Prince Voronov's Virgin (8 page)

Paige tried not to panic. “Yes, but what are we doing here?”

“I am taking you to dinner,
maya krasavitsa.”
His expression said it was obvious.

“At the airport?”

“No,” he said as the car hesitated for a moment at a security
gate. The chauffeur exchanged a few words with the guards, and then they were through. A couple of minutes later the car came to a halt. The door opened and Alexei stepped out, then held out a hand for her. When she emerged, she realized they were standing in front of a hangar where a jet was slowly taxiing out into the open. The whine of the engines was loud, the wind whipping her clothes and making her wish she’d changed into jeans and boots instead of her business suit and kitten heels. In spite of the gorgeous coat, the wind went up her pant legs and chilled her from the inside out.

Alexei leaned into the car and grabbed the shopping bag with the accessories.

“Alexei,” she shouted over the noise as he placed the hat on her head and wrapped the scarf around her neck, “I can’t get on an airplane with you! This is insane!”

He didn’t let go of her hand, instead tugging her into the curve of his body and wrapping an arm around her to keep her from getting too chilled.

“It is a short flight, Paige. I’ll have you back by midnight, I promise. Put these in your pockets,” he said, handing her the gloves.

Her pulse skidded like an out of control ice skater. What had she gotten herself into? Agreeing to go to a restaurant with him was one thing, but getting onto a plane?

“I can’t,” she said, shaking her head frantically. They both knew she wasn’t talking about the gloves.

He turned her and put both hands on her shoulders. Then he leaned down until his face was only inches from hers.

“You trusted me last night,” he said, his voice soothing in spite of the fact he had to practically shout. “I’m asking you to trust me again.”

H
E WOULDN’T TELL HER
where they were going, yet she’d still gotten onto the plane with him. Paige shook her head at her own folly, wondering what on earth had happened to her good sense. It had taken less than an hour for the plane to land at a different airport, but instead of getting into a car, they’d boarded a helicopter.

It wasn’t her first helicopter ride, but it was certainly the most luxurious. The inside of the craft looked like a custom yacht, all white leather and sleek wood. Beside her, Alexei was on the phone. He’d taken at least six calls since she’d climbed into the car with him outside the hotel.

But then, that’s what multimillionaire—or billionaire—tycoons did. They made deals over the phone, bought and sold entire companies and transferred millions of dollars, or rubles as the case may be, with aplomb.

It was a world far outside her realm, in spite of the last few days as Chad’s executive secretary.

Alexei tucked the phone back into his pocket. “I am sorry for the interruptions,” he said.

Paige shrugged. “It’s okay,” she replied. “There’s a lot at stake.”

His gaze sharpened as he studied her. “Yes, there is. And I intend to win, Paige.”

A shiver skidded through her. She hadn’t been referring to
any one deal in particular, but clearly the Valishnikov acquisition was the subject of his many calls. Apprehension was a tight ball in her stomach as she thought of her boss back in Moscow. “So does Chad.”

He looked out the window behind her as the helicopter began to bank. “Look.”

She turned to where he’d pointed, her breath catching in her throat. She felt him move behind her on the luxurious leather bench, felt his solid body pressing against hers. It was intimate, casual, but she burned nonetheless.

Below, the land unfolded itself in a crystalline white blanket. A rich green and white palace sat in the center of the covering. Six massive white columns fronted the building, and ornate friezes clad in gold surrounded each of the myriad windows across the three-level facing. The domes of a small church nearby were a muted gold, though she imagined they would glint in the sun, while white trees reached with bare arms to the dull sky.

Alexei’s arm was on her shoulder, his cheek near her other ear as he leaned in and pointed. “It is the Voronov Palace,” he said, “built in the early eighteenth century. Look there, at the fountain. It was a gift from Tsar Peter the Great.”

The fountain in the front courtyard seemed made of gold, its cherubs and mythical creatures frozen in time, waiting for some sign only they knew in order to step down from their perches and frolic in the courtyard.

The Voronov Palace was fairy tale beautiful, and she felt completely out of her depth being here. She’d been raised in a two-bedroom house with a tiny kitchen and a postage-stamp lawn. Hardly comparable.

The helicopter made another pass, then began to hover before gliding softly down, its rotors lessening in speed until they were on the ground and a man opened the door
and smiled at them. He said something in Russian. Alexei answered before turning and taking her hand in his.

Then they were stepping out of the craft and hurrying along a path that had been cleared of snow until they reached the house. Alexei led her inside a grand entry where Paige came to an abrupt stop, her head tilting back and her jaw dropping open.

The entry was vast, its gilt and alabaster walls rising to a dome that was painted all around with a scene from the bible. Three large crystal chandeliers were suspended from different points of the dome. The glittering crystals threw light into every nook and corner of the fresco, which gleamed with rich golds, deep blues, and vibrant reds.

“It’s the Adoration of the Madonna,” she said in wonder. Mama’d had a print of a religious scene similar to this one on the wall in their living room. Paige had been so accustomed to it that she’d lost the ability to see it with fresh eyes when she was still quite young.

But this was like seeing it again for the first time—though clearly this painting was far better. Not to mention
real.
Still, odd as it seemed, it gave her that wistful feeling of home.

“Da.”

She looked at Alexei, blinking back tears. For a moment, she’d forgotten he was there. What must it be like to live with this kind of beauty every day of your life?

He came to her, his gaze filled with concern. “What is wrong, Paige? You are safe with me, I promise you.”

It was too late to hide her reaction now. She gave him a watery smile, embarrassment creeping through her. “It’s silly,” she said, swiping her fingers beneath her eyes. “I always cry in art galleries. There’s just something about the ethereal beauty of old paintings that gets to me. It’s like the painter’s soul is inside, if that makes sense. It’s just so wondrous.”

It was true, and yet she knew it was more than the beauty
of this painting making her cry. It was that connection to the past, discovered in such an unusual place, that made her more emotional than she might have otherwise been.

Alexei wiped away a tear that slipped down her cheek. His handsome face was gentler than she’d ever seen it. “You are very refreshing, Paige Barnes. I do not think I’ve ever met a woman who cries in art galleries, though this is hardly a gallery.”

She managed a soft laugh. Hardly a gallery? Who was he kidding? “Well, I’ve only been inside three in my life, not including this place, so maybe it’s not a phenomenon so much as the newness of the experience. I might grow positively callous with time.”

He smiled. “I doubt that. And I think I had better not take you into the portrait gallery. You’ll never be able to eat dinner with your nose closed from crying.”

“Maybe after dinner then?” How could she not want to see portraits of his ancestors?

“After dinner is a surprise.” He took her hand and pulled her to his side. “Now come, if I’m not mistaken, a delicious meal awaits us in the library.”

“The library?” she said as they moved deeper into the house.

“The formal dining room is vast, whereas the library is far more cozy.”

If cozy was a two-story room the size of a small department store, then yes, this room was cozy, Paige thought, as Alexei ushered her into a book-lined space with a giant fireplace burning at one end. A round table was set near the fire with crystal, china and snowy-white linens. A trio of uniformed servants stood to one side, near a cart from which glorious smells wafted.

Alexei took her coat and hat and handed them to one of the servants. Then he piled his own on top and came to pull out
a chair for her. Paige sank into the worn leather, wondering how many Voronov princes and princesses had used this very chair she was sitting on.

Alexei took the chair opposite, and the food began to arrive. There were meat dishes, steamy dumplings, fragrant vegetables and black bread. A dish of black caviar in ice sat to one side, along with flat pancakes she knew were called
blini.
One of the servants opened a bottle of white wine and poured it into their glasses. Paige started to ask for water as well, but Alexei said something in Russian and a glass of water appeared at her place setting immediately after.

The waiters filtered out of the room and they were suddenly alone. Alexei lifted his wineglass. “To a fine evening of good food and great company.”

Paige clinked glasses with him. She took a small sip of the wine, surprised to find it light and refreshing, and smiled back at him. Her pulse thrummed, and she wondered how she would get through this evening when suddenly she couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

It was completely unreal, what was happening to her. She’d been whisked away from Moscow by a Russian prince, flown on his private plane to St. Petersburg and now she was sitting in the beautiful library of his ancestral home and eating a romantic dinner with him. These things happened in movies, or to beautiful models and actresses, but not to hardworking career women like her.

She thought of Chad and Emma, and pushed away a spear of guilt that notched into her breastbone.

“You are enjoying the
pelmeni?
” Alexei asked.

“Everything is wonderful. But which dish is
pelmeni?
”

“The dumplings. The filling is a mixture of beef, lamb, pork and spices.”

Paige stabbed another. “It tastes amazing. You were right there’s more to Russian food than cabbage.”

He followed the fork from her plate to her mouth, his gaze lingering while she chewed. She was beginning to feel self-conscious, but then he looked down at his own plate and resumed eating.

“They were my sister’s favorite,” he said. “It is a recipe from the Urals. My mother made them for us quite often.”

“I’m sorry that your sister is no longer with you,” she said carefully. And then she wanted to smack herself. Could she have sounded any stiffer? Any more uncomfortable?

“It has been many, many years,” he replied. “But thank you.”

When he didn’t say anything else, she felt duty-bound to change the subject. Another tenet of the Southern creed:
never make folks uncomfortable, and never talk about upsetting subjects.

“My mother cooked a mean Southern-fried chicken,” she said lightly. “That was my favorite growing up.”

He looked at her with interest. “But not any longer?”

Paige shook her head. “Not since I learned about cholesterol and heart disease. And not since I lost ten pounds once I gave up fried foods.”

Though she’d probably still be eating Mama’s chicken if Mama were alive to make it.

“I have never had this Southern-fried chicken before.”

“If you ever come to Texas, I’ll make it for you.” Polite chitchat was the hallmark of Southern manners. She didn’t expect he would truly come, but she felt obligated to say it.

He grinned. “Perhaps I will plan a visit.”

Paige took another sip of her wine. After tonight, the last thing she needed was for this man to come to Texas and see her meager little house. Nor was he likely to do so, really. He was simply being polite in return.

“Your home is lovely,” she said. “It must have been amazing growing up here.”

His expression clouded, but then he shrugged. “I did not grow up here,
maya krasavitsa.
My father died when I was five, and my mother was forced to leave with my sister and me. We were, as you say, persona non grata.”

She felt she should drop it, and yet she found she could not. “That seems so unfair. Shouldn’t your mother have inherited the property when your father died?”

He took a sip of his wine. “You would think so, but no. Times were hard back then, and Mama did not have, shall we say, the right connections. There were those who very much wanted her gone.”

“But you are here now,” she said, trying to recover from her mistake.

“It took many years, but yes, I managed to buy the property back.” His ice-gray eyes glittered with an emotion she could not identify. Hate? Rage? Fear?

Before she could figure it out, his mask slipped back into place. Once more he was the handsome, solicitous Russian prince.

She stabbed her fork into a pile of greens. “Where does your mother live now?”

The seriousness never left his expression. She began to get a bad feeling that she’d somehow blundered again.

“She is in the church you saw when we arrived. As are my sister and my father. I moved my mother and sister here to join him when I took possession.”

Paige felt her stomach drop. She set the fork down. He’d gotten the family home back, but his family wasn’t here to enjoy it with him. “I’m so sorry, Alexei. I shouldn’t have asked—”

“How could you know?” He reached for her hand across the table. “They have all been gone a very long time now. But they are where they should be, in the family crypt, and I am happy I could give that to them.”

She squeezed his hand, her heart going out to him. Though it was no consolation, she wanted him to know that she understood. “My mother died eight years ago.”

“I am very sorry for your loss.”

She shook her head. She was messing everything up, failing in her efforts to comfort him. Turning the conversation to oneself at a time like this was unforgivably rude—and not at all what she’d intended. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted sympathy. I just wanted you to know that I understood what it’s like to be alone.”