Page 25 of Pregnant By the Russian Pakhan

She would have to keep a close watch on him while she was here if she was to find out the exact truth. Her father wasn’t saying much about how her mother had died, and neither was Mikhail.

But one thing Mira could stake her life on was that both of these men held the secrets to what had truly happened to Marybeth Dostoevsky. She would not rest until she found out just what Mikhail and her father were hiding from her.

Chapter 16 - Mikhail

Mikhail couldn’t deny the male triumph coursing through him as he considered the ring on his finger. He wasn’t even sure why it should matter to him that he had wedded Mira, but somehow he couldn’t shake the feeling of immense satisfaction that the little wildcat was now all his.

Careful, his subconscious murmured and he tried to reroute his thoughts.

It was true he had the hots for her, but that aside, he wasn’t even sure he liked her. She was cool as a cucumber one minute and hot as coals the next; he had a hard time understanding her or pegging her personality. She was like the wind—flighty, exotic, cool, and tempestuous all at once.

Remembering how exotic she had looked in her white floral gown yesterday that clashed beautifully with her red tresses, he felt his dick stir with interest. He was looking forward to watching her putter around with the flower beds, adjust some furniture, and generally make her mark on his home in that way women liked to do.

She was classy, sophisticated, and so intensely feminine that it made all his male instincts gravitate toward her. Every time he thought about her, he wanted to either fuck her so hard that she wouldn’t be able to walk straight for a month; or wrap her in a cocoon and protect her like fine porcelain. Everything about her—and the feelings she evoked in him—was a mass of contradictions.

She was sweet, young, unspoiled, and fresh.

She also had no clothes, since she’d come with just her car and a duffle bag, he recalled.

He picked up his phone and called one of the most expensive boutiques in Chicago, La Femme. It was a French outfit specializing in haute couture and owned by one of the few people on earth he considered his friend, Madame Pruitt. She was at least seventy if she was a day, but she had fallen in love with Mikhail the very first time they met, and he with her. There was nothing erotic in their relationship; he loved her with the ardent loyalty of a son and she loved him as only a mother could.

“You rascal, I haven’t seen you in ages,” she laughed.

“Well, you’re about to see me now. Get me everything you have in your store for a size twelve woman.”

“A size twelve? That’s unusual for you. You always go for the zero-size model types,” she mused.

“Well, I’ve married this one. She is…absolutely gorgeous. She has red hair and skin so fair I’m sometimes almost afraid to touch her.”

“My, my,” Madame Pruitt crowed with absolute delight. “Seems someone has been bitten by the love bug.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mikhail snapped, drawing a gasp from Madame Pruitt because he never spoke to her with anything but love and respect. “This is merely a—business arrangement, if you will. But I won’t have her looking like a homeless waif while she’s here. You understand? My reputation and all,” he added more gently.

“Of course, my son. Your reputation…and all,” she added.

He frowned at the phone as he ended the call. Was that a giggle he’d heard in her voice? Madame Pruitt never giggled. She was dramatic and hyper, but she was also aristocratic and dignified. She never giggled. He shook his head. The world must be going mad.

He was so excited he bounded toward Mira’s room, eager to tell her what he had done and envisioning the childlike delight that would be on her face when she saw the many new clothes he’d bought for her.

When he reached her room, he gave a brief knock. At her command to enter, he popped open the door excitedly and then drew up short. She was sitting at her dressing table putting on a pair of teardrop earrings. But that wasn’t the shock; the shock was what she was wearing…or not wearing.

She was wearing a simple burgundy-colored dress with flecks of gold scattered all over it. He recognized the dress at once, because he had given it to Alena. How the hell were Alena’s clothes still in his house?

She must have read something in his face because she rose gracefully to her feet. The billowing folds of the loose gown fell around her body, hiding her curves but still tantalizing him with the promise of what was hidden.

“That dress—” he began.

“I know, right? It’s so divine. I couldn’t believe it when your housekeeper showed me an entire closet full of gorgeous clothes. They’re mostly not my size, but this one is one-size-fits-all. It’s so beautiful,” she declared, turning to grin happily at her reflection in the mirror.

Mikhail didn’t have the heart to tell her to take it off when she was so childishly delighted about it.

He clasped his hands behind his back and announced formally, “I sent for new clothes for you. The boutique’s on their way to deliver. You should have your own clothes soon and you won’t need this dress,” he muttered.

She shrugged. “Thank you. But I think I’ll keep this one too, unless you think whoever owns it would mind?”

He thought about it briefly. Oh, Alena would mind very much. She’d been nothing but a twisted core of hatred, anger and malice when she left him.

“Someone’s here to see you, sir,” the housekeeper announced from the doorway.

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