My grandmother had worn this? Argument quashed. I slipped it on, not even surprised that it fit perfectly. As we descended the stairs, warmth enveloped me. “Why would Kovalev give me something like this?” He didn’t even know me.
“Who else should this coat go to, if not the owner’s only granddaughter?”
When he put it like that . . .
Down on the ground, a nondescript driver opened a door for me, but Sevastyan was the one who assisted me into the backseat.
Inside, a privacy screen separated us from the front. The tinted windows were so thick, I figured they had to be bulletproof. Sevastyan sat across from me—as far away as possible. As we pulled out of the airport, he refused to look at me, just kept his gaze focused out the window.
“So where is Kovalev’s place?”
“Outside of the city, on the Moskva River. Around an hour away.”
We were going to be trapped in this car together for an hour? With him in that mouthwatering GQ suit?
When we turned onto a larger road, I pried my gaze from him, longing to experience this new country. I glued my forehead to the window to see the sights, but all we passed were warehouses that could’ve just as easily been in America. Only the Cyrillic lettering differentiated them. “Will we drive through Moscow?”
“Not today.”
“I’m not going to see the city?”
“Nyet, Natalie.” Hard no.
In a defeated tone, I said, “Not a single onion dome?” I’d always loved viewing pictures of those quintessential Russian domes, so brightly colored and bold—even before I’d seen the two tattooed on his bicep.
“Perhaps you will,” he said in an enigmatic tone.
Silence reigned; industrial parks dominated for mile after mile. The ride was a special kind of hell. “It’s warm. Can I crack the window?”
“Out of the question,” he snapped.
I crossed my arms over my chest. If I’d had a flower in hand, I would have plucked its petals: he wants me; he wants me not. Last night I’d been convinced he desired more with me. Today, not so much. “I want to talk to you about what happened on the plane.”
With a glance at the privacy screen, he lowered his voice to say, “We agreed to put that behind us.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
“No, we did not agree. You suggested it, and I vetoed. Besides, you’re still thinking about it too.”
“Why would you believe that?” he asked, his voice husky.
“Because you’ve been shifting in your seat, and you’ve kept your coat buttoned in this warm car. I’ll bet you’re hard behind that material.”
He didn’t deny it.
“You’ve got to be thinking about it, because I can’t stop.”
“Try,” he said dismissively, turning away from me once more.
“It’s difficult when my every movement reminds me of what we did.” Because of this delicious, new, secret soreness. I admitted, “My ass feels like I’ve been horseback riding for the last two days.” And I wouldn’t trade the experience, or the twinges, for the world.
Gazing out the window, he languidly curled his lips, his expression the epitome of masculine satisfaction.
Oh, that breathtaking grin. Heart. Beat. Skipped. Was that manly pride on display because I was still feeling his corrections? His face was always so unreadable; he must truly relish what he’d done to me.
If he felt a fraction of the attraction that I did for him, then how was he denying himself a repeat? Maybe he routinely experienced that kind of pleasure with others. The idea made me seethe. “I guess you do things like that all the time with tons of different women? I suppose I’m one of many.”
“You’re not like the women I’ve been with.”
He’d said as much to me last night. Day and night. “How so?”