Kholodov's Last Mistress. Kate Hewitt
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she had several, he’d been bizarrely fascinated—and irritated—by her honesty. Her optimism. She’d seemed so … unspoiled. When had he last encountered a person—a woman—like that?
‘She’s settled?’ he asked tersely. That was all he needed to know.
‘Yes, in the grand suite.’
He’d given her the best room in the hotel. Stupid, perhaps, and unnecessary, but he hadn’t liked seeing her looking so lost as she stood on the steps of the embassy. He hated seeing people vulnerable, hated seeing that shadow of uncertainty and fear in someone’s eyes. He’d seen it far too often. And for a moment, a crazy, regrettable moment, the American had actually reminded him of Alyona. And he never thought of Alyona.
Yet in that moment on the steps when Hannah’s eyes had clouded and she’d lifted her chin—seeming, for an instant, so brave—she had reminded him, and it had made him approach her, offer things he’d had no intention of offering. Feel things he didn’t want to feel.
Of course, he’d already made the decision to find her at the embassy when he’d seen her on the steps, felt that protective tug. When she’d walked away from him in Red Square he’d felt something else he didn’t like to feel: guilt. He’d watched those kids run their grift and he could have stopped it sooner. Maybe if he had, if he hadn’t taken those few scornful seconds to just watch, she’d still have her money and passport. She’d be on a plane back to America, instead of upstairs in the best room of his hotel.
Upstairs …
Now his mind—and body—went in a totally different direction. He didn’t feel protective so much as … possessive. He was curious about the body hidden beneath that parka, those eyes that darkened to storm when she felt something other than that relentless optimism. Curious and also determined that the only thing this woman would awaken in him was lust.
Impulsively, yet with iron-like decisiveness, he reached for a piece of heavy ivory stationery embossed with the Kholodov crest and scrawled a message. Folding it, he handed it to Grigori with a level look that ensured no more questions would be asked. ‘Deliver that to her. And prepare the private booth at the restaurant for dinner. For two.’
Grigori nodded and hesitated by the door. ‘You found Varya?’ he asked and Sergei let out a heavy sigh.
‘No.’ He’d been too distracted by a certain American to devote any more time to his search for Varya. He knew she was in trouble again; the tearful, incoherent message on his private voice mail had given testament to that. Yet when was Varya not in trouble?
‘She’ll turn up again,’ Grigori said, and Sergei knew he was trying to convince himself more than Sergei. The three of them had banded together back in the orphanage, and Grigori, Sergei suspected, was more than half in love with Varya, and had been since they were children. ‘She always does.’
‘Yes.’ Yet he did not want Varya to turn up as a nameless, disease-riddled corpse forgotten in a doorway or floating in the Moskva River. But how many times could he save her? He’d already learned to his own frustration and sometimes despair how few people you could really save. Sometimes not even yourself.
Grigori held up the note, and Sergei half regretted his impulse to write it. ‘I’ll deliver this now.’ He nodded his assent, knowing it was too late for regrets. And better that he put Hannah Pearl in her place as a woman to be desired and discarded rather than anything else. Anything deeper.
A woman who made him think of Alyona, and remember the kind of boy he’d once been, as youthful and naive as she so obviously still was.
No, Sergei thought as he gazed moodily out at a darkening sky, this was much better.
Hannah gazed around the gorgeous hotel suite, half afraid to touch anything. The place was amazing. And huge. She’d actually thought the closet was another bedroom, until she’d realised there was no bed in it.
What kind of man was Sergei Kholodov anyway?
A tremor ran through her, something half between alarm and excitement. He was that kind of man. She might not have a lot of experience when it came to men—Hadley Springs didn’t have a great dating scene—but she still recognised her own reaction. There was something so blatantly sexy about Sergei Kholodov, the way he emanated all that authority, the iciness of his eyes, the leashed power of his body. She’d never been with a more exciting person. Man.
Yet it hardly mattered, because Hannah doubted she’d ever see him again. His kindness was already more than Hannah had ever expected. So why was she still thinking about him?
It was hard not to think of him. The events of the last few hours had been both surreal and overwhelming, from the first moment that Sergei had strode across Red Square, to seeing him outside the American Embassy, to entering his amazing and opulent hotel. It was the stuff of fantasies, of soap operas, not the life of a very ordinary woman from a tiny town in upstate New York. Nothing like this had happened to her for the entire three months of her trip, and now on the last day her world was spinning.
Well, hopefully it would settle right back on its axis tomorrow, when Sergei helped her get a passport and a plane out of here.
Did that mean she would see him again?
Hannah decided not to overthink it. She was going to take this crazy ride, enjoy it as much as possible, and it would all end tomorrow when life—God willing—returned to normal. Right now she wanted a good, long soak in the swimming-pool-size sunken tub she’d seen in the bathroom.
Her suitcase, amazingly, had arrived in her room shortly after she’d got there. Hannah had no idea how Sergei had arranged that; she hadn’t even told him her name, much less the hotel at which she’d been staying. The man definitely had some serious power. Still, she was glad to have her things and she was just unzipping the single case when a discreet knock sounded at the door.
Hannah tensed, felt that flip of excitement and alarm.
Running a quick hand over her hair, she hurried to the door and peered through the peephole, suppressing a ridiculous stab of disappointment that it wasn’t Sergei.
She opened the door to a slight, serious-looking man in a sober suit. A port-wine birthmark covered half his face, and he blinked with a kind of short-sighted owlishness.
‘Miss Pearl, my name is Grigori and I am Mr Kholodov’s personal assistant. I have a missive for you from him.’
A missive? It sounded important. Hannah took the folded paper the man had handed to her. ‘Thank you.’
‘May I give him your reply?’
‘Oh … right.’ Quickly, fumbling a bit, she unfolded the paper and scanned the two lines that had been written in a bold black scrawl. Please join me for dinner in the hotel restaurant at eight. Sergei.
She swallowed, looked up, saw Grigori waiting. Well, she did need to eat. And a public restaurant was a safe and fairly innocuous place. And she was curious, and excited, and a little nervous. It seemed this crazy ride had a few more dips and turns. Why on earth did Sergei Kholodov want to have dinner with her? Was he just being nice or …?
‘Miss Pearl?’
‘Okay. Yes. Thank you. I’d be—ah—happy to join Mr Kholodov at eight.’
‘Very good.’ Grigori snapped his heels together militarystyle and turned to leave.
‘Grigori—’
He turned back. ‘Yes, Miss Pearl?’
‘Is—That is—’ She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. ‘Has Mr Kholodov owned this hotel for very long?’ She wanted to know something about this enigmatic man, something his assistant would be willing to answer.
Grigori frowned slightly. ‘I believe it has been five years, Miss Pearl. There is a pamphlet in the desk drawer concerning the history of the hotel, if you are interested.’