Page 45 of Emerald

Lisa Kleypas

Iwake to the sound of ice cubes shifting inside a glass, silverware clinking against a plate. I sit up in a bed far larger, warmer, and softer than the one I’ve been inhabiting lately.

The room is full of daylight. It streams in through a bank of windows on the right-hand wall—windows nearly as tall as I am, narrow and rectangular and topped with a Gothic arch.

Ivan is no longer in bed beside me. But I hear him moving around in the adjoining room. I’m already coming to know the sound of his heavy tread, his methodical movements.

I roll off the bed and grab a silk robe that hangs over the back of the nearest chair. I put it on, tying the belt at the waist.

I pad barefoot across the carpet, through the doorway to the sitting room with its hefty leather furniture and its massive fireplace.

Ivan is standing in front of that fireplace, arranging several dishes on a portable rolling table—the type they use in hotels. The table is covered in a linen tablecloth, and it’s carrying an array of breakfast foods, including a large platter of fresh-baked pastries, a bowl of fruit, bacon, sausages, a carafe of orange juice, a samovar of hot coffee, and dishes and glassware for two people.

“Nice spread,” I say approvingly.

“Still trying to earn that fifth star,” Ivan says.

He pulls up a seat for me—one of the heavy, extraordinarily comfortable leather armchairs. I sink down into it, reaching at once for the coffee.

The smell of the food is almost making me drool. I’ve barely eaten in the last thirty-six hours. Ivan probably would have brought me something sooner if I’d asked, but we were a little . . . distracted.

Well . . . he did bring me some oatmeal. A flush rises in my cheeks, remembering that particular meal.

Ivan is thinking the same thing. He gives me a wicked smile and says, “Don’t worry. This time I brought you a fork.”

I look him in the eye and grin.

“I don’t know if that’s an improvement,” I tell him. “I rather liked the service at my last meal.”

Our eyes are locked across the table, the food forgotten yet again. I know he wants to tumble back into the bed as badly as I do.

But he’s already dressed in a charcoal-gray suit. He’s got work to do today.

Ivan sees me glance down at his jacket and trousers.

“I’ve got to go out,” he says, confirming my thoughts. “I took your ideas from last night. Added a few of my own.”

I nod my head slowly. For some reason, the thought of Ivan leaving the compound on his mission of revenge against Remizov is frightening to me. Why should I care about some Bratva battle for territory in St. Petersburg? Why should I care if Ivan gets himself killed? I was about to do it myself, two days ago.

Yet I do care.

God, I’m so annoyed with myself.

My father was my only family and my only friend for almost the whole of my childhood. He was everything to me.

Then I realized he was out of his mind. His mission was madness. And my world came crashing down.

I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to put myself in that position again. I wasn’t going to tie my emotions to someone guaranteed to smash them into pieces. Really, I didn’t plan to get attached to anyone at all.

But, despite my intentions, I like Ivan. I respect him. And I’m attracted to him on a level I never thought possible.

Still, I don’t want to get drawn into his vendetta against Remizov.

My job is dangerous, but it’s impersonal.

Ivan’s hatred for Remizov is extremely personal.

So are my feelings for Ivan.

---