One Kiss in... Moscow: Kholodov's Last Mistress / The Man She Shouldn't Crave / Strangers When We Meet. Кейт Хьюит
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which he could understand, but then she let out a hollow laugh and with another jolt of shock he realised she sounded like him. She sounded cynical.
Perhaps she had changed after all.
Hannah stared at Sergei in disbelief, half expecting him to disappear, like a mirage or an impostor. Maybe a ghost. He couldn’t be real. He couldn’t be here, having come all the way from Russia just to see her?
It was impossible. Ridiculous. Real. He was here, and he was still staring at her, smiling faintly, waiting.
For what?
Her mind spun, unable to fathom why. The memory of the derisive, dismissive smile he’d given her as he’d put his arm around that woman—Varya—was still frozen in her brain. In her heart. He’d tired of her, just as he’d said. He’d wanted her gone. So why on earth had he come and found her?
She lifted her chin, regarding him coolly. ‘What do you want?’
‘I told you, to see you.’
‘Why?’
He paused, his head cocked, his gaze sweeping slowly over her. Something flickered across his face, a dark emotion Hannah couldn’t identify, and then his face cleared. Blanked. ‘I wanted to see if you were the same.’
‘The same?’ Hannah repeated sharply. ‘What do you mean? I’m a year older, in any case.’ She turned away from him to fold yet again the sweaters Lisa had dropped off. Her hands trembled.
‘And a year wiser, perhaps.’
She let out a sharp bark of a laugh. ‘If you mean am I still annoyingly optimistic, then no, I’m not.’
His breath came out in a soft sigh. Hannah didn’t turn around. ‘Refreshingly optimistic, I also said.’
‘It hardly matters.’ She pressed her hands down hard on the soft pile of sweaters in a desperate bid to stop their trembling. Why did he affect her so much? Still? They’d had one evening together. One kiss. She should barely remember his name.
Sergei who?
The thought was laughable. When he’d come into the shop, despite the shock that had raced through her, another part of her had felt as if she’d been waiting for him to come. Had remembered exactly the piercing blue of his eyes, the hard line of his jaw. The feel of his lips.
‘So.’ She turned around, her hands laced together, fingers wrapped around knuckles as hard as she could. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Not in the least.’
She shook her head slowly. ‘I have no idea why you’re here, Sergei.’
He gave her a rueful smile, a smile that was soft and strangely gentle, and so at odds with the man she remembered, the man she had convinced herself in the last year was only cold. Calculating. Cruel. ‘I don’t know, either.’
‘Well, then.’ She drew in a ragged breath. ‘Maybe you should just go.’
‘Go? I just drove four hours to get here, Hannah. I’m not leaving quite that quickly. And,’ he added, his voice dropping to a husky murmur she remembered far too well, ‘I don’t think you want me to.’
‘You don’t know anything about me.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ The words were a lazy challenge.
‘I’m quite sure. A lot has happened to me in the last year, Sergei. I might have seemed rather simple and naive when we had dinner in Moscow, but I’m very different now, and I really can’t imagine why you’re here or what you want.’
‘Why are you so angry?’
‘Why?’ She stared at him. ‘You really need to ask? After—after the way you treated me? Made me feel?’
‘It was a year ago, Hannah.’
‘And when you waltz back into my life it brings it all back.’
‘You see,’ Sergei said, stepping closer, close enough for her to breathe in the tangy scent of his aftershave, ‘I have this theory.’
She planted her fists on her hips and gave him as scathing a look as she could muster. ‘Oh, really?’
‘Really. And it goes like this.’
‘I don’t recall asking to hear your theory.’
He smiled faintly, and she felt that singeing bolt of awareness. Still. Her response to him had been—and clearly still was—impossible to ignore or deny. ‘Humour me,’ he said softly, and too weary—as well as a tiny bit curious—to argue, Hannah just shrugged. ‘It goes like this,’ he repeated, taking a step closer to her. Hannah forced herself not to move. ‘You’re angry because you’re still affected. If you’d forgotten me, as you surely should have done, you wouldn’t be looking at me now as if you’d like to carve my heart out with a teaspoon.’
Her lips twitched in something close to a smile despite her determination to stay angry and in control. ‘I would, rather,’ she said. Her heart had started thudding in response to his words … and the truth they held.
He smiled, that mobile mouth she remembered so well curving in sensual triumph. ‘So you are affected.’
‘Only according to your outrageous theory.’
‘Oh, it’s not just my theory,’ Sergei told her softly. He’d stepped even closer now, only a hand-span away, so not only could she breathe in the scent of him but she could feel his heat. Remember his touch. ‘I have evidence,’ he continued in no more than a whisper, and with one finger he touched the pulse that fluttered wildly in her throat. And if that wasn’t evidence enough, her indrawn breath, a gasp of shock—or was it pleasure?—damned her all the more.
Colour flamed in her face and she wished she had the strength to say something cutting, or at least step away. The trouble was, it felt too good to be standing so near him. And the single touch of his finger on her skin sent her body spinning into sensual remembrance.
‘The thing is,’ Sergei continued, his finger lightly stroking the column of her throat, ‘I’m affected as well.’
Hannah shook her head, a matter of instinct. ‘No, you aren’t. You weren’t. I don’t know why you came here, Sergei, but—’ She dragged in a desperate breath and finally stepped away. ‘Surely you’ve satisfied your curiosity by now.’
He let his hand fall, his gaze resting on her thoughtfully. ‘Not even close.’
‘What do you want, then?’ she demanded, and heard the ragged note in her voice. She couldn’t hide anything.
‘To have dinner with you.’
‘Dinner?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘A meal? Food? Wine?’
And memories of another meal. Another night. Hannah knew she should shake her head, but somehow she couldn’t. She could only stare. Sergei smiled. ‘There must be a half-decent restaurant in this area.’
‘Half-decent, maybe,’ Hannah allowed, and his smile widened.
‘Show me?’
He made it a question, and, despite her absolute intention to say a sane and self-respecting no, Hannah opened her mouth and said something else instead. Something she could not keep herself from saying—and feeling—even as her mind hammered out a desperate protest. ‘All right.’
SERGEI gazed at Hannah over the rim of his wine glass. She really looked rather cross. Her eyes were shadowed, her mouth a set line. No ready smile for him, or anyone, now. He wondered what her life