One Kiss In… Moscow. Кейт Хьюит
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… sad.
Impatiently she turned away from the mirror. Stop it, she told herself. Just stop it. You knew what you were getting into. If you don’t like it, you can leave.
She stilled, the possibility rippling through her. Leave. She could rip off this constraining choker, this elegant gown, and be out of here in minutes. She’d never see Sergei again.
And that, Hannah acknowledged hollowly, was why she stayed.
‘Ready?’ Sergei called from the suite’s lounge, and reaching for her wrap—which provided no warmth—Hannah went.
An hour later she stood next to Sergei, a flute of champagne clenched in one hand, her cheeks aching from smiling as Sergei talked business with one well-heeled guest after another. Beyond the barest flicker of a glance or nod from his companions, she was ignored. Talk about feeling like an ornament.
As Sergei launched into another deep conversation—this time in French—Hannah decided to get some fresh air. Obviously she didn’t need to be here, except as Sergei’s accessory. She murmured her excuses—that nobody seemed to hear—and then crossed the elegant hotel ballroom, the clink of crystal and the conversation of five hundred of Paris society’s darlings a cacophony of sound all around her. A wall of French doors led onto a terrace, and Hannah slipped through them with a little sigh of relief.
The spring air was warm and fragrant, the night quiet, the sound from inside no more than a distant murmur. Hannah moved to the railing that looked out over a private garden, now lost in shadows although she could smell roses and lilac. She breathed in deeply and let the peace of the night wash over her and steal through her soul. At least she tried to.
How, she wondered bleakly, could she feel so sad when she was standing on the terrace of a luxurious hotel, wearing a beautiful dress, with a gorgeous man inside who undoubtedly would take her home in a few hours and make love to her for most of the night?
She should be walking on air. Instead she felt empty.
‘There you are. Sergei’s latest.’
Hannah froze, then forced herself to turn around. In the darkness she could barely make out the face of the man who stood there, lounging in the doorway. She could still feel how he was studying her, his gaze arrogant as he completed an insultingly thorough sweep of her body.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know you,’ she said stiffly. He came closer, and she saw the sardonic cast of his features; he was handsome, but his mouth was thin and cruel and his eyes were bloodshot.
‘You could get to know me,’ he offered in a soft drawl. ‘When Sergei’s done with you.’
Hannah recoiled physically from his blatantly crude suggestion. ‘Excuse me,’ she said coldly, and made to move past him, her legs weak and watery with the shock of such an awful encounter. He grabbed her arm, and Hannah froze again, her skin crawling at the feel of his fingers on her bare flesh.
‘It’s happened before, you know. I don’t mind taking Sergei’s leftovers.’
She shook his arm off, her body trembling with affront and even fear. ‘You’re disgusting.’
He laughed, the sound one of genuine amusement. ‘So self-righteous. You are his mistress, aren’t you?’
And this time Hannah froze both inside and out. Not just her body, but her heart. She stood there, as unable to move as if she were encased in ice.
His mistress. That was exactly what she was. And this clearly was how she should expect to be treated.
‘Well?’ the man demanded, his voice turning surly and slurred. He was clearly drunk; perhaps he wouldn’t have taken such obnoxious liberties with her otherwise. Still the bleak truth of her position both in society and Sergei’s life remained, unavoidable, undeniable.
‘Yes,’ Hannah said stiffly, ‘that’s exactly what I am. Sergei’s mistress. Never yours.’ And with her head held high and her heart still icy, she stalked past him, only to give a little scream of fear when yet another hand clamped around her wrist and someone swung her around.
She stared in shock at Sergei, his eyes blazing blue fire. ‘What the hell,’ he demanded, ‘do you think you’re doing?’
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