huge.
She swallowed away a lump in her throat and tore her eyes away from his chiseled chest, massive shoulders and bulging arms.
“Quite a place you’ve got here,” she squeaked, then coughed. “Your garden is lovely.”
He’d joined her by the window, and she was surprised both his demeanor and voice were gruff. “Not my place. Not my garden.”
Her gay mood instantly evaporated. “Whose is it then?” Even before she’d finished the sentence, she knew the answer, and when he turned those dark eyes on her, she muttered, “Oh. Yury.”
“That’s right. Everything you see is Yury’s. To the last blade of grass or Oriental rug.” His eyes, somber and dark, flicked to the window, and as he gazed out, he muttered, “Even I belong to Yury. And so do you now.”
His moodiness was catching, and she felt the blanket of sorrow that had briefly lifted crush down on her once more. “You… work for this man?” When he merely nodded, she continued. “What is it that you do, then? What is it that Yury does?”
He eyed her for the longest time before answering. “Yury Abraskamov runs this town, and if anyone objects, I run him into the ground.”
“You’re… Yury’s… enforcer?”
He lifted his shoulders dismissively, the topic clearly not one on which he wished to elaborate. “I’m the one who gets things done.”
“Like kidnapping the wives of men indebted to Yury.” She hadn’t meant to criticize him, but his behavior was so infuriating, the words were spoken before she could stop herself.
He turned on her, his eyes flickering with anger. “That’s right,” he growled. “And you’d do well to remember that.” Quite unexpectedly, he reached out a hand, and curled his fingers around her neck in a gesture that was both intimate and gentle. “As I explained to you before, both our lives depend on it.”
And before she could pull back, he’d captured her mouth and drawn her in for a searing kiss, his lips crashing down on hers with an urgency and passion she hadn’t thought him capable of, and as her knees grew weak, and her body trembled under the onslaught, all protest was wiped from her mind, and she clung to him, the fury of his touch burning through her soul.
Then, just as abruptly as he had captured her, he let go and walked away from her without another word.
She stood swaying for a moment, like a tree that has been felled but is still resisting the forces of gravity. Then her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, her arms clutching at her own form, and the terrifying truth of her situation came home to her. He was to be her husband and would expect her to behave like a wife to him, with all that entailed.
Soon, he would expect more from her than merely sharing his bed. He would expect her to share her body as well. She didn’t know if she would be capable of doing that.
But she also knew she would be incapable of denying him either. Anything Vitaly Loganov wanted, he would take, whether she liked it or not—whether she agreed to or not.
She was his now, and there was nothing she could do about it.
And, strangely enough, somehow the prospect exhilarated her.
CHAPTER 12
“Who are you?”
The voice had sounded behind her, and Joanna whirled around at the hint of suspicion that accompanied the question.
She’d been walking the garden, trying to find in nature at least an ally, a prop for her quickly dwindling sanity. She instantly recognized the young woman watching her from beneath long eyelashes, her dark hair falling down her oval face, the jawbones jutting and adding to the impact of her beauty.
“Yana,” she breathed. “You’re all right.” Her eyes dropped down to the woman’s chest, half expecting to see blood there, but all her eyes met were two folded arms and a curious stare.
The frown hadn’t dissipated, and she realized she must seem a lunatic. “You don’t know me,” she quickly explained, “but I was there when you were shot. Yesterday in the
She swallowed away a lump in her throat and tore her eyes away from his chiseled chest, massive shoulders and bulging arms.
“Quite a place you’ve got here,” she squeaked, then coughed. “Your garden is lovely.”
He’d joined her by the window, and she was surprised both his demeanor and voice were gruff. “Not my place. Not my garden.”
Her gay mood instantly evaporated. “Whose is it then?” Even before she’d finished the sentence, she knew the answer, and when he turned those dark eyes on her, she muttered, “Oh. Yury.”
“That’s right. Everything you see is Yury’s. To the last blade of grass or Oriental rug.” His eyes, somber and dark, flicked to the window, and as he gazed out, he muttered, “Even I belong to Yury. And so do you now.”
His moodiness was catching, and she felt the blanket of sorrow that had briefly lifted crush down on her once more. “You… work for this man?” When he merely nodded, she continued. “What is it that you do, then? What is it that Yury does?”
He eyed her for the longest time before answering. “Yury Abraskamov runs this town, and if anyone objects, I run him into the ground.”
“You’re… Yury’s… enforcer?”
He lifted his shoulders dismissively, the topic clearly not one on which he wished to elaborate. “I’m the one who gets things done.”
“Like kidnapping the wives of men indebted to Yury.” She hadn’t meant to criticize him, but his behavior was so infuriating, the words were spoken before she could stop herself.
He turned on her, his eyes flickering with anger. “That’s right,” he growled. “And you’d do well to remember that.” Quite unexpectedly, he reached out a hand, and curled his fingers around her neck in a gesture that was both intimate and gentle. “As I explained to you before, both our lives depend on it.”
And before she could pull back, he’d captured her mouth and drawn her in for a searing kiss, his lips crashing down on hers with an urgency and passion she hadn’t thought him capable of, and as her knees grew weak, and her body trembled under the onslaught, all protest was wiped from her mind, and she clung to him, the fury of his touch burning through her soul.
Then, just as abruptly as he had captured her, he let go and walked away from her without another word.
She stood swaying for a moment, like a tree that has been felled but is still resisting the forces of gravity. Then her knees buckled and she sank to the floor, her arms clutching at her own form, and the terrifying truth of her situation came home to her. He was to be her husband and would expect her to behave like a wife to him, with all that entailed.
Soon, he would expect more from her than merely sharing his bed. He would expect her to share her body as well. She didn’t know if she would be capable of doing that.
But she also knew she would be incapable of denying him either. Anything Vitaly Loganov wanted, he would take, whether she liked it or not—whether she agreed to or not.
She was his now, and there was nothing she could do about it.
And, strangely enough, somehow the prospect exhilarated her.
CHAPTER 12
“Who are you?”
The voice had sounded behind her, and Joanna whirled around at the hint of suspicion that accompanied the question.
She’d been walking the garden, trying to find in nature at least an ally, a prop for her quickly dwindling sanity. She instantly recognized the young woman watching her from beneath long eyelashes, her dark hair falling down her oval face, the jawbones jutting and adding to the impact of her beauty.
“Yana,” she breathed. “You’re all right.” Her eyes dropped down to the woman’s chest, half expecting to see blood there, but all her eyes met were two folded arms and a curious stare.
The frown hadn’t dissipated, and she realized she must seem a lunatic. “You don’t know me,” she quickly explained, “but I was there when you were shot. Yesterday in the
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