.’ His voice dropped to become hauntingly low as he told her thickly, ‘Nothing we share together could ever be wrong. All I want is the opportunity to prove to you how very special you are to me … how very special we can be together. And for that we need privacy and somewhere very special. If you will let me take you there.’
The colour came and went in Alena’s face. She knew the ‘there’ that he was talking about wasn’t just the ‘there’ of his surprise destination; what he was saying to her—what he was promising—was that he would also take her to the heights of sensual pleasure and fulfilment. Her head was spinning, her heart racing, her body aching with impatient longing. The choice was hers. He had told her that. She could refuse. She could tell him that she needed more time, that she needed more information. But Alena knew that she wasn’t going to. Overnight she had grown from a girl who had felt nervous uncertainty yesterday about whether she was strong enough for her own passion to a woman who now knew beyond any doubt that she was—and how much she wanted him.
She took a deep breath, and then asked him in a voice that only trembled very slightly, ‘What will I need to pack?’
‘Very little.’
When Alena’s face went bright red and she dropped her lashes over her eyes Kiryl laughed. He had been so intent on his plan that he had forgotten for a minute how inexperienced she actually was.
‘Ah, I see,’ Kiryl teased her. ‘You are imagining that I plan for you to wear only the minimum amount of clothing?’ He shook his head. ‘That was not what I meant at all. I should have said that you need only pack a few essentials. The rest we will buy when we reach our destination.’ He paused, and then told her softly, ‘Besides, when I make love to you it will not be “very little” you will be wearing, it will be only your own skin—because the only covering you will need will be my hands, my touch, my kiss and my body.’
Now her face was hotter than ever—and so was her body. The images conjured up by Kiryl’s words were so enticing and exciting that they made her feel giddy with longing.
‘You have three minutes left,’ Kiryl reminded her. ‘And don’t forget your passport.’
‘But I need to know something,’ Alena protested. ‘Are we going somewhere hot or …?’
‘We are going first to the airport, and for that you will need a coat. More than that I am not prepared to tell you.’
He was looking at his watch again.
The sudden reality of how awful it would be if he were to leave without her was the only impetus Alena needed to send her almost running into her bedroom. She stood for several vital seconds, too ecstatically happy to be able to formulate a single practical thought, until she remembered how little time she had.
‘A few essentials’ Kiryl had said, Alena reminded herself as she hurried into her walk-in wardrobe-cum-dressing room and removed a case, quickly sweeping her toiletries into it and then equally speedily opening a drawer to remove a couple of sets of clean underwear, grabbing her passport from her dressing table drawer to put it into her handbag and then reaching up for a quilted dark grey parka that toned with her pale grey cashmere jumper and silk taffeta skirt. Bending down to kick off her heels, she dropped them into a bag before putting them into the case and then slipping on a pair of warm lined boots.
‘Four minutes,’ Kiryl told her when she re-emerged into the sitting room with her case. ‘That’s one minute too many. For which I shall demand that you pay me a forfeit, so be warned,’ he teased her, looking pointedly at her mouth in a way that told her the forfeit he had in mind was going to be a kiss.
‘You’ve got your passport?’ he asked, holding out his hand, his manner suddenly briskly businesslike.
Alena nodded her head, automatically reaching into her handbag and passing it to him. When their fingertips touched Alena felt her whole body tingle in sensual excitement from that brief contact. And if that brief contact could have that kind of effect on her, then how was she going to feel when he really made love to her?
Just for a second Alena hesitated, suddenly sharply aware of the symbolism of what taking his hand would mean—of the giant step she would be taking, leaving behind her the security of her brother’s loving protection to go with a man who until yesterday had been a stranger to her. A stranger who now held her heart, Alena reminded herself. A stranger to whom she felt more intimately and emotionally connected than anyone else she had ever known. A stranger who was, she was sure, the one to whom she was destined to give her heart and herself.
So not a stranger after all, but her one true love. Once she had given her hand—herself—to Kiryl she would have given them for ever, she knew.
The smartly uniformed young steward waiting for Alena at the top of the stairs into the private jet with its discreet corporate logo—Kiryl’s corporate logo—smiled welcomingly at her as he showed her into the luxuriously appointed cabin, whilst Kiryl spoke with the captain.
‘We’re cleared for take-off,’ the steward told her, stowing her small case in what looked like a wall but was in fact a bank of cupboards, ‘and as soon as we’re airborne I’ll be serving pre-lunch champagne and canapés. This is the control for your seat,’ he added, showing Alena a control unit. ‘If you’d like me to show you how to use it?’
Alena smiled politely and shook her head. She was no stranger to travelling by private jet—her brother owned one, after all—and she had recognised the private area of the airport the minute the chauffeur-driven limousine that had picked them up from the hotel had turned into it.
The interior of this one might be slightly smaller than her brother’s—Vasilii travelled extensively all over the world—but it was every bit as luxurious, if not more so. The expensive plain grey carpet with its black stripe was thick and immaculate, the leather of the charcoal-grey leather chairs so soft that Alena couldn’t resist stroking her fingertips along the arm of her own.
This section of the cabin was furnished rather like a small meeting room, with its leather chairs and a sofa, but a door in the dark glass screen at the rear of the cabin caught her attention.
Seeing her look at it, the steward told her, ‘The door leads to Mr Andronov’s workstation area, and beyond it are the bathroom and the galley. If I may take your coat for you?’
Nodding her head and returning his smile, Alena allowed him to help her off with her coat. He was a good-looking young man, with a certain look in his eyes when his gaze brushed her body that told her he was attracted to her.
Kiryl, who was on the point of entering the cabin, saw the way the steward looked at Alena as he took her coat, and the sudden, sharply savage red burn of male possessiveness that took him from the doorway to Alena’s side was so swift and overwhelming, so instinctive, that it had dictated his actions before he could even think of defying it.
It was, he told himself, perfectly natural—given the importance of the success of his plan. And, given Alena’s naïveté, he wanted to ensure that no other man showed appreciation of her. His response had been driven by practicality, that was all. Practicality. Not male possessiveness, and certainly not male jealousy.
‘You still haven’t told me where we’re going,’ Alena reminded Kiryl when he took his own seat preparatory to take-off.
‘No, and I don’t intend to tell you. It’s a surprise, remember?’
‘But you can tell me how long the flight will be?’ Alena suggested coaxingly.
‘Around seven hours,’ he told her promptly. ‘And seven hours could take us to many places. New York—one of the most vibrant cities on earth—Oman, or Dubai, where so many Russians love to go in the cold weather.’
Alena laughed. ‘Vasilii certainly loves it there. He hates the cold. His mother’s family tribe came originally from the desert.’
‘Then there is the Caribbean,’ Kiryl continued.
‘You could always simply tell me where we are going instead of keeping me guessing,’ Alena pointed out.
‘Ah, but if I did that what would you have to think about for the next seven hours?’ Kiryl asked softly.
His words might sound innocent but Alena knew that they were not—just as she also knew perfectly well exactly what was going to be occupying her thoughts for the next seven hours. And that would not be their destination so much as what would happen when they reached that destination. Kiryl holding her, touching her, taking her to bed and making her his. Kiryl, Kiryl, Kiryl. He was her journey and her destination.
Seven hours later, after an elegant lunch of smoked salmon followed by sea bass served with perfectly cooked vegetables and then champagne and orange mousse, Kiryl had flirted with her so subtly that some of the time she hadn’t been sure if he had really said or intimated what she had thought he was saying, or whether it was her own fevered longing and imagination that had made her believe his words cloaked a deliberately sensual message and the promise of shared pleasures to come.
One glance out of the jet’s window as they started to descend told Alena exactly where Kiryl was taking her. Her face alight with joy and excitement, she turned to him to exclaim happily, ‘St Petersburg! Oh, Kiryl. Thank you. You remembered what I said about it.’ Impulsively she reached out to him, her hand on his arm, her face turned up towards him.
As he looked down at her the sudden savage ache of physical desire that gripped his body shocked Kiryl into immobility. She was the one who had to want him so unbearably that her need was impossible for her to resist—not the other way around.
He reached out to push her away, but a sudden movement of the plane caught them both unaware, jolting Alena so that she lost her balance and fell against him, leaving Kiryl with no alternative other than give in to his instinctive male response to protect by taking hold of her. And once she was in his arms his body reacted to her presence there as though it was something it had hungered desperately for.
Need surged against the barriers of his self-control, its urgent arousal hardening, its ache for so much more than the feel of her mouth beneath his as he took it in a kiss that was far more intense than he had wanted it to be.
As their jet descended from the clouds to what for Alena was the most beautiful winter city in the world, it wasn’t St Petersburg that captured and held her attention but Kiryl himself. The hot, passionate swiftness with which he had taken her mouth thrilled and delighted her, and answering arousal rose up inside her to make her strain eagerly and urgently against Kiryl’s openly hardened body. His tongue caressed her own in moves as fiercely sensual and urgent as the most explicit of intimate tangos.
It wouldn’t have mattered where he had chosen to bring her, Alena acknowledged. What mattered—all that mattered for her—was being with him. The landscape of her dreams and the city of her heart was now Kiryl himself.
CHAPTER SIX
‘THIS is your room, so I’ll leave you to make yourself at home here before we have dinner, which I’ve arranged to be served in an hour’s time.’
‘My room?’
Alena was conscious of the fact that she had barely spoken since the helicopter waiting for them at the airport had dropped them off here, on one of the many small islands in the delta of the Neva, and Kiryl had shown her into a house so perfect that she had only been able to stand and gaze in delight at its fairytale interior.
Obviously dating back to the time of the early eighteen-hundreds, from its exterior architecture, the house was a perfect jewel of its era. All she had been able to say, after taking in its soft sugared-almond-blue-painted exterior and the elegance of the interior, had been, ‘This house is so beautiful! Is it yours?’
Kiryl had shaken his head. ‘No, I’ve rented it,’ he’d answered her.
Now, though, Kiryl had shown her up to a beautifully decorated guest suite with overtones of French Empire style. His reference to the room b
eing her room had caused her to turn and look at him in confused uncertainty. She had assumed that they would be sharing a room—that the bed she would sleep in would be Kiryl’s bed. She had no past experience to guide her, to tell her what to say or do. No protection against the cold slamming weight of the disappointment and sense of loss that struck her.
Kiryl saw the uncertain and disappointed look Alena gave him, and then the bed. It was an important part of his plan that she should be the one to want him, to commit to him willingly and through her own choice. Now, easily able to read her mind, he asked softly, ‘You expected that we’d be sharing a room?’
‘Yes,’ Alena answered him honestly, marvelling yet again at the ease with which he seemed able to read her mind, and the way that created a very special bond between them.
‘That must be your wish and your choice,’ Kiryl said. ‘I have practically kidnapped you and brought you here, but the choice, the decision to continue the journey I began, must rest with you. It will be for you to decide whether or not you wish to invite me to your bed or exclude me from it. That is why I have given you your own room. This is my gift to you. Should you choose to give yourself to me that will be your gift to me, given freely.’
The emotional chord struck deep within her by Kiryl’s words brought Alena close to tears. He was so special, so wonderful, so perfect—and so everything she wanted. ‘Tonight we will have dinner here, and I warn you that over dinner I intend to do my utmost to make you want what I already know I want so very desperately,’ Kiryl continued. ‘But if at the end of the evening I have not succeeded, then …’
The look he was giving her would surely have caused ice to burst into flames, Alena thought dizzily.
‘Then there is always tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after it, until you decide that you are ready for me.’