In Wilde Country (3 page)

“Ms. Rostov.” Kaz moved closer. Are you all right?”

She shut her eyes. He had the sudden insane desire to close the remaining space between them and draw her into his arms.

He stepped nearer. Nearer…

She blinked. Looked at him. Whatever he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes was gone.

“I see no reason to discuss my family with you, Mr. Savitch. You are an employee. Nothing more.”

Her tone took cold to an entirely new level. Kaz responded in kind.

“You are correct, Ms. Rostov. There’s no reason for us to discuss anything. Now, I have work to do.”

He turned away from her, went to his desk, sat down and began leafing through a stack of papers. A moment passed.

“Mr. Savitch.”

Kaz looked up.

“Surely, you cannot expect me to spend the day standing here.”

“I offered you a chair.”

“You told me to sit. One tells pet dogs to sit. I am not your pet.”

X-rated images filled Kaz’s head.

He imagined what it would be like to pet her, touch her, run his hand over that fall of platinum hair, stroke his finger lightly along her plump mouth until her lips parted in invitation. She wouldn’t be so damned haughty once he’d undressed her, caressed her, made her beg for him to take her…

Hell.

Kaz hit the call button on the intercom.

“Sir?”

“Susan. Go to the newsstand in the lobby. Buy some magazines. Newspapers.”

“What kind, sir?”

Kaz glared at Ekaterina Rostov. “What do you like to read?”

The New York Times. The New York Review of Books…

“Ms. Rostov. What do you want from the newsstand?”

“Save your money. I don’t want anything.”

“Use your judgment, Susan. Half a dozen gossip magazines. Stuff about fashion,” Kaz said, never taking his gaze from his assignment. Because that was what she was. An overly- indulged assignment with enough attitude to launch a rocket, and why in hell had he been stupid enough to let Castelianos dump her on him? “Glossy crap. Just don’t get anything that uses words of more than two syllables. Got that?”

“Got it, sir. Uh, Mr. Savitch? The minister phoned again. He said—”

“I’m not interested in what he said. Get those magazines, please.”

Kaz disconnected. His PA did, too.

And if looks could kill, the one Ekaterina Rostov shot him would surely have done the job.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
en minutes later,
Susan knocked at the door. She had half a dozen magazines clutched to her chest.

Kaz jerked his chin toward the low table in front of the black leather sofa that stood at the far end of his office

“Put them there.”

His PA nodded and did what he’d asked with only a quick look at the woman sitting stiffly in the corner of the sofa.

“What’s that?” Kaz said, glowering at a copy of the day’s New York Times.

“I know what you said, Mr. Savitch, but I thought, you know, a little variety…”

Her voice trailed away. Ekaterina Rostov looked at her.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you, Miss…?”

“It’s Susan.”

“Thank you, Susan. For the Times, especially. That was very thoughtful.”

Kaz pretended he was reading a report, but he watched the little performance. A performance was surely what it was, and a good one. The pleasant voice. The polite words. The smile. It all seemed genuine enough that his PA flashed him a look that could only be called disapproving as she left his office.

Kaz frowned, went back to reading the reports…

No. Not really.

Having someone in the room while he worked was a distraction. Having a female someone, a gorgeous someone, even if she was a pain-in-the-ass someone…

He looked up.

Ekaterina Rostov had taken off her coat and placed it neatly beside her. She wore a simple gray dress. Long sleeves, rounded neckline, the skirt just skimming her knees as she sat stiffly upright, feet planted side by side.

She was reading.

Wearing glasses, and reading.

Glasses?

What kind of party girl would be seen in glasses as she read the Times?

Kaz put down the report he’d been pretending to read.

“What are you doing?”

His tone was harsh. She looked up and stared at him.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“I got you a bunch of magazines.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t read the ones you requested.”

“Give me a break, Ms. Rostov. The Times?”

Her gaze was cool and steady. “The euro is down against the dollar. Perhaps it’s just as well that Sardovia didn’t give up the zlot for the euro.”

Kaz blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said. And I don’t know what it is you’re trying to pull, but it won’t work.”

“I agree.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that the individual who actually administers this fund might be interested in what’s happening to the euro, but we both know that person is not you.”

“Are you crazy? Of course it’s me.”

“Yes, so you would like the king and the people to think, but—”

“Who filled you with such nonsense? Your father?”

“I am aware of life’s realities.”

“You are aware of the cushy life you lead. What could you possibly know about international currency?”

Katie glared at her guard. Her captor. The man who would deliver her into a lifetime of servitude. Why play games? She had kept the media from knowing anything about her beyond the lies, the façade she had created as self-protection, but what did that matter now? What did it matter what anyone thought about her, especially this man?

“I find economics interesting. I studied it in school.”

He laughed.

“I’m glad that amuses you.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to believe that you have a degree in eco?”

“No. That’s incorrect.”

Kaz snorted. “Yeah. I’ll bet it is.”

“My degree is in sociology, but I took several courses in finance.”

“You. The daughter of a thug named Gregor Rostov.”

“Why would you, of all people, call my father a thug?”

“I know of him, Ms. Rostov.”

“Yes. I’m sure you do.”

“And you want me to believe that you’re a scholar?”

Katie longed to slap that smug look from Kazimir Savitch’s arrogant, too-handsome-for-his-own-good face.

“I don’t claim to be a scholar. But I do have a degree. My father thought to humor me.” Her smile was swift and bitter. “He believed college might be the best place for me to find a wealthy husband.”

“Until he figured out a way to sell you to Prince Dmitri.”

“You said that you know him.” She hesitated. “Do you know him well?”

Why tell her Dmitri was his uncle? The very thought was repugnant.

Kaz shrugged. “Sardovia is a small country. And you want me to believe that the Ekaterina Rostov the media knows and the Ekaterina Rostov in my office are two different women.”

God, how self-righteous he sounded. Katie’s temper soared.

“That you don’t know better than to believe everything you read only proves what an abysmal ass you are!”

Her heart flew into her throat as the full impact of what she’d just said hit her.

Kazimir Stavitch was looking at her as if he wanted to murder her.

Or maybe haul her over his knee and paddle her.

Or maybe—or maybe silence her by putting his firm, sculpted mouth against hers and kissing her until she was senseless.

The image was almost overpowering. That she would, even for a moment, be attracted to a man like this…

“Don’t stop now,” he said softly. “Go ahead. Your observations of me are fascinating.”

“Nothing about being here is fascinating,” Katie said, forcing the words to sound loaded with disdain. “And I’m hungry.” She tossed the Times aside and got to her feet. “Surely even prisoners get bread and water.”

Nothing. No response. No reaction at all.

“Mr. Savitch. My father will not reward you if I show up looking like a skeleton.”

“You have far too many curves to look like a skeleton, Ms. Rostov.”

His voice was low. Silken. Her breath caught. The way he was looking at her…

“You will not speak to me in that manner,” she said, and hoped he didn’t catch the unsteadiness in her words.

He didn’t answer. Then he smiled.

The smile was almost her undoing.

It was masculine. Sexy. It made her forget what he was, who he was…

He stood up. Came slowly toward her. Before she could reach for her coat, it was in his hands.

He held it open.

She thought about refusing to accept the gesture, but she sensed that might be dangerous. The way he was looking at her was dangerous. It was safer to turn her back to him, let him help her into the coat…

Let herself close her eyes, only for an instant, and think about what it would be like to lean back against him.

His hands brushed her shoulders. She bit back a moan. What was wrong with her?

The answer was simple. She was tired. Worn out. There was no other explanation.

Besides, she knew what he was doing, that he was using charm or sex appeal, whatever you wanted to call it, to make her compliant.

If that was his plan, he was in for a difficult time.

* * * *

They walked along Fifth Avenue, his hand clasping her elbow.

She suspected they looked as if they were out on a date, perhaps as if they were lovers, but his grasp felt like iron. He wasn’t hurting her, but his strategy was clear.

He was not going to give her the chance to escape him.

The streets were crowded. Christmas was only days away, and shoppers were out in full force, clustered around the windows of Saks to ooh and aah at the beautiful holiday displays. Sidewalk Santas seemed to be everywhere, ringing their bells and wishing passersby Merry Christmas. There was even the feel of snow in the air.

Katie thought of what it would be like if they really were on a date, how thrilled she’d be to have this big, beautiful man at her side. They’d walk more slowly, take their time; their fingers would be intertwined. He’d smile at the things she said; she’d look up at him and laugh at his little jokes. They’d stop at the corner; he’d buy a bag of roasted chestnuts. She’d bite into one and tell him how delicious it was, and he’d look at her, his eyes gone dark and smoky, and bend his head to hers, right there in the crowded street, and he’d tell her that she was what was delicious, and he’d kiss her and kiss her…

“Here we are.”

She blinked.

Kazimir Savitch was holding open the door to a small restaurant. A rush of warm air and exotic spices engulfed her as she stepped inside.

“It’s Thai,” he said. “Is that all right with you?”

She looked at him. “You mean, I get a choice?”

His face darkened. He put his hand in the small of her back, pushed her forward.

“Mr. Savitch. It is good to see you, sir.”

The hostess was all smiles as she greeted them, then led them to a booth. Katie shrugged out of her coat before Kaz could try to help her. He reached for it, but she shook her head and left it draped around her shoulders as she slid into the booth.

Kaz sat down opposite her. A waiter offered them menus, but he waved them away.

“The red curry is great,” he said, looking at Katie. “So is the pad Thai. And the soups are—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

A muscle knotted in his cheek. He ordered half a dozen dishes. Katie said nothing. Once the waiter was gone, Kaz leaned forward.

On the walk here, he’d rethought the situation. Ekaterina Rostov was what she was. The same could be said for his foolishness in letting Zach lure him into this assignment. They had a couple of days to endure and then they’d be free of each other. It would be easier on them both if they got through those days without constant sniping.

“Ms. Rostov. I am not the enemy.”

“No? Then what are you?”

“I’m the man who’s charged with seeing to it that you don’t get yourself in trouble between now and Sunday, when I deliver you to Sardovia.”

She made a sound that might have been a laugh. He could have sworn he felt his blood pressure rise.

“You find that amusing?”

“Just listen to yourself, Mr. Savitch. You are going to
deliver
me. An interesting choice of words.”

“It’s even more interesting that you’re the Christmas gift for a man you’ve never set eyes on. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Doesn’t being my father’s delivery boy bother you?”

So much for getting through this without rancor.

“I am nobody’s delivery boy,” Kaz said harshly.

“Never mind. If it makes you feel better to view your job as routine, who am I to stop you?”

“And how, exactly, do
you
view it, Ms. Rostov?” They fell silent until the waiter had served their soup. Then Kaz leaned forward again. “You make it sound as if this is the fifteenth century and I’m the villain who will hand you off to an evil warlord.”

Katie looked at him. Then she unfolded her napkin and spread it neatly in her lap.

“You have the century wrong.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Figure it out, Mr. Savitch. “

“I’m not in the mood for games, Ekaterina. And skip the formality. My name is Kazimir. Kaz.”

“Mine is Katie.”

“It’s what?”

“Katie.” She shrugged. “I have lived a good portion of my life in America.”

Kaz sat back. He felt like a man trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle that had pieces missing. Ekaterina Rostov—Katie, of all things—was proving difficult to understand. Maybe she wasn’t the spoiled Queen of Mean. Was that possible? And was it possible she was less upset at having a bodyguard, a babysitter, hell, a delivery man or whatever you wanted to call what he was supposed to be, than she was by the job he was performing?

“I’m confused,” he said. “You’re heading home for your engagement party.”

“I am heading to Sardovia. For something called a betrothal ceremony. It’s much more formal than an engagement party—and it is legally binding.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Of course. I’m half Sardovian, half American.” He shrugged, offered a quick smile. “There are times I’m not sure which half is which.”

She picked up her spoon, dipped it in the soup and brought it to her mouth.

“Good?” he said.

She nodded. She supposed that it was good, but ever since her father had told her his plans, whatever she ate tasted like sawdust.

“So, let’s start again. I’m taking you to Sardovia. To your betrothal ceremony. To the Sardovian prince. Once the ceremony’s over, you’ll be as good as married to him.”

She looked at him. “There will be no going back.”

“No way to change your mind, you mean. Well, why would you want to?”

The spoon clattered as she dropped it into the bowl.

“This marriage was arranged by my father.”

“But you agreed to it.”

Her eyes flashed. “I did not.”

“Of course you did. This is the twenty-first century.”

“It’s—what did you call it? It’s the fifteenth century for men like my father.”

Kaz picked up his spoon, started to dip it into his bowl, then set it down.

“Let me be sure I understand this. You don’t want to get engaged. Sorry. Betrothed.”

“No.”

“You don’t want to marry the prince.”

“No.”

Kaz stared at her. “Goddammit, are you telling me the truth?”

She stared straight back, her gaze unflinching. Why was she saying all this to him? She didn’t know, but it was too late to take any of it back.

“The absolute truth.”

His expression was one of disbelief. She could hardly blame him.

“Did you tell this to Zach?”

She shook her head. “There would have been no point.”

“But you’re telling it to me.”

“Yes.”

“Because?”

Their eyes met. Held. Her heart thudded, and she broke the connection and looked down at her soup.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” His mouth twisted. “Could it be because you think I’m an easier mark? That I’ll turn my back and let you run?”

“Run?”

“Yes. Run.”

“You don’t understand. My mother is dying. She thinks this match is perfect. How could I run?”

“You tell me.”

She jerked her chin up and Kaz felt the breath rush from his lungs. Her eyes were bright with tears and even a cynic like him knew damn well that the tears were real.

A sob tore from her throat. Then she tossed her napkin on the table, shot to her feet and, just as he’d predicted, she ran.