One Kiss in... Moscow: Kholodov's Last Mistress / The Man She Shouldn't Crave / Strangers When We Meet

His mouth twitched in something that just hinted at a smile and he set his wine glass back down on the table. ‘You’re very candid, aren’t you?’

‘If you’re saying I’m honest, then yes. But not nosy,’ she added, daring to tease just a little. ‘If I were nosy, I’d ask you why you don’t want to talk about personal things.’

His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring slightly even as he smiled and picked up his wine glass once more. ‘Good thing you’re not nosy, then.’

Hannah watched him, curiosity sharpening inside her. Sergei Kholodov was, she decided, a man with secrets. Ones he had no intention of telling her. Yet she was intrigued and a little bit intimidated … and attracted. Definitely attracted. The desire she felt was heady and new, for men like Sergei Kholodov—or even men under the age of fifty—generally didn’t come to Hadley Springs all that often, much less ask her out on dates. And this was a date … wasn’t it?

‘Good thing,’ she finally agreed, and Sergei’s mouth curved into a smile that suddenly seemed to Hannah both predatory and possessive.

‘In any case,’ he said, his tone turning lazy and even sensual, his gaze heavy-lidded, ‘I’d much rather talk about you.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘ME?’ HANNAH stared at him, registering that lazy tone, that sensual smile. A thrill raced through her. ‘I don’t know why,’ she told him. ‘We’ve already talked about me. And I’m very boring.’

Sergei’s smile deepened, his gaze sweeping slowly—so slowly—over her. ‘That remains to be seen.’

She let out a little laugh. ‘Trust me.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

Hannah shrugged and gave up the argument. He’d learn soon enough how mundane her life seemed, especially to a millionaire like him. ‘Okay.’ She spread her hands, gave him a playfully challenging smile. ‘Shoot.’

‘Tell me more about this shop,’ Sergei said and Hannah blinked. What had she been expecting, that he would demand to know her most intimate secrets, or lack of them? Well, sort of.

‘I told you about it already,’ she said. ‘There’s not much more to tell.’ He said nothing, merely watched her, and so Hannah elaborated, ‘It’s a little shop. Just a little shop.’

‘Knitting, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘You like to knit?’

Hannah stared at him, swallowed. It was a logical question, an innocuous question, and yet it felt both loaded and knowing. Something about the way Sergei gazed at her with that shrewd assessment made Hannah feel as if he’d stripped away her secrets and seen right into her soul.

Which was absurd, because she didn’t have any secrets. ‘Not really,’ she said, smiling. ‘My mother taught me when I was little, but I never got past purling. She gave up on me eventually, much to my relief.’

‘I see.’ And in those two words Hannah heard how much he saw, or at least thought he saw. He really did have a dark view of the world, she decided, reading the worst into everything. He was starting to make her do that a little bit too, and she didn’t like it.

‘I like the business side of it,’ she said, even though that wasn’t quite true. She didn’t mind it would be more accurate.

‘And so you continue with this shop alone.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ He was still watching her, his eyes narrowed, lips parted. Everything about him seemed sharp and hard except for those lips. They were soft, mobile, warm-looking. She was really quite fascinated with them. Hannah jerked her gaze upwards. ‘I can’t imagine doing anything else,’ she said simply. ‘And I have lots of plans to improve it.’

‘It needs improving?’

‘Doesn’t everything? In any case, as I said before, the shop was everything to my mom and dad. I can’t just let that go.’

‘But to you?’

‘It’s very important to me,’ she said firmly, but she felt, for the first time, as if she was lying. The realisation jolted her, like when you thought there was one more step on a staircase.

‘Tell me about this trip of yours,’ Sergei said. ‘Have you been to many places?’

‘A few.’ She smiled, glad not to think about the shop any more. ‘I bought a rail pass and have been working my way through Europe. Moscow was the last stop.’

‘Which would account for the flight you missed about two hours ago.’

She swallowed, reality landing with an unwelcome thud. ‘Right.’

‘With my help, I don’t think it should be difficult to reschedule your flight tomorrow.’

Relief mingled with reality. Even so, as glad as she would be to have her passport sorted, she didn’t want this night to end. Yet if she believed Sergei—which she did—she’d be back in Hadley Springs in twenty-four hours. ‘You can pull some serious strings, I guess,’ Hannah said. It was hard to imagine that kind of power.

Sergei shrugged one shoulder, the movement one of careless and understated authority. ‘In Russia it is all about who you know.’

‘Well, I obviously didn’t know the right people. The lady at the embassy wasn’t interested in my sob story at all.’ Hannah smiled wryly before quickly adding, ‘She was helpful and nice, of course—’

‘Of course,’ Sergei agreed, his amused tone suggesting he thought otherwise. He leaned forward, eyes glinting. ‘Or maybe she was just a miserable cow who never spares a thought for the hapless traveller who comes to her window.’

Hannah shook her head slowly. ‘Do you think the worst of everyone?’

‘I haven’t thought the worst of you,’ Sergei pointed out blandly.

Curious, she raised her eyebrows. ‘And just what would the worst about me be?’

‘That you planned to be pickpocketed in my presence so I’d help you—’

Hannah nearly choked on the wine she’d been sipping. ‘What?’

‘And then finagle and flirt your way into my good graces, and most likely my bed.’

Now Hannah really did choke. She doubled over, coughing and sputtering, while Sergei solicitously poured her more water. She straightened, wiping her streaming eyes, and stared at him in disbelief. ‘Do women really do that kind of thing? To you?’

Another one-shoulder shrug. ‘On occasion.’

She shook her head, incredulous and reeling a little bit from the casual mention of his bed. And her in it. ‘And they’re not scared off by your incredibly surly attitude?’

Now he grinned, properly, not a lazy smile that Hannah suspected was meant to singe her senses. This was a smile of genuine humour, and she was glad. It made her grin right back. ‘I wish they were,’ he said.

‘I’m sure,’ she replied tartly. ‘It must be so very tedious to fight all these women off. How do you make it down the street?’

‘With difficulty.’

‘Poor you.’

Still smiling, he poured her more wine. Wine she shouldn’t drink, because she was already feeling rather delightfully light-headed. ‘In any case, we were talking about this trip of yours. Why did you want to travel so much?’

‘Because I never had before,’ Hannah said simply. ‘I’ve spent my entire life in upstate New York—’

‘What about university?’

‘I went to the state university, in Albany, just an hour away.’

‘What did you study?’

‘Literature. Poetry, mainly. Not very practical. My parents wanted me to take a degree in business.’ She swallowed, remembering how they’d wrung their hands and shaken their heads. Literature won’t get you anywhere, Hannah. It won’t help with the shop.

The shop. Always the shop. The stirring of resentment surprised her. Why had she never thought this way before? Because she’d never met someone like Sergei before, asking his questions, making her doubt. And thrilling her to her very core.

‘But you kept with literature?’ Sergei asked, and Hannah jerked her unfocused gaze back to Sergei’s knowing one.

‘I left.’ She shrugged, dismissing what had been a devastating decision with a simple twist of her shoulders. It was a long time ago now, and she’d never regretted it. Not really.

‘Why?’

She looked up, saw that telling shrewd compassion in his narrowed gaze, and wondered how he was able to guess so much. Know so much. ‘My father had a stroke when I was twenty. It was too difficult for my mother to cope with him and the shop, so I came home and helped out. I intended to return to school when things got settled, but somehow—’

‘They never did,’ Sergei finished softly, and Hannah knew he understood.

She lifted her shoulders in another accepting shrug. No point feeling sad about something that had happened years ago, something that had been her choice. ‘It happens.’

‘It must have been hard to leave university.’

‘It was,’ Hannah admitted. ‘But I promised myself I’d go back, and I will one day.’

‘To study business or literature?’

‘Literature,’ Hannah said firmly, a little surprised by how much she meant it.

Sergei’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘So you do have your own dream after all.’

Hannah stared at him. ‘I guess I do,’ she said after a moment. ‘Although I’m not sure what I’d actually do with that kind of degree. I took an evening course back home, on Emily Dickinson, an American poet. But …’ She shrugged, shook her head. ‘It’s not like I’m going to become a poet or something.’

Sergei’s smile deepened. ‘And here I thought you were an optimist.’

She let out a little laugh. ‘Yes, I am. So who knows, maybe I’ll start spouting sonnets.’

He pretended to shudder. ‘Please don’t.’

Hannah laughed aloud, emboldened by that little glimpse of humour. She propped her elbows on the table and hefted her wine glass aloft. ‘“I bring an unaccustomed wine,”’ she quoted, ‘“To lips long parching, next to mine, And summon them to drink.”’

The words fell into the stillness, created ripples in the silence like wind on the surface of a pond. The intimacy of the verse seemed to reverberate between them as Sergei’s heavy-lidded gaze rested thoughtfully on her and he slowly reached for his wine glass. ‘Emily Dickinson?’ he surmised softly, and Hannah nodded, too affected by the lazy, languorous look in his eyes to speak. Obviously she’d had too much wine if she’d started quoting poetry. Slowly, his gaze still heavy on her, Sergei raised his glass and drank. Unable—and unwilling—to look away, Hannah drank too.

It wasn’t a toast, it wasn’t anything, and yet Hannah felt as if something inexplicably important had just passed between them, as if they’d both silently agreed … yet to what?

‘How old are you now?’ Sergei asked abruptly, breaking the moment, and Hannah set her wine glass down with a little clatter.

‘Twenty-six. I know it’s been a while since college but I will go back,’ she told him with a sudden, unexpected fierceness. ‘When I have the money—’

‘Saved?’ Sergei slotted in and she gave a little laugh.

‘I know what you’re thinking. I shouldn’t have blown all my money on this trip if I really wanted to go back to college.’ And that was probably true, but she’d needed this trip. After her mother had died and her closest friend Ashley had moved to California, Hannah had felt more alone than ever. She couldn’t have faced continuing on, alone in the shop, struggling to make ends, if not meet, then at least see each other. She’d needed to get away, to experience things. Still, she knew it had been impulsive, imprudent, maybe even just plain stupid. Something a man like Sergei Kholodov never would have done.

‘You probably shouldn’t have,’ Sergei agreed dryly. ‘But sometimes a little impulsive action can be a good thing.’

Like now? For surely having dinner alone with this man was the most impulsive and maybe even imprudent thing she’d ever done. Yet Hannah knew she wouldn’t trade this evening for anything. She was having too much fun.

She gave him an impish look from under her lashes. ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that,’ she told him, ‘considering how you chewed me out this morning for leaving my passport in my pocket.’

‘There’s impulsive and then there’s insane,’ Sergei returned dryly.

‘I suppose it is a fine line.’

‘Very fine,’ he agreed softly, and she felt the thrill of his gaze through her bones.

‘So,’ she said, her voice only a little bit unsteady, ‘have you done anything impulsive like that? Imprudent?’ She took a sip of wine, savouring the rich, velvety liquid. ‘Let me guess,’ she joked. ‘You probably ate shoe leather and slept on the street in order to save to start your own business.’

Sergei’s face darkened in an eclipse of expression, his features twisting with sudden cruel savagery, and Hannah stilled. For a second, no more, it was as if she’d had a view of the true man underneath the hard, handsome exterior, and it was someone who held darker secrets and deeper pain than she’d ever imagined. Then his face cleared and he smiled. ‘You’re not that far off,’ he said lightly, and whatever had passed a moment before was hidden away again.

‘Well, this trip was important to me,’ she told him, matching his light tone. ‘Whether it made sense or not.’

‘So your mother called you back from university to help out. She couldn’t have got someone else to help, and let you finish?’

‘She gave me a choice.’ She still remembered the phone call, how her mother hadn’t wanted to tell her the truth about her father’s condition, insisted she stay at university.

‘Did she?’ Sergei asked softly and Hannah stared at him. What was he suggesting? And why? He’d never even met her mother.

‘She wanted me to finish, but I insisted on coming home,’ Hannah explained. She lifted her chin and met his thoughtful gaze squarely. ‘I wanted to be there.’

Sergei simply nodded, and Hannah knew he didn’t believe her. She laid down her fork, her appetite—and her excitement—gone for the moment. ‘What on earth has made you so cynical?’ she asked. ‘Everything is so suspect to you. Everyone.’ From the boys on the street to the woman at the embassy to her very own mother. ‘Why are you so—’

‘Experience,’ Sergei cut in succinctly.

Hannah shook her head and flung one arm out to take in their opulent surroundings. ‘You’re a millionaire so your life can’t be all bad.’

‘Don’t they say money can’t buy happiness?’

‘Still, some things must have gone right in your life,’ she insisted. ‘Can’t you think of one thing that’s good?’

He let out a short laugh. ‘You’re quite the Pollyanna.’

Hannah made a face. ‘That sounds kind of sappy. But if you mean am I an optimist as you said before, then yes, I’d say I am. I don’t intend on going through life with a doom and gloom attitude. What good does that do you?’

Sergei stared at her for a moment. ‘Well,’ he finally said, ‘at least it keeps you from disappointment.’

‘And it keeps you from properly living as well,’ Hannah returned. That was what this trip had been about: jumping in and just doing it, living life to the full. After six years of staying home, caring first for her father and then for her mother in the onset of dementia, she had been ready. She propped her elbows on the table and gave him a challenging look, eyebrows arched, lips parted. ‘Tell me one really good thing that’s happened to you. Or, better yet, one really good person you’ve known. A friend or family member. Someone who made a difference. Someone you could never be cynical about.’

‘Why?’ he asked and she rolled her eyes.

‘Because I said so. Because I want to show you that some things—some people—are actually through-and-through good.’

He leaned forward, and Hannah saw a steely glitter in those light blue eyes that sent a shiver stealing straight down her spine. ‘I could just lie.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘Are we having fun?’ he drawled softly, and Hannah gave him a playfully flirtatious look.

‘Aren’t we?’ she said, and saw gold flare in his irises.

He held her gaze, trapped her with it, and Hannah felt her body hum with awareness, an excitement uncoiling in her middle and sending its sensual tendrils throughout her body, taking it over. It was heady, thrilling, addictive. This was really living … and it was something she’d never really done before. She wanted more.

‘I suppose we are,’ Sergei said slowly and Hannah did not look away. ‘Alyona,’ he finally said, abruptly, and Hannah blinked, struggling to catch up. Just gazing at him had sent her mind—and body—into a kind of hyper-aware overdrive.

‘Alyona?’

‘Alyona.’ His neutral tone gave nothing away. ‘She was one good person I knew.’ And by the way he said it Hannah didn’t think Alyona—whoever she was—was in his life any more.

‘Well,’ she said, sitting back, the heady excitement leaking out from her like air from a balloon a week after the party, ‘there you go. There is someone good in your life. Someone you don’t need to be cynical about. Tell me about her.’

‘No,’ he said, flatly, and Hannah stiffened a little at the rebuke, strangely hurt. She had no right to demand his secrets, even if she’d been halfway to giving him hers … the ones she hadn’t even realised she had.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘at least you have one.’

‘Had.’ His forbidding expression kept her from asking any more questions. She was intensely curious about this Alyona, even though Hannah knew she had no right to know. Had she been a girlfriend, a wife? Had Sergei loved her? Was that why he seemed so closed, so cynical now? Maybe he was hiding a broken heart. Or maybe she’d just watched too many soap operas.

‘So why are you so suspicious of people?’ she asked, trying to sound light even though she really wanted to know. ‘Trusting no one?’

‘I told you, experience. Most people have a reason for what they do, and it usually isn’t a very nice one.’ His mouth curved once more in a sensual smile. ‘Except maybe you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. You have to be the most refreshingly—and annoyingly—optimistic person I’ve ever met.’

Hannah nearly sputtered in outrage. ‘Annoyingly?’

‘Optimism tends to irritate us cynics.’

‘Maybe you need a little more optimism in your life, then.’ Sergei considered her from heavy-lidded eyes, his gaze sweeping slowly, so slowly over her, and excitement exploded inside her. Did he know how sensual he looked when he gazed at her like that? Almost as if he were undressing her with his eyes. And Hannah felt awareness and desire race along her veins and nerve-endings, set her whole body to liquid flame. She wanted this. Whatever it was, whatever was going to happen, she wanted this.

His gaze flicked upwards to her face and rested there, assured, assessing. ‘Maybe I do,’ he murmured.

CHAPTER FOUR

WHAT the hell was he doing? Sergei watched Hannah’s eyes darken—with desire, he knew—and felt that guilt needle him again. He was tired of it; since when had he had a conscience? He couldn’t have done the things he’d done in this life and still keep a conscience. Yet it seemed he had, at least when it came to a woman like Hannah Pearl.

She’d reminded him of Alyona with the flashing in her eyes and the lift of the chin and the way she smiled so whimsically, as if life still offered good things. Hope. She’d even made him mention Alyona, and he never did that.

The realisation made him angry and he uncoiled himself from his chair, crossing to where Hannah waited. He held out a hand to help her rise from her seat and she took it unhesitatingly, her eyes still so heartbreakingly wide.

Did she realise how she looked? Sergei wondered. Did she have any idea of what her sweetness did to him, how it both lacerated him with guilt and filled him with need? Made him want to both believe in and shatter her illusions?

‘Come.’

‘Where?’

She spoke with such trust. Gently Sergei tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. Her skin was achingly soft, and he could smell the snowdrop scent of her hair and see the pulse fluttering in her throat. ‘I have a private dining room for my personal use,’ he told her. ‘We’ll have a drink there.’

‘I think I’ve had enough to drink,’ Hannah said with a breathless little laugh.

Sergei smiled. ‘Dessert, then.’ She was certainly sweet enough.

Hannah stared at him, her eyes wide, and, no matter how innocent she was, Sergei knew she understood where this was leading. She bit her lip, her gaze sweeping downward for a moment and Sergei almost—almost—let her go. Told her to leave.

Forget him. Then she looked up, and he saw a new strength of determination in those violet eyes.

‘Lead the way,’ she said, lightly, and he threaded his fingers through hers and led her to the discreet wood-panelled door in the back of the dining room that led to his own private room.

The door snicked softly shut and he turned to her, the pretence of a drink or dessert dropped.

‘What—?’ she began, and then stopped, so clearly waiting.

‘What am I doing?’ he filled in, in a lazy murmur. ‘I’m going to kiss you.’

‘Kiss me—’ Hannah felt a bolt of amazed longing blaze through her. She could hardly believe this was happening, that a man like Sergei—so powerful, so incredibly attractive—could want her. She stopped, let out a soft sigh that she knew was her surrender. She wanted this. This kiss, and more than that. Wherever it led. Whatever happened. She was innocent, even naive, yes, but she knew what was going on. Knew what Sergei wanted … and what she wanted. This. ‘Kiss you,’ Sergei confirmed. He reached out to cup her face, his palm rough and warm against her cheek. He let his thumb slide down to touch the fullness of her lips. ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’

Hannah let out a little laugh. ‘You’re a man of some experience, I should think. Can’t you tell?’

He laughed back, softly. ‘Yes, I can tell.’

And Hannah wanted him too much to care if she seemed transparent, obvious, eager. She smiled, waited. She wanted this, but she still would prefer him to take the lead.

And Sergei did just that, sliding his hands under her hair, drawing her closer. She came, willingly, even as her heart thudded hard and her head fell back and she waited for the feel of his mouth on hers.

It was so easy. Too easy. Easy enough to be wrong. Sergei pushed the thought aside. He wasn’t going to think about her innocence or optimism or how she made him remember. He was just going to take what was on offer, because that was what he did. That was how he’d survived.

And that was the only kind of man he could be.

He cupped her face with both of his hands, letting his thumbs slide caressingly over her jawbone, enjoying the warm, silken feel of her skin. He slid his hands along her neck, under the heavy mass of her hair, and then he drew her to him, unresisting as he’d known she would be.

The first brush of his lips against hers was exquisitely painful, because he hadn’t expected to kiss her so softly, or feel it so much. Purposefully, wanting to obliterate that sweet longing and replace it with something more primal and stark, he deepened the kiss, nudging her lips further open so his tongue could slide into the moist warmth of her mouth and take sure possession.

She made a little sound, something caught between a gasp of surprise and a moan of longing, and her hands reached up to his shoulders, although whether to pull him closer or simply steady herself Sergei didn’t know. Refused to care.

He’d wanted to stay rational throughout this encounter, cold-bloodedly in control, but already her innocent and unschooled response was making rational thought—or any thought—impossible, and now he deepened their kiss because he needed to, not because he was trying to prove something to her … or to himself.

His hands moved down her body, sliding over her hips, fingers slipping under the soft material of her dress. Another gasp when his hand came in contact with the bare flesh of her thigh. Her every response was artless and open; she was as honest with her body as she had been with everything else.

Sergei slid one hand around the silken length of her thigh, nudging her leg upward towards his hip, his hand sliding down to her ankle as he hooked her leg around him. He moved closer, pressing against her, his arousal—and his intent—unmistakable.

It was enough to break the moment, which, on some level, Sergei knew, was what he wanted. Even if right now his body protested with unfulfilled desire, deepening need.

He still felt the guilt.

Hannah gasped and pulled away, just a little bit. Sergei let her go. Her breath came in gasps and her lips were rosy and swollen, her hair a dark, tumbled cloud around her flushed face. She looked gorgeous.

‘This … this is all going a little fast for me,’ she said, and gave an unsteady laugh.

Sergei smiled. ‘Is it?’

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said, still so achingly honest and open. ‘But I’m …’ She pressed her hands to her face in a desperate and pointless attempt to cool the blush that scorched her cheeks. ‘I’m not used to this.’

‘I know that,’ he told her. ‘You’re a virgin, aren’t you?’

Hannah’s eyes widened, her face flushing more, if that were even possible. She was positively crimson. ‘It’s obvious, I suppose,’ she said, and Sergei tilted his head in acknowledgement.

‘Very.’

She dropped her hands, her gaze sliding away from his as she let out a rueful little laugh that caught on its final aching note. ‘You must think I’m a complete idiot.’

He could have said no. He could have drawn her into his arms and assured her that she was beautiful, desirable, perfect. All true. And then he could have taken her upstairs and made love to her all night long. In the morning she would be gone, and so would he. Easy.

Sergei said nothing.

Hannah’s head was bowed, her hair falling forward in a dark swirl to hide her face. She looked young and fragile and Sergei could still taste her on his lips. He almost spoke. Then she lifted her head, her eyes darkened to the deepest violet, and took a step forward. She laid her palms flat on his chest, and he could feel the warmth of her hands through the silk of his shirt. His heart thudded hard under her palm. He stared at her, inhaled her honeyed scent, and his heart beat harder.

‘I suppose,’ she said softly, tilting her head back so she could look at him, her hair cascading down her back in a glinting chestnut river, ‘it all depends on whether you mind.’

‘Mind?’ he repeated blankly. The honest, artless placement of her hands on his chest—especially when he’d just, through silence, rejected her—made him incapable of thought.

He’d never been so blindsided by a woman before, not just by her touch but by her whole self. He could see such an openness, such a willingness to be hurt in Hannah’s eyes that it humbled and amazed and angered him all at the same time. No one should be so vulnerable. It could only lead to disappointment and pain.

‘Mind me being an idiot,’ she clarified in a whisper, her voice lilting and playful even though her eyes were dark and wide and he felt her fingers tremble against him. Sergei knew this needed to stop. He also knew how to do it.

‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ he assured her in a lazy murmur, and then he closed the space between their mouths in a kiss that was nothing like the gentle embrace of a moment ago. This kiss was hard, demanding, a proof of power.

You don’t move me.

He felt Hannah’s yielding response and he slipped his hands from her shoulders to her hips, pulling her to him in shockingly intimate contact. At least she was shocked, innocent that she was, for he heard her gasp against his mouth before he deepened the kiss once more, an endless demand for her surrender.

And surrender she did, her body becoming soft and pliant, melting towards his as her mouth slackened under his onslaught and her hands came up to clench his hair. Her heart trembled against his and her breath came in mewing gasps; Sergei lost all conscious thought, blindly driven by a need that was far more than merely physical.

Why did this woman—this irritatingly optimistic Pollyanna of a woman—make him feel so much? Need so much? Remember?

His hands slid under her bottom and he pressed her against the door, pulling her legs around his waist, his hands rucking up her skirt. Needing to feel skin against skin. Forgetting that this was just meant to be a way to make her push him away.

Her arms locked around his neck, her head thrown back, her lips parted as her heart thundered against his. His breath came in harsh, tearing gasps, and his fingers brushed the lace of her underwear. ‘Sergei,’ she said, his name a ragged whisper, and the desire and anger that had been rushing through him in a molten river of emotion so he couldn’t tell one from the other froze to an icy stream of lucidity.

She was a virgin.

And he was mauling her against a door, her mouth swollen and maybe even bruised from his kisses.

What was he doing? What had he done? He’d meant to scare her off with a kiss, but this … willing or not, she still didn’t know what she was doing.

He did.

He pushed away from her, half stumbling, a self-loathing so deep and consuming it felt like acid corroding the soul he’d thought he’d lost long ago.

‘Sergei,’ she said again, and this time he knew it was a question, one he couldn’t answer.

He ran his hands through his hair, dragged a breath into his lungs and then let it out in a long, slow shudder. Hannah straightened, fixed her dress. Her hands trembled.

Sergei looked away. It was better this way, he knew. Better to end something he never should have begun … for both their sakes.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. She might be a virgin, innocent and optimistic as Sergei had said, but even with the most positive outlook possible Hannah knew this wasn’t good. Sergei wasn’t even looking at her. And after his mouth—and his hands—the places they’d been on her body, the way they’d made her feel—

Until now. Now she felt pretty close to wretched. She swallowed, her throat dry and aching. ‘I guess I’m more of an idiot than I thought,’ she finally said, trying to sound wry although her voice was little more than a croak. Still she tried to smile. She didn’t know what else to do.