Innocent in the Ivory Tower (10 page)

Hell, the sheets upstairs were barely cool and she was planning a shopping trip. Maisy was a sweet girl, and she was heat itself between the sheets, but at the end of the day why should she be any different from anyone else? And why was he even entertaining notions of what it would be like if she was?

Feeling as if she had run an emotional marathon, Maisy came down the main stairs, checking her purse. Credit card, passport, the Italian currency she had bought yesterday. She was all set to go shopping, and she wouldn’t be a card-carrying woman if the thought of a few hours looking at clothes didn’t pique her interest. The added bonus of a little pampering this afternoon put a smile on her face.

Alexei had made an appointment for her in a spa in the hills at two, giving her a few hours to trawl the shops. Andrei would be driving her, which was the best news she’d had. All Maisy wanted to do was prop herself up at a window, watch the scenery drift by and daydream like a teenage girl about Alexei. She knew it was silly, but she hadn’t been able to think of anything else but him since he’d burst into that kitchen at Lantern Square. Now her thoughts had a vivid sexual imagery that scorched her cheeks but kept a little smile triggered on her lips.

She was smiling as she reached the mezzanine and Carlo Santini came out of nowhere. She hadn’t realised he was even on the premises, but given the size of the place that was probably a moot point.

‘Miss Edmonds?’

Maisy tried not to look worried.

‘Alexei asked me to pass on these items to you. This is the security key that gives access to all areas of the villa. If you ever require a motor car, as you do today, there will be a driver always at your disposal. Just phone through to the house office and it will be arranged. Here is the number.’

He held out a smart phone and unwillingly she took it. She had no idea how to use it.

‘An account has been opened in your name. Here are the details, and your cards.’

‘A bank account?’

‘Si.’
He smiled at her then, and she didn’t like his smile. ‘Did you think you would not be paid,
signorina
?’

Maisy’s whole being ground to a halt. She remained silent. His smile was definitely not pleasant. She hadn’t imagined that.

‘Now is your chance to spend up, Miss Edmonds. Mr Ranaevsky is a very generous man.’

Maisy stayed where she was a long time after Carlo had left her, the smart phone heavy in her hands. She looked at the clear plastic wallet of cards through a blur of tears.

It was
stupid
to be angry, stupid to be hurt. This was how he did things. This was what she had agreed to. But knowing that and really
understanding
that she wasn’t special, she was just part of the way he ran his life—his empire—bit hard.

He was showing her very clearly the
terms
.

But Carlo Santini had looked at her as if she were some sort of woman to be paid off.

Those weren’t
her
terms.

Shoving everything into her handbag, she barrelled down the remaining flight of stairs. She’d show him. She wouldn’t spend a
cent
of his stupid money.

Four hours later Maisy was blissfully prone under the experienced hands of a masseuse, all the knots and tension in her muscles worked away. She hadn’t realised how much she had needed this—not just the massage, but time away by herself. And she didn’t feel guilty—not about leaving Kostya, who was in safe hands, nor about this morning and what she and Alexei had done in that big bed. Twenty-four hours ago she would have had a hard time disrobing for a massage, but now she was lying naked on her belly, a towel draped discreetly
over her lower body, content to be pummelled and oiled and taken care of.

What a difference a day made—or rather a very satisfying morning.

Bundled in a white robe, her hair wrapped in a treatment, Maisy thumbed through a pile of glossy magazines, her thoughts on what she should wear home from her new purchases. She wanted Alexei to see the full impact of the results all this pampering yielded, but mostly it would be so lovely to just feel beautiful. There hadn’t been much time or space in the past two years for feeling beautiful.

She flipped a page in the social events section of a glossy US magazine and her thoughts came to a stuttering stop.

It was Alexei. He was on a boat, at a party, his arm around the waist of Tara Mills. Maisy didn’t have to read the caption to recognise her face. It had been on a billboard at Naples airport when they’d flown in. More than a model, she was a brand.

Finding it difficult to draw in enough air, Maisy began to read the paragraph below.

It wasn’t the silly words penned by a journalist that froze Maisy, it was the reality of Alexei’s past that threw her. Alexei had dated Tara Mills?

Calm down, she told herself, tossing the magazine aside. He was allowed to have a past. But she couldn’t help it. She picked up another and started flipping through to the social pages, and then another. Alexei was everywhere, arm around a different woman, all of them with skyscraper cheekbones, mile-long legs and the attitude to go with it. Blondes, brunettes—it didn’t seem to matter.

I’m the redhead
.

He had told her about this—that his life was the subject of
media scrutiny, that she would be written up, that there would be little privacy—and she hadn’t paid enough attention. Well, she was paying attention now. She was looking at the evidence of exactly
why
Alexei was a media darling. He was wealthy and powerful and gorgeous, and he paraded women like the sports cars she had seen lined up in the converted stables at the villa.

How on earth has this happened to me?

Not in a million years had she ever imagined this would be a lifestyle she would be stepping into. She took a good look around her. She had wondered over the cost of this spa treatment when she’d stepped from the car and been greeted by an attendant, and been impressed by the luxury surrounds—another converted villa—but had not fully appreciated how exclusive the spa might be. This was a spa with guests—virtually a hotel—and given she was the only client in the facilities she had a fair idea that personalised, discreet service for wealthy patrons was the name of the game.

Without even realising it she had landed in a fantasy. Except it wasn’t
her
fantasy. She didn’t want to be photographed and written about. Not that there was anything to write other than
Alexei Ranaevsky slums it with naive redhead.

Maisy felt as if a huge lump had taken up residence in her throat. Even after her hair was blow-dried to glossy silk, her nails French polished and her face delicately enhanced with some colour, she looked in the mirror and all she saw was a fool.

Maisy was home.

Alexei brought his conference call to a grinding halt, leaving a shocked Carlo Santini to mop up the mess. Every sensible cell in his head was telling him to let her come to him, but every instinct was dragging him down those stairs.

He found her standing in the entrance hall, surrounded by shopping bags—a couple from boutiques he vaguely recognised, the rest clearly retail.

‘Bravo.’ He stopped on the bottom step and commenced a slow hand-clap. ‘You’ve bought out the Amalfi Coast.’

Maisy looked up, and for a moment she didn’t say a word. She just looked at him as if she was seeing him for the first time. Then a parody of a smile broke out on her pink-painted lips and she said, ‘I should be exhausted, but I’m not. I had so much fun.’

Her enthusiasm was so palpably false Alexei just waited for the punchline.

It didn’t come. She began gathering up some of her bags and Andrei, who had driven her around all day, scooped up the rest, earning one of Maisy’s sunny artless smiles. Alexei found himself crossing the floor rapidly, intervening, deciding on the spot to organise a different driver to transport Maisy around. He didn’t like the way the younger man’s eyes lingered on Maisy’s face. He’d be sprawled on the floor if that gaze moved anywhere else on her body.

Maisy preceded him up the stairs—at least her bottom hadn’t changed. Shapely, still moving like a pendulum when she walked, then charged ahead to the nursery, almost running from him.

He’d fix that.

‘I’ve shifted your room.’

Maisy slowed, turned. She looked distinctly disturbed.

‘I had no idea you were sleeping in a broom closet. I’ve put you in the room next to mine. The one I slept in last night.’

‘Oh.’ Maisy looked as if she’d wanted to say something but had thought better of it.

‘But you’ll be sleeping in my bed,’ he added.

On receipt of that little announcement Maisy clung on to her shopping bags like life rafts. What in the hell was the matter with her?

‘Is that a problem?

‘No,’ she said stiffly, ‘of course not.’

Clearly it was. ‘I didn’t think it would be.’ He didn’t mean to sound clipped, but she was already moving away from
him, heels clicking. She really had the most endearing walk in heels—as if she hadn’t quite mastered them.

Maisy kept going. If she could just get to her room and shut the door, get herself together before she had to face him again, it would be all right. But he was undoing her with every word.

Of course he followed her into her room. She wasn’t going to get any time alone. With her head in overdrive, she was wondering just how she could bring up the spectre of a million other women and not sound like a jealous shrew?

‘Can I have a minute?’ she asked, her voice light and thin.

‘I haven’t seen you all day, Maisy. Didn’t you miss me?’ He had closed the door and was leaning back against it, all lean, muscular grace. His stunning blue eyes were not on her, however. They were on the bags.

The room had a whole wall of glass facing onto a terrace. The view was breathtaking. But Maisy turned her back to the water, setting down her bags on the floor. ‘I haven’t had much time to miss you,’ she replied stiffly. ‘I was so busy. Did you have a lovely day with Kostya?’

He gave her a tight smile, and she realised her odd behaviour was impacting on him. He pushed away from the door, coming towards her with an intent that made her step back. If he touched her now she would hit him. He merely dumped her bags on the bed.

‘You
have
been a busy girl. A complete wardrobe overhaul?’

‘No,’ Maisy said slowly, ‘just a few new dresses. I packed for Paris, not Italy, and it’s very warm, and I thought—’ She broke off, wondering why she was explaining herself to him.

Defending herself.

‘I got Kostya some overalls and the sweetest pair of pyjamas,’ she barrelled on, determined to steer the subject into more neutral waters.

She caught her breath as Alexei snagged a lingerie carrier.

Suddenly, knowing what she did and in this mood, she didn’t want him to see her purchases. She had made them when she felt loved-up, and she was feeling distinctly frozen out right
now. Amazing what being at the end of a long line of sensationally attractive women did for an ordinary girl’s ego.

‘No—don’t,’ she said, reaching for the bag. But he whipped it out of her reach.

‘You can’t disappoint me now,
dushka
. I mean, you hardly made this little purchase for yourself.’

And he shook out all the frilly nothings she had indulged in over the bed.

He zeroed in on an ivory satin negligee with lace inserts. Maisy put a hand to her temple. She could hardly pretend now she hadn’t made these purchases for him.

Alexei didn’t know what he’d expected to find. The satin slid through his fingers like water. It was a classic negligee. His gaze went to the bra-and-knicker sets on the bed. All classy, in pale colours. Nothing outrageous, nothing overtly sexy—everything to remind him Maisy had been wearing plain white knickers with just a bit of lace this morning.

Suddenly he knew he’d blundered. He couldn’t see a price tag on any of this, he just saw understated elegance, and he was given the strong impression of a woman who had come into his life without any intention of seducing a man. He could have told her all she needed to do was smile at him and he was hers.

‘I like this,’ he said gruffly.

‘I don’t think they have it in your size,’ Maisy said tartly, surprising him, reaching out and snatching it out of his hand. She added assertively, ‘I didn’t buy this for you. I bought it for me.’

He smiled slowly, watched the wariness in her eyes turn into something else—something closer to where they had been first thing this morning. He liked it when she was like this: ready to stand up for herself, willing to take him on. Few people did it in his world. He liked it when it was the woman in his bed.

Which reminded him. ‘Wear it tonight,’ he said, more abruptly than he’d meant.

She frowned. ‘Is that an order or a request?’

‘And wear your hair down,’ he said, as if she hadn’t spoken, crowding her. He couldn’t help himself. She smelled like sandalwood and bergamot, and that indefinable Maisy-smell he’d had tattooed on his skin this morning.

Maisy opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, but he picked up one of her ringlets and bussed the end of her nose with it.

‘Don’t look so dire, Maisy. It’s just sex.’ And with that he bent and brushed his mouth over hers, effectively silencing her.

She tried to tell herself he
hadn’t
just given her the real terms of their arrangement, but something curdled deep in her belly. First the money, and then all those other women. She would never mention the other women to him—she had too much pride—but by God she would tackle him over the money.

She pushed her hands up against his chest and gave him a shove.

‘Maisy?’

He actually sounded disconcerted. She shook her head disbelievingly. ‘I thought we’d sorted this out. I thought we had an arrangement.’

‘Okay.’ He backed up. ‘What’s the problem? You’ve been like a cat on a hot tin roof since we got up here.’