Rich Man's Revenge. Katherine Garbera
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were you thinking chicken noodle soup from a can?” she suggested weakly. “Because I know how to make that.”
“Tempting. But no.” He tilted his head. “A goat cheese soufflé with Provençal herbs.”
Her mouth dropped. “Are you kidding?”
“Try it.” His lips turned up at the corners. “You might like it.”
“I might like to eat it, but I can’t cook it!”
“If you cook it, I will allow you to have some.”
“Generous of you.”
“Of course.” Innocently, he spread his arms wide. “What am I, some kind of heartless brute?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
He gave a low, wicked laugh. “It’s a beautiful night. You will come out onto the lanai and cook for me.”
“Fine.” She looked at him dubiously. “It’s your funeral.”
And so half an hour later, Bree found herself on the patio beside the pool, in the sheltered outdoor kitchen, struggling to sauté garlic and flour in garlic oil.
“This recipe is ridiculous!” She sneezed violently as minced thyme sprinkled the air like snowflakes, instead of coating the melted butter in the soufflé pan. “It’s meant for four cooks and a sous-chef, not one person!”
Vladimir, who sat at the large granite table with an amazing view of the sunset-swept Pacific beyond the infinity pool, sipped an extremely expensive wine as he read a Russian newspaper. “You’re exaggerating. For a clever woman like you, surely arranging a few herbs and whipping up a few eggs is not so difficult. How hard can it be to chop and sauté?”
She waved her knife at him furiously. “Come a little closer and I’ll show you!”
“Stop complaining,” he said coldly, taking another sip of merlot.
“Oh,” Bree gasped, realizing she was supposed to be whisking flour and garlic in the hot olive oil. She tried to focus, not wanting to let Vladimir break her, but cooking had never been her skill. Supervising a kitchen staff? No problem. Cracking the eggs herself? A huge mess. She suddenly smelled burning oil, and remembered she was supposed to keep stirring the milk and white wine in the pan until it boiled. As she rushed across the outdoor kitchen, her bare feet slid on an egg white she’d spilled earlier. She skidded, then slipped, and as her tailbone slammed against the tile floor, the whisked egg yolks in her bowl flew up in the air before landing, wet and sticky, in her hair.
Suddenly, Vladimir was kneeling beside her. “Are you hurt, Breanna?”
She stared at him. She felt his powerful arms around her, protective and strong, as he lifted her to her feet.
Trembling, Bree stared up at him, wide-eyed. “You called me Breanna.”
He stiffened. Abruptly, he released her.
“It is your name,” he said coldly.
Without his arms encircling her, she felt suddenly cold and shivery and—alone. For a moment she’d seen an emotion flicker in his eyes that had made her wonder if he …
No. She’d been wrong. He didn’t care about her. Whatever feelings he’d once had for her had disappeared at the first sign of trouble.
Right?
Bree had certainly never intended to love him. The night they’d met, she’d known him only as the young CEO of a start-up mining company, whose family had once owned the land her father had bought in trust for Josie a few years before. “Promise me,” Black Jack had wheezed from the hospital bed, before he died. “Promise me you’ll always take care of your sister.”
In her desperation to be free and keep Josie safe, Bree had known she’d do anything to get the money she needed. And the best way to make Vladimir Xendzov careless about his money was to make him care about her. To dazzle him.
But from the moment they’d met, Bree had been the one who was dazzled. She’d never met a man like Vladimir: so honest, so open, so protective. For the first time in her life, she’d seen the possibilities of a future beyond the next poker game. She’d seen she could be something more than a cheap con artist with a rusted heart. He’d called her by her full name, Breanna, and made her feel brand-new. I love you, Breanna. Be my wife. Be mine forever.
Now she blinked, staring up at him in the deepening twilight Vladimir was practically scowling at her, his arms folded, his blue eyes dark.
But the way he’d said her name when he’d held her … His voice had sounded the same as ten years ago. Exactly the same.
Vladimir growled a low Russian curse. “You’re a mess. Go take a shower. Wash the food out of your hair. Get clean clothes.” He snatched the empty saucepan from her hand. “Just go. I will finish this.”
Now, that was truly astonishing. “You—you will cook?”
“You are even more helpless in the kitchen than I remembered,” he said harshly. “Go. I left new clothes for you in the bedroom upstairs. Get cleaned up. Return in a more presentable state.”
Bree’s lips were parted as she stared at him. He was actually being nice to her. No matter how harsh his tone, or how he couched his kindness inside insults, there could be no doubt. He was allowing her to take a shower, to change into clean clothes, like a guest. Not a slave.
Why? What could he possibly gain by kindness, when he held all the power? “Thank you.” She swallowed. “I really appreciate—”
“Save it.” He cut her off. Setting down the pan on the granite island of the outdoor kitchen, he looked at her. “At least until you see the dress I’ve left on your bed. Take a shower and put it on. Afterwards, come back here.” He gave her a hard, sensual smile. “And then … then you can thank me.”
Vladimir should have known not to make her cook.
He’d thought that Bree, at age twenty-eight, might have improved her skills. No. If possible, she’d grown even more hopeless in the kitchen. The attempt had been a complete disaster, even before the raw yolks had been flung all over—perhaps a merciful end before they could be added to the burned, lumpy mess in the sauté pan.
Cleaning up, he dumped it all out and started fresh. Forty minutes later, he sat at the table on the patio and tasted his finished soufflé, and gave a satisfied sigh.
He would not ask Bree to make food again.
Vladimir knew how to cook. He just preferred not to. When he was growing up, his family had had nothing. His father tried his best to keep up the six-hundred-acre homestead, but he’d had his head in the clouds—the kind of man who would be mulling over a book of Russian philosophy and not notice that their newborn calf had just wandered away from its mother to die in a snowdrift. Vladimir’s mother, a former waitress from the Lower Forty-Eight, had been a little in awe of her intellectual husband, with his royal background. Her days were spent cleaning up the messes her absentminded spouse left behind, to make sure they had enough wood to get through the winter, and food for their two growing boys. It was because of their father’s influence that Vladimir and Kasimir had both applied to one of the oldest mining schools in Europe, in St. Petersburg. It was because of their mother’s influence they’d managed to pay for it, but in a way that had broken her husband’s heart. And that was nothing compared to how Vladimir had found the money to start Xendzov Mining OAO twelve years ago. That had been the spark that started the brothers’ war. That had caused Kasimir to turn on him so viciously.
Vladimir’s eyes narrowed. His brother deserved what he’d gotten—being cut out of the company right before it would have made him insanely rich. He, Vladimir, had deserved to own the company free and clear.
Just as he owned Bree Dalton.
He had a sudden memory of her stricken hazel eyes, of her pale, beautiful face.