Page 19 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

But it was impossible, he reasoned. He’d told his men to send her away over two hours ago.

Unable to help himself, he turned around, his eyes searching for her in the crowd, and that’s when he saw her. in her floral white dress, she stood out like a wild exotic flower as she strode towards him, drawing admiring glances from almost every man she passed. She neither turned her head left nor right to acknowledge any of the admirers; rather her gaze was locked on him with laser intensity as she made a beeline for him. She was dressed simply, her only jewelry a strand of pearls at her throat and teardrop diamonds that winked at him from her ears. Yet somehow, she exuded an aura of class, sophistication, and royalty that cast every other woman around her into the shade. Her riotous curls were twisted atop her head in an intricate knot, small tendrils escaping to rest tantalizingly against the soft, smooth skin of her neck and shoulders.

When she reached him, she stopped a mere hair’s breadth away, her eyes searching his face.

His man who had escorted her towards him said, “Ma’am? My boss, Mr. Nikolai.”

Her scent hit his nostrils again even as her melodious voice drifted to his ears, laced with incredulity. “This is Nikolai?”

That voice had been in his head over and over for weeks since he’d last held her in his arms. But it hadn’t been cultured and formal in his memory; it had been breathless and excited as it urged him to go deeper and faster.

He couldn’t afford to think in that direction. He needed a clear head if he was to handle this enchantress properly and discover Dostoevsky’s devious new plans.

She looked almost pale, as though she were about to faint from shock at the sight of him. Either she was a very good actress or she truly hadn’t been expecting to see him -- the man from the limo. Her shock indicated that she had never expected that Nikolai would turn out to be one and the same as Mikhail.

But in truth, he hesitated to believe that she was genuinely surprised because if she was mixed up with Dostoevsky, she was either one hell of an actress or a dangerous sociopath. If she lied about knowing Dostoevsky—by omission, but a lie nonetheless—it stood to reason that she had lied about every other thing she’d ever told him.

Except perhaps being a virgin, his subconscious whispered.

He had to agree; he didn’t think she had lied about that. No woman alive could fake the level of innocent wonder he’d seen on her face when he entered her for the first time.

“Mira, we meet again,” he said in a calm, pleasant tone of voice that betrayed no emotions whatsoever.

Her lips stretched over her teeth in the parody of a smile and then before he could guess her intent, she lifted her hand and slapped him so hard his head snapped backward. The entire room reverberated with the sound of the slap and absolute silence fell at once as all eyes focused on them with unhidden fascination.

In a split second, a flurry of activities resumed and he realized that his guests were practically falling all over themselves in their haste to move closer to the action.

Mikhail didn’t have to look around to hear their thoughts or know what they were thinking. He was Mikhail Nikolai, and a slip of a girl had just slapped him in full view of many people who knew to tread cautiously around him if they valued their lives.

His reputation was shot all to hell in less than a minute all because of this red-headed witch, he thought as he glared at her.

She glared back unrepentantly even as his men descended on her. Each of her arms were grabbed by a man on either side and they waited, poised for his instructions.

Mikhail felt the distaste of his current circumstances rise like bile in his throat. He hated it when people created a scene, and now Mira had not only created a terrible scene, she had effectively endangered him and everyone in his Bratva.

She’d slapped him and now everyone was on tenterhooks waiting to see what he did next. If he let it slide, the message would be received that he had gone weak and was ripe for an attack. That only left the option of punishment; he would have to make a very powerful statement about how he dealt with her impertinence.

He reached for her, and as he grabbed her arm, his men released her at once. With a low, furious snarl, he stalked off toward his library, dragging her in his wake.

He flung open the library doors and jerked her inside, his temper boiling.

“You have two seconds to explain yourself,” he snarled.

She looked almost white, but she gamely lifted her chin and glared right back at him. “You knew who I was that night at the club, didn’t you? When I thought you were just Mikhail and we had sex, you already knew who I was!”

He lifted one eyebrow. So that’s how she was going to play it? “I’m not sure I understand you.”

A strange expression crossed her beautiful face as she looked up at him. She looked…murderous.

He soon found out why.

“You absolutely despicable fiend. Why didn’t you ever tell me that you were Mikhail Nikolai? Was that it? Was our night together just part of your plans for revenge against my—against Dostoevsky?”

My Dostoevsky? Who the hell was Dostoevsky to her? She couldn’t be his lover. Who was she?

His phone pinged just then and he automatically checked the text message. It was from Armando Luca. Ever since he’d persuaded the man of the futility of being loyal to Dostoevsky, he had become more reasonable. He sent occasional information to Mikhail via texts.

This one read: Dostoevsky’s in high spirits. His daughter’s engagement ceremony is this evening.

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