Page 19 of The Bratva King's Kidnapped Bride

“Make yourself comfortable,” I said. “Would you like a drink?”

She unbuttoned her chef coat and crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you honestly offering me a drink after you kidnapped me?”

“I always adhere to the Geneva Conventions,” I told her, pleased to see she tried to hide the glimmer of a smile.

I poured us each a glass of white wine and sat across from her, as if we were in a business meeting. Which, we were, of a sort. And if I sat beside her, I wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands off her long enough to talk. She still looked disgruntled, placing her glass on the coffee table and refusing to speak.

“What else can I offer you?” I asked.

“A phone call,” she said, fire in her eyes. As I shook my head, she held up her hands. “Then you make it for me. Call that guy of yours. I have more instructions. It’s not just putting the lemon wedges away.”

She honestly looked so desperate I complied, pulling out my phone and tapping on the contact. When Erik answered, I handed it to her. She prattled off a list of questions, her eyes worried as she waited for each answer. I couldn’t hide my laugh when she demanded he send her pictures. Only when they came through and she’d pored over each one, did she relax and begrudgingly ended the call.

“Why was that so important to you?” I asked.

She looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. I had picked her up and hauled her here against her will, after all.

“I was hoping that Chef Danello would be impressed that I was able to book a party at the restaurant and give back my old position. That kitchen has to be in spotless, perfect condition, or I’d probably get demoted down to dishwasher.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “You’d find another job before that happens.”

She huffed. “Do you know how many people are looking for jobs these days? It’s not that easy.”

I leaned over, took her glass, and handed it to her. “Please, try the vintage. I’d like to know what you think. The wine selections at dinner were excellent.”

For some reason, that made her go pale. “Uh, well, I actually called in an expert for that.” She took a sip, nodded, and placed the glass back down, no warmer to me.

“Your boss is a fool if he doesn’t see your talent,” I said. “But I still fail to see why it’s so important to you.”

“You’re a millionaire,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Billionaire,” I corrected mildly, trying to make her smile again.

Her lip barely quirked from its hard lines. “Oh, sorry. But most people aren’t. I’m not even a thousandaire. I need to work to make money. And certain jobs pay more than others. So therefore—”

I held up a hand to stop her. “But you don’t need to work,” I told her. “Marry me. I’ve told you I’ll take care of you. Anything you want. All your needs.”

“You’re really serious? This isn’t some elaborate joke?”

“I assure you it’s not. I don’t play jokes of any kind, simple or elaborate. I want you, Katie. I want you to be my wife.” She put her head in her hands, but not before I saw the glimpse of anguish in her eyes. Why didn’t she say yes if that was what she wanted, too? “And, of course, I’ll need you to have my child.”

“Why is that such a big part of it?” she asked, face still hidden.

“I need an heir,” I sighed.

Her face whipped up, eyes narrowed, and lips compressed in disappointment. She didn’t speak, though something was clearly on her mind.

“Don’t you want children?” I asked, curious why she looked so upset by this.

“Of course I do,” she wailed. “But in the future. The far distant future. I’m sorry, Mr. Fokin, but I can’t accept.”

I grumbled at the distance she tried to put between us by not calling me by my first name. “It’s Aleks,” I reminded her. “Tell me why.”

“I just can’t.”

She got up to leave, pure regret written all over her face, the way she held herself, and even the timbre of her voice. She wanted to accept my proposal, so why was she trying to run away as if the place was on fire?

I jumped up to block her way. When she tried to duck under my arms, I picked her up and carried her to the closest guest room. Kicking open the door, I dropped her on the lavish satin bedspread and stepped away. The room was opulently decorated since I gave the decorator free rein on the places I didn’t have to look at. Seeing her in her stained chef coat amongst the eighteenth-century French furniture and gossamer curtains of the massive four-poster bed was a bit ridiculous, but hopefully, being surrounded by luxury would change her mind.

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