Golden Paradise Page 6

  She imagined he would prefer not involving Nikki, and as far as papers… He was thoroughly without scruple. There were no papers. For a moment Lisaveta considered exposing him be­fore his rancorous fiancée. It would serve him right. She would simply deny the fictitious papers in embarrassing detail, but on second thought, he was offering her escape along with his own, and it didn't make much sense to suffer here over tea when freedom beckoned.

  "I'm sure it won't take more than a few hours to sort them all and make certain nothing important is missing," he said, smiling, conscious she was acquiescing. "Should we say din­ner at ten?" He waited, confident and assured, his intense dark eyes offering her… pleasure.

  She waited perhaps five seconds before replying, because his assurance annoyed her. "Thank you," she finally said. "I'd like to see Papa's reports, but we needn't put off dinner." She turned to Aunt Militza. "Eight will be fine."

  Aunt Militza conceded equal points to the two protagonists. How interesting the Countess would be for Stefan. He was fa­miliar only with acquiescence and command. Countess Laza­roff apparently was, as well. "Eight it is," she said. "Now run along. I'm sure Nadejda and I would be bored to tears with re­ports."

  As Stefan and Lisaveta left the terrace Nadejda was saying, "Stefan must show me his collection for it will be mine, too, very soon, and poetry is such a love."

  "You are completely unscrupulous," Lisaveta said irritably, trying to shake his hand from her wrist. Stefan had guided her across the terrace and through the glass doors into the palace with what appeared a polite courtesy, but his grip was steel hard and he wouldn't be dislodged. "Let go of me!" Lisaveta snapped, struggling to wrench free. "You're unprinci­pled… selfish… you're—"

  "—attracted as hell to you," he finished with that smile of his that she'd learned in the past week was capable of melting the polar ice cap. His fingers still firmly circled her wrist as his long stride took them rapidly through the drawing room ad­joining the terrace.

  "Don't try and dazzle me with that damn smile," she pet­tishly rebuffed, already feeling an answering heat through her senses.

  "Temper, darling, the servants are watching." His smile was benign.

  "I'm not your darling," she repudiated, "and knowing you, I'm sure the servants have seen considerably more than a woman arguing with you." Bristling with outrage at her body's eager, complacent response, vexed at his complacent response to a fiancée in the house, indignant he could so cavalierly ig­nore all but his own selfish interests, she continued huffily, "Knowing you, they could probably write their own manual on amorous technique simply from walking in on you, since you have no sense of propriety—Stefan, where are you taking me, tell me this second or I'll cause a scene, I swear, better yet, let me go and I'll forget any of this happened, I'll see you at din­ner. Why don't you," she breathlessly went on as she was pulled down the hallway at a pace she had to run to accommodate, "spend the remainder of the afternoon showing Nadejda your Hafiz collection."

  He laughed then. He didn't slow his progress, but clearly he was amused. "Do you think she'd like it?" His grin was wicked.

  "I think you might have trouble getting her to the altar if you did."

  "It's a thought," he softly said.

  "You don't know her, do you?"

  He was opening the door to his study, his favorite haven in his two-hundred-and-eighteen-room palace, a comfortable room filled with mementos precious to him. "I only saw her for a week, six months ago. She writes, and I answer occasion­ally."

  Lisaveta wasn't a complete recluse from the aristocratic world she'd been born into. She understood most marriages were ar­ranged for a variety of reasons having nothing to do with love, but Stefan had so much to offer a woman it seemed a shame he'd chosen such a bride. Even the manner of his choosing had been unusually prosaic. "When will you be married?"

  "Sometime next year, I suppose." He could have been tell­ing his valet which boots he preferred for all the feeling in his voice. "It's not a first priority, believe me. I may be dead by then if the Turks break through at Kars. Come sit down and talk to me," he said in a different tone, a quiet reflective nu­ance underlying his calm directive.

  "I don't want to." She stood straight and tall, free now from his grasp.

  He hesitated a moment before dropping into a down-cushioned chair upholstered in a tapestry incorporating his princely arms. Looking up at her he said very softly, "I wish you would."

  Lisaveta sighed. His harsh features were tranquil, his pow­erful body relaxed against the burgundy silk, his dark eyes in­tent on her. Alone in his inner sanctum, surrounded by his personal mementos—photos of the Tsar; framed portraits of his parents, himself; precious jeweled icons and cabinets of medals; dress swords and weaponry—he was charismatic, the warrior in repose, the savior of Russia in private, the most sought-after man in Europe, and he was asking her to sit and talk.

  Perhaps she had too many principles when he had none, perhaps she would later rue her choices, perhaps she should simply say yes to his invitation—and perhaps if his fiancée were not down the hall she might. But Lisaveta resisted being classed with all the other women to whom he'd extended similar ca­sual invitations. She would make her own choices. Not he.

  "I can never thank you enough for saving my life," she said, beginning to pace slowly before him as though her movement added authority to her resistance.

  A promising start, he thought, and relaxed further.

  "And certainly I'll remember forever the pleasure of the past week."

  The feeling was mutual, he reflected. The days with Li­saveta had been not only passionate beyond his usual lust but different in character because they spoke to each other, their conversation an easy exchange of ideas and feelings. He'd never talked with a woman like the Countess Lazaroff. She seemed very like a friend, but much better, he decided a moment later, because she was a lush and sensual woman, as well.

  "You are quite frankly—" Lisaveta stopped and gazed at Stefan levelly "—much better than any erotic fantasy I could have imagined." She was beautifully straightforward, and more than her compliment he admired her candor. "However—" and she began pacing again "—I'm not inclined to continue our pleasant relationship under your fiancée's nose. I know this isn't a concern for you but it is for me. Let's just say—it was nice." She stopped before him again. "But let's be sensible."

  He'd listened politely, neither moving nor interrupting while she expressed her feelings, only watching her silently as she moved across the thick Kuba carpet, his dark eyes drifting oc­casionally to her slippered feet crushing the luxurious pile. Hand loomed near his mountain home, the navy-and-russet carpet reminded him powerfully of childhood summers, of his favorite retreat…and of his wish to take Lisaveta there. "I don't want to be sensible," he said, unmoving still.

  "And I'm not interested in what you want." Lisaveta stood utterly motionless, as though her explanation had clarified both her mind and her restlessness.

  Stefan's voice was almost hushed when he answered. "Are you interested in what you want?"

  She didn't pretend to misunderstand either his tone or his words. "Are you talking about sex? Why don't you just say it? DO you want to know if I want you?"

  He shook his head, his first movement since he'd dropped into the chair, and even that response was minimal.

  Her brows rose in brief surprise. "You don't?"

  "I already know that. I was wondering if you were willing to acknowledge it."

  His casual arrogance annoyed her. Prince Stefan Bariatin­sky was much too confident. "I'm not afraid to acknowledge it. Surely after our leisurely trip north you're aware of my in­terest in your… assets."

  He smiled faintly at her choice of words.

  "I'm not, however, interested in the current triangle, which includes your fiancée."

  "I had no idea Nadejda would be here." His voice was low and matter-of-fact. It wasn't an apology, only a statement.

  Lisaveta grimaced. "But s
he is. And angry and resentful. With reason. I don't blame her."

  "We could leave."

  "No we couldn't," she protested. "No, I don't want to. No, I'm not open to other options to satisfy your salacious urges. No! Don't touch me!" she impassionedly finished as Stefan rose with a startling swiftness.

  He stood very quietly for a moment as though her words had rebuffed him, and then he reached up to unbutton the collar hooks of his uniform tunic. The silver braided collar loosened and he pulled it away slightly from his tanned neck. "I won't if you don't want me to," he softly said, his hand dropping to his side.

  "Good. I don't." She should have moved away then. It would have imparted more credulity to her declaration. But she didn't, and he took note of that omission.

  "Do you know how much death and carnage I've seen in the past three months?" She didn't answer, and he continued, only his voice conveying his restlessness. "The Turks can skin a man alive," he quietly said. "It takes hours the way they do it. The screams are unearthly. You never forget them." He drew in a deep breath before continuing, and his voice dropped even further in volume. "They echo in your mind and make you break out in a cold sweat. They keep you awake at night, they make you pray to God you're never captured alive. They make you vow to die fighting. And you wonder at your courage, at your will to go on to another month of war, or two or six months, when you hardly sleep anymore, when you're afraid to shut your eyes because it could mean your death or, worse, your capture. When you haven't been clean in weeks and the food is grim or at best adequate. When you hear every day of another friend who's died. Thousands of Russian troops have died in assaulting Kars, and the only reason I'm on leave now is that replacements have to be brought up." His gaze sur­veyed the luxury of his surroundings as if to reassure himself he was safe from the black demons of the war and then came back to her.

  "You helped me forget last week," he declared very simply. "You did for me, as well," Lisaveta replied.

  "We helped each other then." He smiled his achingly beau­tiful smile. "And you reminded me there's goodness and laughter and love in the world."

  "I know, Stefan," Lisaveta breathed, her voice almost in­audible, the quiet of the room surrounding them like silken solace. "I know what you're feeling. Life and living mean so much more to me now for haying almost died. But I won't…" she quietly added. "Please…" Her eyes were the color of warm sunsets and not pleading so much as patient. "Just thank you… I mean it truly. Thank you for everything."

  She knew her feelings were becoming too involved with Russia's most exalted hero. He was so much more than his grand and valorous public image. She was drawn to his wit and intelligence as well as attracted to his harsh beauty, while his gentleness and expertise as a lover were pure perfection. She could never stay, so she must leave before her feelings were so deeply committed he would be forever in her heart. Her chin lifted a scant distance and her voice took on a new determina­tion. "I'm going upstairs to rest before dinner and I intend to leave in the morning."

  "You're sure?"

  "I am."

  He smiled. "And nothing I can say will change your mind?"

  "Stefan," Lisaveta said, returning his smile, feeling more confident with her decision made, "you can have any woman in the Empire. You don't need me." Turning to go, she couldn't resist the obvious pointed barb. "Besides, Nadejda's here to entertain you."

  It was not a pleasant thought. "Bitch," he whispered, the word ambiguously caressing.

  Lisaveta grinned. "I couldn't resist. Forgive me." But her apology was lighthearted and unapologetic. "Until dinner, mon chou" she buoyantly said, feeling new strength in the rightness of her choice, and blowing him a smiling kiss, she left.

  "Until tonight, mon chou" Stefan softly breathed. He'd make love to her then and convince her to stay, the best soldier in the Tsar's army vowed. And he'd never lost a campaign in his life.

  Chapter Four

  Nadejda wore lavender crepe de chine with diamonds in her hair at dinner, and were it not for her disagreeable tongue she would have been the picture of radiant beauty. She had, how­ever, since being seated, complained of the heat, taken issue with the servants' casual behavior and condemned the country style of food numerous times. Her patience curtailed by yet another remark about its quaintness, Aunt Militza coolly said to her, "Stefan has a Georgian palate and refuses to have a French chef."

  "We have always had a French chef," Nadejda replied, as though her wishes were primary, as though she were already running the household. Her mama had assured her she would have total control since men preferred detachment from household functions.

  "Perhaps you should think of adding a Georgian chef, as well," Militza retorted, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. Her family had been royalty for a thousand years be­fore the Taneievs had been elevated to princely status.

  "Surely Stefan enjoys French cuisine, don't you, my dear." Nadejda turned to Stefan with her winning smile, the smile she felt had successfully gained Stefan's attention in Saint Peters­burg six months ago.

  Stefan, dressed comfortably in the embroidered silk shirt and loose trousers native to his mother's land, was sprawled back in his chair, his wineglass in hand. His expression had re­mained unreadable while Nadejda had complained, Militza had seethed and the two women had discussed him as if he weren't present. While he appreciated Militza's advocacy for his taste in food, he could only see the disagreement escalating, and Nadejda's opinion on food or anything else was really rather incidental to him. He'd chosen her for a bride because her family was well connected at court, not for personal reasons. After the irregularity of his own childhood and his father's disgrace and loss of the Viceroyalty of the Caucasus, Stefan didn't care if Nadejda Taneiev liked African chefs, as long as the stability of the Taneiev family was intact. He was marrying that dependable stability, the court attachments, the conser­vative background. But he disliked the cattiness of Nadejda's tone and her grasping possessiveness as much as the thought of continuing disagreements over dinner when all he wanted to do was relax and drink his favorite wine from his own vineyard.

  "I eat anything," he said blandly. "Militza, you know that. Nadejda can keep her French chef by all means. When you've campaigned as long as I, you learn to eat anything." He was the perfect host, pleasant, affable, ready to step in and smooth over controversy. "Georgi, more wine for the ladies." His major-domo, who stood beside Stefan's chair, signaled for a foot­man.

  "Oh, no," Nadejda refused, waving away the servant. "Mama says a lady never has more than two glasses." Her lavender eyes, cool as her disdain, cast a scornful glance at Aunt Militza, who'd been keeping up with Stefan's consump­tion over dinner.

  "Your mother was from the north," Militza curtly said, her brows drawn together in nettled pique, "where all they drink is tea to keep warm. Leave the bottle," she added to the young footman filling her glass.

  Stefan couldn't help but smile at Militza's snappish answer to Nadejda's prudery. It could be a battlefield of a dinner, he thought, managing to hide his grin behind his uplifted wine­glass. When he raised his eyes a moment later as the glass touched his lips, his gaze met Lisaveta's, and immediately memories returned of the bottle of wine they'd shared one morning in an enormous wooden tub set out on a flower-bedecked terrace. The sun had been warm, and they warmer still, hot with need and tumultuous passion, and the wine, chilled in a nearby mountain stream, was ambrosia to senses already attuned to pleasure. They had made love endlessly and then much later laughed with silliness and frivolous intimacy, as if they were the only two people in the world. Tonight, he thought, he'd touch her again and kiss her and make her laugh and give to her the enormous pleasure she'd given him.

  Lisaveta dropped her eyes first before his dark gaze, more concerned with appearances than he. Stefan never cared about comportment; in that he was his father's son. Only his be­trothal to Princess Taneiev was an aberration in personality. No one on either branch of his family had ever been practical.
There had been no need with their wealth and status, but then, none before him had seen their father die in slow degrees, con­sumed by drugs, none had seen their father die a broken man living in exile at the spas of Europe. So Stefan was going to be practical in the one facet that had been his father's downfall. He would have a wife beyond reproach; he would have chil­dren with a legal patrimony from birth.

  "Do you like my wines?" he asked Lisaveta. "They say some of the Georgian sun is captured in each bottle." He spoke to her as though no one else existed at the table.

  "It does warm one's senses," she replied, her smile en­chanting. After several glasses of wine Lisaveta found herself relaxed and without rancor. In fact, after listening to Nadejda over dinner, she'd actually begun feeling sorry for Stefan. The young woman was devoid of amusement or charm, fastidious only of her position and the refined affectations of society. How dreary for Stefan, who loved to laugh.

  "It reminds me," Lisaveta went on, holding her glass up to the light, its golden contents rich and sunshiny, "of a special wine from Tzinondali Papa and I once had. Papa called it Angelglow because one's blood turned warm."

  "Those," Stefan said, smiling back, "are my vineyards."

  "My papa prefers French wines," Nadejda interjected. "He says only French wines are of superior quality and fit for the palate of a gentleman." She spoke to the table at large as though she were delivering news of importance. "The Em­peror, you know, only drinks French champagne."

  Stefan knew better—Tsar Alexander had a fondness for his vintages and they'd shared many bottles together over the years—but Nadejda's insipidity wasn't his concern. "I'm sure you're right," he said in a detached way, more interested at the moment in the beautiful flush on Countess Lazaroff's cheeks. Had her smile been as suggestive as her remark or was he imagining her response? His eyes took in her azure gown and the way Militza's pearls at her neck and ears set off her sun-kissed skin to perfection. Considering the haste required of the dressmaker in Aleksandropol, she'd done exceptionally well, and his glance drifted down to the provocative splendor of Lisaveta's breasts displayed so enticingly by the low-cut décolletage. Even her skin exuded warmth; it glowed like his wine with fragrant allure, and he could almost smell its heated per­fume.