Page 6 of The Bratva Contract
“Karina, this is Dimitri Petrov, head of the Petrov bratva,” my father says. “Dimitri, this is my only daughter, KatarinaSergeyevna Kozlova. She has an engineering degree, but I trust you won’t hold that against her.” He chuckles at his own joke, but Dimitri does not laugh at my expense.
“Karina,” he says, his voice low and caressing, “it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“I can assure you it’s all true. My father has never been one of those men who’s blind to the faults of his children.”
“Self-awareness is admirable,” he says slyly. “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
“Yes, though he keeps me out of the business, Papa is eager to have me married. I’m less delighted, but I know my duty. Out of respect for my father and the organization he built, I’m willing to consider it.”
“Despite having no inclination to marry?” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Exactly. You can hardly claim you’re here out of unbridled passion for me,” I say dryly. “You’re here to get your hands on the syndicate, and I’m the side dish you didn’t order but can’t send back.”
A sharp laugh breaks from him, startling me. He claps Papa once on the back, and I glance over. Papa nods as if he’s in on the joke, probably that I’m too opinionated.
“I wouldn’t compare you to a wilted dish of cabbage.”
“That’s a start, then,” I say wryly. “If we’re setting the bar that low, I suppose I won’t compare you to that wretched herring-and-beet salad.”
“Karina—” my father protests.
“No, no, it’s fine, Sergei. She’s a spitfire.” He turns to me. “I’ve read about your software. Will you tell me about it?” He’s trying to be charming, and I don’t have patience for it.
“If you’ve read about it, I’m sure you know the essentials,” I say, dismissing him with a flick of my hand as the soup arrives.
I don’t have much of an appetite, especially when I can feel his eyes on me every time I look up. He and Papa talk about the countryside, about the hunting and fishing on the property.
“What is your opinion of daughters running a family business?” I ask suddenly.
“I have no daughters. When you give me one, we’ll discuss it,” he says smoothly.When you give me a daughter. The words send a shock through me. It isn’t altogether unpleasant, hearing him speak as if I already belong to him.
“It’s a philosophical question, Dimitri,” I reply once I collect myself.
“Please, call me Dima,” he says. “If we are to be acquainted, know that I don’t waste time on philosophy. I’m a man of action.”
“Even that is its own philosophy,” I say archly.
When I drag the tip of my tongue over my spoon, I meet his gaze and see hunger burning dark and wild. Every muscle low in my belly clenches. My eyes stay locked on his as he strokes a single fingertip down the handle of the spoon beside his plate. The slow, deliberate caress lands on me as surely as if he’d parted my thighs and traced that finger through slick heat. Color floods my face; a flush climbs from my chest, and my breath quickens. I bite my lower lip, then regret it. He’ll know exactly how heaffects me. But this is a game now. When he smooths his tie, I recognize the ploy to look unruffled beneath my wanton stare. I hope it scorches him to the bone, the arrogant ass.
After dessert, Papa retires, leaving the two of us alone with our wine. I trace a fingertip along the gold rim of my glass, regarding Dimitri with as much boredom as I can fake.
“Stand up and let me see that dress,” he says, lounging back in his chair.
I oblige, smoothing the hem of my mini as I rise. I circle the table and stop beside his chair. He pushes it back and stands, towering over me.
“You’re very small,” he says thoughtfully. His eyes do more than flicker across my ample cleavage.
“I’m 5’1,” I tell him. “And you’re, what? 6’3?”
“6’4,” he corrects.
“Such a man, insisting on that extra inch,” I say.
He doesn’t laugh. His eyes darken, and he captures my arm. “I only wonder if you know any use for that mouth besides talking back.”
I laugh. “I could say the same about you.”
His dark gaze flares, and I feel my panties dampen from that look alone. He wants to put me in my place, I know it. And, right now, I might let him. Not that I’d promise him anything, least of all marriage, but I want to feel what happens when this taut, breathless tension finally snaps.
