‘Bihla chudyesna…that was amazing,’ he told her with husky satisfaction, landing a haphazard kiss on her cheekbone and then backing off so fast in discomfiture at having given her that salutation that she almost fell off the bed. ‘But we have a reception to get back to.’
Shot back to reality with a vengeance by that reminder, Alissa slid off the bed as if she had been jabbed by a hot poker. Realising in mortification that, aside of a wispy bra and a pair of torn knickers, she had no clothes to put back on, she snatched at the bedspread and yanked violently at it to haul it from under the big bronzed length of him where he lay in an infuriatingly relaxed post-coital sprawl. Concealing herself within its folds, Alissa was furiously aware of Sergei’s unashamedly amused scrutiny.
‘What is hidden is always more intriguing, angil moy,’ he murmured with silken approbation. ‘And much more appealing to a man like me than a short skirt and a low neckline—’
‘Intriguing you is the very last thing on my mind!’ Alissa almost spat at him, a tempestuous fury building behind her embarrassment.
With his brilliant dark eyes gleaming, his black hair ruffled and blue-black stubble beginning to shadow his strong jaw line and highlight his shapely mouth, he was a pagan vision of male beauty and magnetism. And she hated him, absolutely hated him for taking advantage of her the very first chance he got! Or the very first chance she had given him, she rephrased bitterly, loathing herself even more than she loathed him. But then what else had she expected from Sergei Antonovich? He was programmed to take advantage. He was a billionaire buccaneer in business, famous for his unpredictability and ability to move fast on a choice deal.
‘How much did I hurt you?’ he enquired with lazy assurance.
Her face burned. ‘I’m not going to discuss that—I’m not going to discuss anything that happened in that bed because there’s no need. It’s never going to happen again!’
Sergei was happily engaged in admiring the way the silk spread poured over her ripe little curves to cradle a pouting breast and define a deliciously voluptuous buttock. That green shade threw her aquamarine eyes into prominence as well. He was hugely relieved to hear that she didn’t want to discuss anything. Particularly anything that related to how their business contract had suddenly expanded to include sex for pleasure.
Unusually for him, he wasn’t quite sure why the business angle was taking more and more of a back seat, but he suspected it had a lot to do with the reality that he had wanted to bed her from the first instant he laid eyes on her tiny curvy frame. Why should that be a problem? She was proving to be a very worthwhile investment and there was no reason why he shouldn’t keep her as an indulgence for as long as he wanted. By the time she had given him a baby, she would no longer be a novelty, he reckoned with cynical conviction. An awareness of his own notorious track record warned him that familiarity would soon breed, not only contempt, but also boredom, and he would be glad to see her go.
‘You took advantage of the fact that I had had too much to drink!’ Alissa launched her attack without warning.
‘Had you?’ His black brows drew together. ‘When you were ripping off my shirt you struck me as an equal partner in every respect,’ he mused with the aura of a male recalling that act with satisfaction. ‘Don’t spoil it by being childish.’
‘Childish?’ Alissa parroted in a rage.
‘Why does the timing matter?’ he demanded in sincere incomprehension, for he had baulked at the prospect of a child conceived by artificial means in a Petri dish and sex had always been part of the package deal. ‘We wanted each other and we went to bed—’
‘We didn’t even make it into the bed!’ Alissa snapped accusingly, wondering why he was talking about timing, since she could not see what that had to do with anything.
An almost imperceptible darkening of colour highlighted Sergei’s high cheekbones. He was willing to admit that as encounters went it might not have been the idealistic stuff of a virginal fantasy. But then, he was well aware that she was not a romantic woman. No romantic woman would accept a huge amount of money to marry a stranger, give him a child and then walk away from that child.
‘It’s too late for regrets,’ Sergei pointed out with innate practicality.
Outraged by his attitude, Alissa stalked into the ensuite bathroom to stare shell-shocked at herself in the mirror above the vanity unit. Her wreath of flowers was crushed, her veil creased and her make-up smeared all over her face. She looked like a car-crash bride and the illusion of perfection was long gone. Tear tracks streaked her face while she stood there recognising that she had just totally changed her relationship with Sergei. Sex had smashed the boundaries she had known she had to retain if she was ever to win his respect. Her body ached with her every movement. She showered as best she could without getting her hair wet.
A knock made the door bounce in its frame and she spun round and opened it a mere crack, because she knew exactly who had to be behind that too-powerful knock.
‘I’m going for a shower in the other bedroom.’
Consternation made Alissa open the door wider and note the fact that he was only wearing his trousers with his shirt hanging open. ‘For goodness’ sake, put on all your clothes before you step out of this room!’
‘Why?’
Her mouth snapped into a compressed line at what she saw as a very stupid question. ‘Because if you don’t the women out there fixing my dress will realise exactly what we’ve been doing!’
‘So?’ Sergei prompted very drily, thinking not for the first time that Alissa’s attitudes and declarations frequently defied all logic and reality. ‘We got married, we shagged, so far, so normal…’
Alissa breathed in so deep she was afraid that she would burn up with the internal heat of her vexation. ‘If you don’t put your clothes on, I’ll never forgive you!’ she snapped in dire warning.
‘They’ll know anyway,’ Sergei told her with impatience. ‘You’ve wrecked your hair and the flowers in the wreath, so I asked the beautician and the florist to come up and sort you out.’
&
nbsp; Scarlet to her hairline, Alissa gave him what could only be described as a very aggressive and freezing nod, before shutting the door in his lean, darkly handsome face. Later she could never work out quite how she managed to handle the reappearance of the support team, entrusted with licking her back into bridal shape, because inside herself she was cringing. The knowing looks when she reappeared at the reception by Sergei’s side ate her alive with mortification. His reputation went before him, she reflected ruefully. When Sergei disappeared with a woman, no one, it seemed, had any doubt of his intent.
Intercepting a warm smile from Yelena, Alissa went over to talk as best she could to Sergei’s grandmother. The grizzled bearded man by her side revealed that he was a retired professor living in Yelena’s village and he translated to enable the two women to communicate. Alissa was surprised to find that she was confiding in Yelena about her parents’ separation.
Sergei joined them and spoke at length to his grandmother before closing a hand over Alissa’s and guiding her onto the dance floor. She glanced up at his lean, breathtakingly handsome face and her heart thumped heavily in her eardrums. She felt so vulnerable, so unsure of what to do next, for the passion they had shared had wrecked the framework of their relationship and she had no idea what would replace it.
‘We’re leaving,’ Sergei explained only when she questioned why they were leaving the function room and by a side door. ‘Yelena’s right. You look exhausted…like a little white ghost, angil moy…’