Katarina Drugov was haughty. Haughty and gorgeous—and the woman knew it. She kept Igor waiting until five minutes before the curtain rose before gracing him with her presence.
Gone was the sexually forward teenage girl, and in her place was a woman he wanted to break.
He ignored her through the first act of La Traviata, and during the intermission, he refused to introduce her to the friends and colleagues that paid their respects at their private box.
Katarina must have hated being disregarded because she appeared to do everything she could to entice Igor. A brush of her hand here, a calculated look there. But he pretended he didn’t notice.
During the second act, she grew bold, letting her fingers wander across his tuxedo pants. She slowly undid the zipper and let her hand inside.
He wasn’t wearing underwear.
His erection swelled in her hand, and still he didn’t take his attention off the performance. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs, and pointedly looked at her. They had a silent battle of wills.
She removed her hand and got on her knees.
Igor didn’t touch her, and even when he filled her mouth with his essence, he didn’t move from his position—not even to help her back to her chair.
Katarina gracefully rose from her position on the ground and discreetly wiped her lips. Returning to her seat, she kept her eyes trained on him for the rest of the final act. It was only when the curtain closed, and everyone stood to applaud that Igor looked at her and spoke.
“I found the performance completely satisfactory.”
“They want us to get married,” Igor said to Katarina that night when they were in his bed.
She stretched her long legs and then curled her body against his, letting her fingers linger on his chest. The delicate platinum band she wore on her middle finger shone in the low lamplight. “Would that be so terrible?”
Her long, black hair spilled across his arm as he shifted. “You don’t have a problem with your parents dictating your life?”
“Who said anything about dictating?”
Igor looked at her. The lamplight bathed her skin in a soft, warm glow. She was beautiful. And cold. “You want this.”
“Da.”
“Why?” he pressed. “You don’t love me.”
She laughed in genuine amusement. “Since when does marriage have anything to do with love?”
Brittle disappointment settled into his bones. He wasn’t naive, or even a dreamer. And though his parents’ marriage had been nothing he wanted to mirror, they had once loved each other. In their own broken way.
“Oh, you were hoping for that, weren’t you?” She turned her laughter onto him. It was ugly and mocking, and he refused to let her get away with it. He grasped her arms and rolled on top of her.
Her eyes widened in fear and then pleasure as he took her mouth in a punishing kiss. He hated her in that moment, hated everything she represented and everything about himself he was unable to purge.
In the morning, they both walked away sated, bruised, and with an understanding. They were going to let their parents think they were mulling over marriage—and in the meantime, everyone would get what they wanted. Olaf would expand his empire and the Drugovs would gain a stronghold in the United States.
Igor opened the town car door for Katarina and smiled down at her. It was all mockery. “Until next time, my love.”
She gave him a lingering kiss on the lips. In his ear, she whispered, “Think of my tongue. Doing delicious things to you.”
He wished he could say her words didn’t turn him on, but he was a man, and he enjoyed her body.
“Think of mine, Katarina. The next time we’re together, I won’t let you come for hours.”
He watched his words penetrate, and she shivered in anticipation.
Who needed love when there was lust?
His body hurt. Katarina had been a worthy bed partner. He recognized her for what she was: a chameleon, a woman who became whatever any man wanted her to be. If he’d wanted to make love to her, she would’ve moaned and accepted it. But they didn’t love, they fucked.
Igor went to the Russian bathhouse for a steam and contemplation. He walked that fine line of wanting to please his father and wanting to defy him. Deep down, he was still the hurt little boy who’d lost his mother, wanting nothing more than his father’s love and attention.
The sauna was empty save for him, and he hoped it remained that way. Closing his eyes, he slipped into a doze, jarring awake when the door opened. He silently cursed in Russian but ceased immediately when he saw the intruder.
He smiled. “You came back.”
Tossing long, blond hair up into a quick, messy bun, she replied, “I didn’t come for you, I came for the steam.”
“Right.”
She rolled her eyes and settled her towel on the opposite side of the room and sat down. Her bathing suit was another tasteful one piece, concealing attributes that most women seemed to flaunt.
“You’re staring,” she pointed out with a small smile.
A slight grin appeared on his lips. “No. I’m examining. There’s a difference.”
“Examining?”
“Yes.”
She shrugged.
“Do you live in the neighborhood?” he asked.
Pausing for a moment, she relented and shook her head.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Why do you hate your accent?” she fired back.
“Round and round we go.”
“Seems like it.”
There was something about this woman. She went head to head with him, wasn’t intimidated by him, didn’t know who he was, so she didn’t know what he could offer her. He suddenly found he liked that. When talking with her, he didn’t have to be his father’s disappointment.
Maybe if he offered her something of true value, she’d reveal in kind.
“I don’t hate my accent,” he said. “But it reminds me of my history—a history I’d rather not talk about.” He wasn’t proud of his past, or his present. The future was still unwritten, but the way his life was going, he didn’t think he was going to be proud of that either.
“Roots are roots. Dig them up and you die.”
He raised his eyebrows. “And your roots?”
“Swedish.” She traced a finger along the wooden bench. “You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be.”
“That’s a bit naive, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. I prefer hopeful.”
“You just spoke of digging up your roots.”
“No. I was just making a point. Look, there are all things in all our pasts we don’t like or wish we could change. But then we wouldn’t be who we are—where we are.”
He smiled in rancor. “You like who you are, then? Because a lot of us don’t.”
“So change.”
Igor let out a laugh. “Change? Just like that?”
“Sure, why not?”
“It’s not as easy as all that.”
“Well, of course not. Nothing worthwhile ever is.”
His brow furrowed as he contemplated her. “What did you change in your life?”
“Everything.”
She spoke lightly, but he detected something deeper, something she was concealing. He wanted to know what it was.
“Did you change things? Or did change happen to you?” he wondered aloud.
“A little bit of both, I think.”
Igor knew a bit about that.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“How old are you?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she knew who he was, but then he thought better of it. He didn’t think she’d appreciate the arrogance, and it might do more harm than good. The last thing he wanted her to do was disappear on him—she invigorated him, helped clear his mind—better than a good steam.
Something about her made him want to pretend to be unassuming. Maybe he could be himself with her. Whoever that was.
“I’m twenty-nine,” he answered.
She raised an eyebrow. “You look older.”
“If I said that to a woman, I’d have to worry about assault.”
“True.” She chuckled. “But then again, men seem to carry years better. But you look… I don’t know…hard.”
“I am hard,” he admitted blithely. “Now it’s your turn. How are old are you?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Young.”
“Don’t do that,” she snapped, glaring.
“Do what?”
“Don’t assume that because I’m young I’m an idiot.”
“When did I give the impression that I thought you were an idiot?” he asked calmly, enjoying her fire.
“You old people always assume that,” she grumbled.
Igor laughed. “Would you like to go out for drinks?”
“I never go out just for drinks. If a man’s serious, he’ll offer to take me to dinner.”
“I’d offer to take you to dinner,” he said, not missing a beat, “but I don’t know your name.”
Cocking her head to the side, she paused, considering. “Mary. My name is Mary.”
“Mary, would you like to go to dinner with me?”
She smiled as she said, “No.”