He had to have her.
CHAPTER SIX
IF ZARA had been in London she might have got another waitress to cover her shift that night. Anything other than having to face Nikolai again, after that sexy encounter on the mountainside. But she wasn’t in London—she was trapped in the Russian oligarch’s luxurious villa in the south of France with nobody to turn to. And with barely enough time to shower away the heat of the afternoon and the memory of what had so nearly happened in his sports car, before going out onto the terrace with a tray of Cosmopolitans and a smile which felt like a grimace.
Crystal had changed into a sheath of a dress covered completely with silver sequins, her newly washed hair falling in a white-gold curtain to her waist. She kept giggling wildly at everything Nikolai said, while her oblivious partner Sergei perspired gently beside her and kept checking his cell-phone.
Deliberately, Nikolai held Zara’s gaze as she offered him a drink. ‘You’ve caught the sun, Zara,’ he said silkily.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you been sunbathing?’
For a moment the blue eyes held her captive and heat rushed to her cheeks as she saw his mouth harden into a sensual curve. Was he deliberately trying to make her feel uncomfortable by reminding her of that steamy encounter? She guessed that he would if he could. With an effort, she pushed away distracting thoughts of his fingers drifting intimately over her body. ‘No, sir,’ she said crisply.
‘I’m very pleased to hear it. You should protect yourself at all costs.’ His eyes glittered as he paused. ‘It was certainly very hot out there today, wasn’t it?’
‘Nikolai!’ chided Crystal. ‘Will you stop it? She’s only trying to do her job and you’re making the poor girl blush!’
And even though the ‘poor girl’ tag rankled, in that moment Zara actually found herself warming towards Crystal for getting Nikolai off her back.
At least the meal was lavish enough to require all her concentration, since the chef had decided to present a range of delicious culinary set-pieces to impress the dinner guests. She tried to keep her eyes averted whenever she had to offer something to Nikolai, but he seemed to take great pleasure in goading her until she was forced to look at him. And then she would tremble as she read the erotic messages he was sending out from the mocking slant of his eyes. Was he deliberately leaning back in his chair to watch her as she moved around—his gaze seeming to burn into her? To remind her of just what he had been doing to her that afternoon—and the way she had responded to him so hungrily?
It was the longest evening of her life and, even though Zara couldn’t wait for it to end, part of her was dreading it, too. Because what was going to happen once it was over? Was Nikolai determined to finish what had been so frustratedly halted in his sports car? And if he came to her room once the guests had gone to bed—what then? He was her boss, after all—and hadn’t they already established that he could do what the hell he liked?
Zara bit her lip as she unloaded a tray in the kitchen, hating the thoughts which flooded into her mind. Because she didn’t think for a moment that he would demand she respond to his advances—why would he need to do that when he’d witnessed her behaving like a piece of molten candle-wax whenever he touched her? But if he demanded to speak to her…could she honestly resist him?
But Nikolai did not come. He dismissed her soon after midnight—when he, Sergei and Crystal were sitting drinking calvados on the terrace—and Zara walked back to her room over the moon-washed paths, feeling inexplicably empty. As if there was a party going on to which she hadn’t been invited—which was actually very true.
She showered and slipped on a little cotton nightie, climbing in between the crisp cool sheets and hoping that sleep might claim her and put an end to her tumultuous thoughts. And to her surprise, it did. She must have been more tired than she’d thought because when she awoke, it was morning.
Blinking her eyes as she opened up the shutters, she couldn’t rid herself of a curious feeling of flatness—and, yes, of disappointment, too. How stupid women could be, she told herself crossly as she pulled on her white shirt and black skirt. You’re angry because he didn’t come to you last night. Because it shows that he was merely playing with you.
She took herself off to serve breakfast and it felt almost like being back in the sleepy little village of St Jean Gardet, because the kitchen was completely deserted. There was no sign of the chef—and no sign that he might have risen early to start the meal by chopping fruit or warming bread and croissants.
So what did she do? Had he overslept and should she go and wake him? The trouble was that she didn’t have a clue where his room was.
For a moment she stood lost in thought, staring at the pristine oak table which was usually cluttered with bowls and wooden spoons and other utensils, when she heard a whistling sound from behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. Waitresses might spend their time moaning about chefs, but they certainly couldn’t do without them.
‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ she said, turning to greet him. ‘I was beginning to think that you’d …’ But her words tailed off into disbelieving silence when she saw that it wasn’t the chef standing there. Instead, she was confronted with the sight of Nikolai—holding a freshly baked baquette in his hand and somehow managing to make even that look sexy.
Something unknown glittered at the depths of his ice-blue eyes and his jaw was dark with the shadow of new growth. There was an edgy and dangerous air about him this morning, she thought, with a sudden nervous skitter of her heart. And he was still wearing the formal black suit and white silk shirt that he’d had on at dinner last night! ‘What…what on earth are you doing here?’ she stumbled.
Nikolai surveyed her clear green eyes and scrubbed face, the plain black skirt and the frumpy shoes, and felt his throat thicken. ‘It’s my house, remember? ‘
‘No, I mean …’ Desperately, she looked over his shoulder, as if expecting to see other people walking in behind him. ‘Where’s the chef?’
‘I gave him the day off.’
The significance of this statement confused her. ‘But what about breakfast?’
He held the baguette aloft. ‘What do you think this is for?’
With trembling fingers, she reached for the fruit knife. Act normally, she told herself fiercely. You …'re adaptable, Zara—remember? ‘Okay,’ she said, trying to inject a bright and breezy note into her voice. ‘So I’d better start preparing the—’
But he halted her with the brief brush of his hand over hers, which made the knife slip uselessly from between her suddenly trembling fingers and clatter onto the work surface. ‘I don’t think I want you with a knife in your hand while I’m in the vicinity, angel moy,’ he purred. ‘Shall we think of something else for you to do instead?’
Her heart thumped. ‘But your guests will be down for breakfa