Page 15 of Dimitri
He nodded, dark eyes wandering over her face and settling on her full lips. The urge to devour was so strong, he had to stifle an intake of breath. Her scent filled him, wrapping around him like tentacles, making it difficult for him to escape. "You're right of course." Without taking his eyes off her face, he gestured towards a server, who came hurrying towards him. Accepting the glass of champagne, he studied her for a few intense minutes that almost had her shifting.
Annoyance colored her tone as her eyes flashed. "Is there something on my face?"
"Other than perfection? No." He was amused at himself and his reaction to her, a woman he had just met. And one who was not impressed by him. Strange. "You're a lawyer."
"So?"
"My grandma told me you work for how do you say it? Pro bono, never collecting a fee."
She angled her chin. He was disturbing. His scent, the way the black cashmere clung to his broad shoulders and the arrogance stamped on his features were very unnerving. "I'm sure that's a novelty where you're concerned. Let me guess, filthy rich and never had to pick up after yourself. Entitled and obnoxious with it as well."
Leaning back, he crossed his long legs at the ankles and studied her. "You don't know me well enough to make such an assumption."
"I know enough." She took a sip of the excellent champagne and turned her head to study the crowd. Several women had their eyes trained on them, their expressions sulky.
"Your adoring public are contemplating stabbing me with their stilettos. Why don't you run along and assure them that there is nothing between us?"
"I happen to be very comfortable where I am, and I don't know those women."
She turned to look at him. "You don't know me either. Listen pal, you've done your duty as a 'host,' how about leaving me alone?"
"Like I said, I'm comfortable here." Before she could stop him, he had taken a thick coil between his fingers. "What do you call this?"
"Hair." She tugged, but he held on.
"What kind?"
Her glare had him smiling. "I have a very curious mind."
"It's called Sister Locs."
"Why?"
"If you want lessons in the different types of styles for black women, you're going to have to open a book."
"Or you could just tell me." He stroked the coil and wondered what it would look like spread over his pillows. His attraction to her was instant and disturbing.
"Let go," she hissed. He did and before she could utter a silent sigh of relief, he was plucking the glass from her and pulling her to her feet.
"What are you doing?"
"I want to feel you in my arms," he responded, amused by the battle light in her golden-brown eyes. She really was an intriguing woman and an exciting one.
Perhaps it was the fact that she was not swayed by his looks or his money, or perhaps it was her incandescent beauty. He was accustomed to lovely women; Russia was filled with the most beautiful he had ever seen, and he had traveled the world. She was as stiff as a board in his arms.
The band had struck up a sweet slow tune that required him to hold her close. Her scent swamped him. The room was filled to overflowing with people, but it had narrowed to just the two of them.
"You have lovely skin." His hands were intimately exploring her bare back and sending sensations through her body. "Is it the practice of American lawyers to dress this way?"
Her chin angled, and it galled her to realize that even with her heels, she only came to his chin.
"It's the practice of our free country to wear whatever we damn well please."
He knew what she was doing, and it delighted him. No one had ever spoken to him this way before. He wondered if that was part of the attraction.
"I'm wondering."
"Wondering what?" she asked icily.
