Dealing Her Final Card (12 page)

But he knew something had changed between them. An unbridgeable gap.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We have dinner reservations.”

“Fine,” she said dully, not meeting his eyes.

He zipped up his pants, and she put on her new clothes, the slim-fitting black pants, sheer black top over a black camisole, and black leather motorcycle jacket he’d bought for her earlier at a department store on Nevsky Prospekt. All afternoon, he’d insisted on buying everything he saw in her size, anything she could possibly want to wear for the rest of her life, for any season and any event.

Compensating, he thought. Though he knew she couldn’t be bought.

Even if he’d bought her.

“Before dinner,” he said brightly, despising the false cheer in his voice, “I wish to buy you something truly special. A fur coat. White mink, perhaps, or Barguzin sable—”

Bree shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“Russian furs are the best in the world.”

Her eyes were cold. “I don’t want a fur.”

He set his jaw. “You’re pouting.”

“No.” She looked away. “I just used to have a dog when I was a kid,” she mumbled. “I loved that dog. We used to explore the forest all summer long. He had a soul. He was my friend.”

She was talking about her dog? Vladimir exhaled. He’d been bracing for her anger, since the only thing she really wanted was the one thing he wouldn’t, couldn’t, give her. Relieved, he lifted his hand and lightly traced the bare skin of her collarbone. “I still don’t understand the connection.”

“I’ll put it in simple terms.” Pulling away from him, she folded her arms. “No fur.”

“As you wish,” he whispered, taking her hand in his own. He felt her shiver. He looked at her. Her expression was completely unreadable. He sighed. “Come.”

Leaving the dressing room, he went out to meet with the salesgirl and finish the details of the order, arranging for the hand-stitched ball gown to be delivered the next day. Vladimir took Bree outside, where his bodyguard awaited them beside his bulletproof limo.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

“I’m tired of shopping.”

“You’ll like this.”

Twenty minutes later the limo pulled to a stop. Helping her out himself, Vladimir led her past two security guards into a tiny, high-ceilinged shop in the belle epoque style, with gilded walls and colors like a cloisonné Easter egg. Everything about the jewelry store bespoke elegance, taste and most of all money.

“What are we doing here?” Bree scowled. “I thought we had dinner reservations!”

He gave her a teasing smile. “This won’t take long.”

A short, plump man with wire-rimmed glasses and a short white beard, wearing an old-fashioned pin-striped suit with a vest, came eagerly from behind one of the glass cases. “Welcome, welcome, Your Highness,” he said in Russian.

“Speak in English so she’ll understand.”

“Of course, Prince Vladimir.” Tenting his hands, the jeweler turned to Bree and switched to accented English. “My lady. You are here for a necklace, yes? For the New Year’s Eve ball at the ancient palace of the Romanov tsarina?”

Bree glanced up at Vladimir. “Um. Yes?”

He smiled back at her, feeling a warm glow at the thought of spoiling her. “I wish to buy you a little something to wear with the ball gown.”

“I don’t need it.”

“
Need
has nothing to do with it.” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “Surely you won’t deny me the small pleasure?”

Her scowl deepened. “No. How could I?”

He ignored her insinuation. “Surely,” he said teasingly, “you will not tell me that diamonds remind you of a former pet? That they possibly have a
soul?
”

She looked down at the floor.

“No,” she whispered. “A diamond is just a cold, heartless stone.” Vladimir frowned. She suddenly seemed to recall she was speaking to the CEO of Xendzov Mining, one of the largest diamond producers in the world. Flashing him a wry smile, she amended, “But they are pretty. I’ll give you that.”

“So you’ll let me buy you something.”

“Don’t you have a closetful of diamonds back home? I’m surprised you don’t use them like rocks to decorate your garden.”

“My company produces raw diamonds. We sell them wholesale. The fine art of polishing them into exquisite jewelry is not our specialty.” He lifted his hands to indicate the little jewel box of a shop. “This is the best jewelry store in the world.”

“Really? In the world?”

He gave her a sly smile. “Well, the best in St. Petersburg. Which means it is the best in Russia. Which means, naturally, that it is the best in the world.”

Staring at him for a moment, she shook her head with a sigh. “All right.” Her tone was resigned. “Since it seems I have no choice.”

Vladimir had truly expected this to be a quick stop en route to dinner at the best restaurant in the city. He’d assumed Bree would quickly select one of the most expensive necklaces in the store: the looped rope of diamonds, the diadem of sapphires, the emerald choker that cost the equivalent of nine hundred thousand dollars. But an hour later, she still hadn’t found a necklace she wanted.

“Six million rubles?” she said now, staring down incredulously at the ropes of diamonds patiently displayed by the portly jeweler. “How much is that in dollars?”

He told her, and her jaw dropped. Then she burst into laughter. “What a waste!” She glanced at Vladimir. “I won’t let you spend your money that way. Might as well set it on fire.”

He didn’t have nearly the same patience as the jeweler. “Money isn’t a problem,” he said tightly. “I have more than I could spend in a lifetime.”

“Lucky you.”

“I mean it. After you make a certain amount, money is just a way to keep score.”

“You could always donate the money to a charity, you know. If you hate it so much,” she said tartly.

He gave a low laugh. “I didn’t say I hate it. If nothing else, it gives me the opportunity to drape you in diamonds.”

“Against my will.”

“I know you will love them. All women do.”

“
All
women?”

That hadn’t come out right. “It’s a gift, Bree. From me to you.”

“It’s a chain.” She reached out a hand and touched the glittering diamond rope resting on the glass case, then said bitterly, “Diamond shackles for an honored slave.” She looked up at the jeweler. “No offense.”

“None taken, my lady.”

She looked at Vladimir. “Thanks for wanting to buy me a gift. But I don’t need a chain to remind me of my position.”

Vladimir felt irritated. He’d wanted to buy something that would please her, to distract her from the one thing he would not give: her freedom. “I am trying to make you happy.”

“I can’t be bought!”

“You already were,” he said coldly.

Bree gave an intake of breath, and her eyes dropped. “Fine. Buy it for me, then. Because you’re right. You can do whatever you want.”

Her voice dripped with icy, repressed fury.

This was turning into a disaster. Vladimir’s intention in bringing her here had been to make her cry out in delight, clapping her hands as she threw her arms around him in joy. But it seemed no cries of joy would be forthcoming.

He forced his clenched hands to relax. “I think we’re done.” Turning away from the jewelry case empty-handed, leaving the disappointed jeweler behind them, Vladimir put his hand on her back. It was an olive branch, an attempt to salvage the evening. “Fine. No diamonds. But you will enjoy dinner.”

“Yes,” she said. “Since you are telling me to enjoy it, I must.”

They were very late for their reservation. But when they finally arrived at the restaurant, adjacent to an exclusive hotel on the Nevsky Prospekt, he had the satisfaction of seeing Bree’s mouth fall open.

Art-nouveau-style stained glass gleamed in a wall of windows. Shadowy balconies and discreet curtained booths overlooked the center parquet floor, filled with tables covered with crisp white linen. White lights edged the second-floor balustrade, and tapering candles graced the tables with flickering light as uniformed waiters glided among the planted palm trees, serving rich, powerful guests.

The maître d’ immediately recognized Vladimir. “Your Highness!” Clapping his hands, he bowed with a flourish and escorted them to the best table.

“Everyone is looking at us,” Bree muttered as they walked across the gleaming parquet.

Relieved she was finally talking to him again, Vladimir reached over to take her hand in his. “They’re looking at you.”

As they were seated, Bree’s cheeks were pink, her eyes glowing in the flickering light of the candles and warmth of the high-ceilinged restaurant. Soaring above them on the ceiling were nineteenth-century frescoes, country scenes of the aristocracy at play.

When the waiter came, Vladimir ordered a short glass of vodka, then turned to Bree. “What would you like to drink?”

She tilted her head. “The same.”

“It’s vodka.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Are you sure?” He lifted a dark eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as much of a drinker.”

She shrugged. “I can handle myself.”

Her bravado was provocative. He looked at her beautiful, impassive face, at the way her dark eyelashes brushed her pale skin, at the way her stubborn chin lifted from her long, graceful neck. He wondered what she would say if she knew what he was thinking.

“Your Highness?” the waiter said in Russian.

Vladimir turned back to him and gave the order. After the man left, Bree said abruptly, “Where did you learn Russian? It wasn’t at school.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t,” she admitted. “But I know you and your brother grew up on the same land that now belongs to Josie—or will, in three years.” She tilted her head. “It’s funny we never met. Both of us growing up in the same state.”

“That land was in our family for four generations. A thousand miles from anything. You know.” He drummed his fingertips on the table, looking for the waiter with the vodka. “So we kept to ourselves. My father spoke Russian with us. He was proud of our history. He homeschooled us. In the long winters, we read Pushkin, Tolstoy.” Vladimir’s lips twisted. “It was my mother who made sure our home had food and wood. The land is our legacy. In our blood.”

“Why did your mother sell it to my father?”

His body tightened. “I was desperate for money to start our business. Kasimir absolutely refused to sell. He’d made some deathbed promise to our father. But I knew this was the only way.”

“You had nothing else to sell? You couldn’t take a loan?”

“Mining equipment is expensive. There is no guarantee of success. Banks offered to loan us a pitiful amount—not nearly enough to have the outfit I wanted. We’d already sold the last item of value our family possessed—a necklace that belonged to my great-grandmother—to help fund college in St. Petersburg.
Spasiba,
” he said to the waiter, who’d just placed their drinks on the table. Reaching for his vodka, he continued, “So I talked to my mother. Alone. And convinced her to sell.”

“Behind your brother’s back?” Bree’s eyes widened. “No wonder he hates you.”

Knocking back his head, Vladimir took a deep drink and felt the welcoming burn down his throat. “I knew what I was doing.”

“Really.” Bree’s cheeks were pink, but her troubled gaze danced in the flickering candlelight. “Do you know what you’re doing now?”

“Now?” He set his glass back on the table with a clunk. “I am trying to make you happy.”

Her eyes were impassive. “Without letting me go.”

Reaching across the table, he took her hand in his larger one. “I have no intention of letting you go. Ever.”

“Why?” She swallowed, then glanced right and left at all the well-dressed people around them. “You could have any woman you want. Even the gorgeous secretaries at your office...”

“But I want only the best.” His hand tightened over hers. “And the best is you.”

She stared at him, then shook her head. “I can see how you twist women’s hearts around your little finger.”

“There’s only one woman I want.” He looked at her beautiful, stricken face over the flickering candle. “I’ve never forgotten you, Breanna. Or stopped wanting you.”

He felt her hand tremble before she wrenched it from his grasp. She reached wildly for her untouched glass of vodka and, tilting back her head, drank the whole thing down in a single gulp.

That gulp ended with a coughing fit. Reaching around her, he patted her on the back. Her face was red when she finally managed a deep breath, wheezing as she quipped, “See? I know how to handle vodka. No problem.”

Somewhat relieved by her deliberate change of subject, Vladimir laughed, his eyes lingering on her beautiful face. He’d said too much. And yet it was oddly exhilarating. The adrenaline rush of emotional honesty put skydiving to shame, he thought. About time he tried it.

The waiter returned to take their order, and Vladimir requested a dinner that included Astrakhan beluga caviar and oysters, vodka-marinated salmon and black risotto, steak in a cream sauce and a selection of salads, breads and cheeses. Bree shook her head in disbelief when the exotic food started arriving at the table, but ninety minutes later, as she gracefully dropped the linen napkin across her mostly empty plate, she was sighing with satisfied pleasure.

“You,” she proclaimed, “are a genius.”

He gave her a crooked grin, ridiculously pleased by her praise. “I’ve come here a few times, so I knew what to order.”

“That was perfect.” She rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course.” Vladimir watched her disappear down the hall toward the ladies’ room, and realized he was sitting alone at the best table in the most famous restaurant in St. Petersburg, grinning to himself like a fool. Feeling sheepish, he looked around him.

His gaze fell on a face he recognized, of a man sitting alone in a booth on the other side of the restaurant. This particular man in this particular place was so unexpected that it took him thirty seconds to even place him, though they’d spent many hours across the same poker table over the past two months. The Hale Ka’nani hotel manager, Greg Hudson. What was he doing in St. Petersburg?