worth spoiling the day for. So go and put it on.’
It was one of those defining moments. Zara knewthat. Most men wouldn’t be able to procure a bikini to be delivered to their remote Mediterranean mansion within the hour. And that intimation of just how powerful he was gave her another pang of apprehension. She could tell him thanks, but no, thanks. That she’d thought about it and maybe she’d better catch the next available plane back to England. He might try to persuade her to change her mind—but not very hard, she suspected. There must be plenty more women like her waiting in line, eagerly waiting to take whatever he was prepared to offer.
Or she could accept his offer and wear the bikini—which would be tacitly agreeing to something else. To being his lover for the weekend. Pretending that they were equals and that this was a normal kind of relationship. She looked at him. He must have taken a shower as well, for his hair was damp and he had shaved away the darkness which had roughened his strong jaw. He wore a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt and for a moment he looked so gorgeous that Zara realised pretending was the only option she wanted to take.
They’d made love once, no—twice now. They could make love again—as many times as they wanted—but only if she realised that her function here had changed. She was no longer his waitress. Maybe she had been but she wasn’t going to be donning an apron any time soon. That kitchen seduction meant that she had become his lover—and who knew how long that position would last? So why not embrace her new role with aplomb—and let herself enjoy what was on offer? A little uncomplicated pleasure after the pain of her godmother’s long illness?
As her fingers moved to loosen the knot in the towel it occurred to her that ‘uncomplicated’ might be wishful thinking—but the look of expectation which haddarkened his eyes made her past caring. The towel dropped to the floor and she saw his fists clench with tension as she slowly pulled on the bikini.
‘It fits perfectly,’ he said huskily.
She stared at him. ‘How did you know my size?’
‘I build tower blocks which are twenty stories high,
angel moy,’
he murmured. ‘The dimensions of a woman who is five foot seven were never going to pose a problem.’
‘Five foot seven and a half, actually,’ she said gravely.
‘You think that extra half-inch makes all the difference?’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘Do they?’ He smiled. ‘I think that’s a subject we could debate at leisure, don’t you?’
‘I’m always open to debate, Nikolai.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it—I always think that debate is an indication of a lively mind.’
‘And it’s my mind you’re interested in, is it?’
‘Not at the moment, no,’ he growled. ‘It’s your body which seems to be commanding most of my attention.’
‘Nikolais …’ She felt warm, caressing fingers touching her thighs and her eyes closed.
‘What?’
‘I’ve only just…just …’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve only just put the bikini on.’
‘So?’ Swiftly he skimmed the teeny little bikini bottoms down and kicked them away. ‘And I’ve decided that I want to see you naked again.’
His words reverberated round in her head.
I want,
he said. And Nikolai got what Nikolai wanted. Zara thrilled to the dark promise in his tone and her newly awakened body quivered in anticipation of his touch. But as hecarried her towards the bed she felt a sudden sense of foreboding, too.
Because he did exactly as he pleased. He snapped his fingers and people came running. Staff came and went at his behest. He was the ringmaster who ran the whole show.
And right now—even as his lips were coming down to kiss her and transport her back to pleasure-land—she felt like one of Nikolai Komarov’s obedient puppets.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Y OU’VE been remarkably quiet,
angel moy.’
Behind the protective shield of her sunglasses, Zara studied the
It was one of those defining moments. Zara knewthat. Most men wouldn’t be able to procure a bikini to be delivered to their remote Mediterranean mansion within the hour. And that intimation of just how powerful he was gave her another pang of apprehension. She could tell him thanks, but no, thanks. That she’d thought about it and maybe she’d better catch the next available plane back to England. He might try to persuade her to change her mind—but not very hard, she suspected. There must be plenty more women like her waiting in line, eagerly waiting to take whatever he was prepared to offer.
Or she could accept his offer and wear the bikini—which would be tacitly agreeing to something else. To being his lover for the weekend. Pretending that they were equals and that this was a normal kind of relationship. She looked at him. He must have taken a shower as well, for his hair was damp and he had shaved away the darkness which had roughened his strong jaw. He wore a clean pair of jeans and T-shirt and for a moment he looked so gorgeous that Zara realised pretending was the only option she wanted to take.
They’d made love once, no—twice now. They could make love again—as many times as they wanted—but only if she realised that her function here had changed. She was no longer his waitress. Maybe she had been but she wasn’t going to be donning an apron any time soon. That kitchen seduction meant that she had become his lover—and who knew how long that position would last? So why not embrace her new role with aplomb—and let herself enjoy what was on offer? A little uncomplicated pleasure after the pain of her godmother’s long illness?
As her fingers moved to loosen the knot in the towel it occurred to her that ‘uncomplicated’ might be wishful thinking—but the look of expectation which haddarkened his eyes made her past caring. The towel dropped to the floor and she saw his fists clench with tension as she slowly pulled on the bikini.
‘It fits perfectly,’ he said huskily.
She stared at him. ‘How did you know my size?’
‘I build tower blocks which are twenty stories high,
angel moy,’
he murmured. ‘The dimensions of a woman who is five foot seven were never going to pose a problem.’
‘Five foot seven and a half, actually,’ she said gravely.
‘You think that extra half-inch makes all the difference?’
‘That’s what they say.’
‘Do they?’ He smiled. ‘I think that’s a subject we could debate at leisure, don’t you?’
‘I’m always open to debate, Nikolai.’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it—I always think that debate is an indication of a lively mind.’
‘And it’s my mind you’re interested in, is it?’
‘Not at the moment, no,’ he growled. ‘It’s your body which seems to be commanding most of my attention.’
‘Nikolais …’ She felt warm, caressing fingers touching her thighs and her eyes closed.
‘What?’
‘I’ve only just…just …’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve only just put the bikini on.’
‘So?’ Swiftly he skimmed the teeny little bikini bottoms down and kicked them away. ‘And I’ve decided that I want to see you naked again.’
His words reverberated round in her head.
I want,
he said. And Nikolai got what Nikolai wanted. Zara thrilled to the dark promise in his tone and her newly awakened body quivered in anticipation of his touch. But as hecarried her towards the bed she felt a sudden sense of foreboding, too.
Because he did exactly as he pleased. He snapped his fingers and people came running. Staff came and went at his behest. He was the ringmaster who ran the whole show.
And right now—even as his lips were coming down to kiss her and transport her back to pleasure-land—she felt like one of Nikolai Komarov’s obedient puppets.
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘Y OU’VE been remarkably quiet,
angel moy.’
Behind the protective shield of her sunglasses, Zara studied the
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