The Russian Rivals. Penny Jordan
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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?
‘Come,’ Kiryl commanded, holding his hand out to her after he had tucked her passport away in an inside pocket of the cashmere overcoat he had previously been carrying but which he was now wearing over his suit.
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