first time since he’d started observing Lubochka’s female Americans, he’d been attracted.
No, worse. He’d been enthralled—and he didn’t know why. Usually his women were beautiful, seductive, knowing. They might not choose him to begin with, but once they realized the pleasure he could give them, they flirted, tempted, laughed, met him halfway and more.
Nothing about Genesis’s appearance gave him reason to believe she was that kind of woman.
She was pretty. Not beautiful, but with the kind of face that caught and held his attention. A head full of dark curly hair pulled back into a careless ponytail. A beautiful olive complexion, a cleft in her chin, and the most exotic golden brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. They glowed in her face like coals burning with the kind of rosy hope and enthusiasm he only dimly remembered.
She couldn’t be for real. She just couldn’t be. Because simply seeing her made him feel .
Those events two years ago had cured him of emotions. He was hollow, empty inside; and if he started feeling sorrow or amusement or loneliness or joy, it would mean life was returning to his soul, like blood to a limb that had been frozen.
If there was one thing he understood, it was how painful that could be.
He didn’t want it. He didn’t want it. His power had been contained for so long. Better that it stay contained forever. He couldn’t trust it.
He couldn’t trust himself.
Like a bear fleeing a swarm of mosquitoes, he shook his head and fled into the woods. But for the first time he couldn’t escape his thoughts.
What was he going to do when the Gypsy Travel Agency sent a representative to demand his return?
What was he going to do if Genny’s golden eyes mirrored her soul; if she was truly a dreamer, bright and idealistic?
He didn’t know either answer.
He wanted her. He wanted to slide his hands through her dark hair, kiss her warm, tanned skin, ravish her, worship her, teach her how a man who had abandoned civilization made love.
Yet if she was real, if the warmth in her eyes thawed the ice in his veins . . . then he would have to leave her alone.
Because he would destroy her . . . just like he’d destroyed all the rest.
Chapter 6
S omeone shook Genny’s shoulder. “We’re here.”
She opened her eyes, took a long breath of the cold, fresh air pouring through the van’s open side access panel, and sighed. “Thank God.” She’d managed to live through the ride to Rasputye.
She waited while everyone removed their bags and the equipment; then she dragged out her duffel. The team was traipsing into the only two-story building on the town square, and she lagged behind, peering around.
She couldn’t see much. There were no streetlights. But the quarter moon showed a tiny hamlet, a throw-back to the nineteenth century. Squat stone buildings with tin roofs were built around a village square. In the middle, a woodstove glowed dimly red. Dirty patches of snow hugged the houses and ice crunched underfoot.
In the daylight, she suspected this place would be quaint. Now, with the forest looming close and darkness crouching beneath its boughs, the village felt foreign. Not Russian-foreign. Not I’ve-never-been-here-before foreign. Foreign as if . . . as if at any moment, the twins from that long-ago legend of the Chosen Ones could stroll out and carry Genny away, too.
Because someone was watching.
Again the hair on her neck lifted.
What had been spooky in the daylight was terrifying now. With a gasp, she hurried toward the inn, from which light, warmth, and voices spilled forth.
She descended six steps—the bottom floor was half dug into the ground—and stepped into a large taproom filled with the team, their baggage, and two dozen strangers. Lubochka stood between two long, laden tables directing traffic. “The girls get the attic. You men—you can fight for the regular rooms.”
Brandon groaned.
Obviously, he was low man on the totem pole. Genny hoped he
No, worse. He’d been enthralled—and he didn’t know why. Usually his women were beautiful, seductive, knowing. They might not choose him to begin with, but once they realized the pleasure he could give them, they flirted, tempted, laughed, met him halfway and more.
Nothing about Genesis’s appearance gave him reason to believe she was that kind of woman.
She was pretty. Not beautiful, but with the kind of face that caught and held his attention. A head full of dark curly hair pulled back into a careless ponytail. A beautiful olive complexion, a cleft in her chin, and the most exotic golden brown eyes he’d ever seen in his life. They glowed in her face like coals burning with the kind of rosy hope and enthusiasm he only dimly remembered.
She couldn’t be for real. She just couldn’t be. Because simply seeing her made him feel .
Those events two years ago had cured him of emotions. He was hollow, empty inside; and if he started feeling sorrow or amusement or loneliness or joy, it would mean life was returning to his soul, like blood to a limb that had been frozen.
If there was one thing he understood, it was how painful that could be.
He didn’t want it. He didn’t want it. His power had been contained for so long. Better that it stay contained forever. He couldn’t trust it.
He couldn’t trust himself.
Like a bear fleeing a swarm of mosquitoes, he shook his head and fled into the woods. But for the first time he couldn’t escape his thoughts.
What was he going to do when the Gypsy Travel Agency sent a representative to demand his return?
What was he going to do if Genny’s golden eyes mirrored her soul; if she was truly a dreamer, bright and idealistic?
He didn’t know either answer.
He wanted her. He wanted to slide his hands through her dark hair, kiss her warm, tanned skin, ravish her, worship her, teach her how a man who had abandoned civilization made love.
Yet if she was real, if the warmth in her eyes thawed the ice in his veins . . . then he would have to leave her alone.
Because he would destroy her . . . just like he’d destroyed all the rest.
Chapter 6
S omeone shook Genny’s shoulder. “We’re here.”
She opened her eyes, took a long breath of the cold, fresh air pouring through the van’s open side access panel, and sighed. “Thank God.” She’d managed to live through the ride to Rasputye.
She waited while everyone removed their bags and the equipment; then she dragged out her duffel. The team was traipsing into the only two-story building on the town square, and she lagged behind, peering around.
She couldn’t see much. There were no streetlights. But the quarter moon showed a tiny hamlet, a throw-back to the nineteenth century. Squat stone buildings with tin roofs were built around a village square. In the middle, a woodstove glowed dimly red. Dirty patches of snow hugged the houses and ice crunched underfoot.
In the daylight, she suspected this place would be quaint. Now, with the forest looming close and darkness crouching beneath its boughs, the village felt foreign. Not Russian-foreign. Not I’ve-never-been-here-before foreign. Foreign as if . . . as if at any moment, the twins from that long-ago legend of the Chosen Ones could stroll out and carry Genny away, too.
Because someone was watching.
Again the hair on her neck lifted.
What had been spooky in the daylight was terrifying now. With a gasp, she hurried toward the inn, from which light, warmth, and voices spilled forth.
She descended six steps—the bottom floor was half dug into the ground—and stepped into a large taproom filled with the team, their baggage, and two dozen strangers. Lubochka stood between two long, laden tables directing traffic. “The girls get the attic. You men—you can fight for the regular rooms.”
Brandon groaned.
Obviously, he was low man on the totem pole. Genny hoped he
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