Page 64 of Cruel Demands

“That you’re American?” the man asks, his smile deepening and revealing two dimples. “I heard you speaking earlier.”

“That seems like cheating.”

“Then I would have guessed from the tan.” His gaze flicks over my face and shoulders. “Not common in the middle of a Moscow winter.”

Dima leans back in his chair, interested now. Alina folds her lips into her mouth, watching like she’s watching a scene in a movie. Mikhail doesn’t move, but his eyes are fixed on the man, and I can feel how tense he is. His body is humming with a particular energy.

“Also, you look very apologetic when you speak Russian,” the man continues. Katya laughs, and Viktoriya’s mouth curves around her straw.

“That bad?” I ask.

“Charming,” the man says. “Not bad.” The compliment lands politely. Nicely. Normally. My body doesn’t go electric. My lungs don’t forget what they’re for. I don’t feel like I’m standing on the edge of something dark and stupid. Good.

“I’m Nikolai,” he says and offers his hand. Of course his name is beautiful. Everyone’s name here sounds like it belongs in a novel where people suffer elegantly in the snow.

“Taylor,” I say. I hesitate only a second before taking his hand. His palm is warm. His grip is confident but not crushing. Normal. Normal. Normal. At my side, Mikhail’s hand reaches for my thigh again. I don’t pull away this time. I don’t know why.

“Taylor,” Nikolai repeats, shaping my name like it’s something worth tasting. “You are here with friends?”

“Coworkers,” I say.

“Ah.” His gaze moves over the table. It passes over Katya, Dima, Alina, and Viktoriya. Then it reaches Mikhail, and something changes in his expression. Not fear. Recognition, maybe, or simply an understanding that one of my coworkers isn’t like the others. “You won’t mind if I ask Taylor to dance?” he says to the table, holding out a hand.

Katya looks delighted. Dima looks like he would pay money to disappear and also to stay forever. Alina’s eyebrows are almost at her hairline. Viktoriya looks like someone has handed her a present wrapped in dynamite. Mikhail’s expression is unreadable, but his jaw looks like it could cut glass.

The offer is simple. Clean. No threat wrapped around it. No secret. No office. No privacy glass. No man saying kotik like he remembers exactly how I sounded underneath him. Just a handsome stranger asking me to dance.

I should say no. I don’t want to encourage him. I don’t want a complication. I don’t even particularly want to dance.

“Okay,” I say and stand.

Viktoriya makes a tiny, delighted sound. “Have fun, American.”

“Don’t make it weird,” I mutter.

“Too late.”

I ignore her and place my hand in Nikolai’s. Nikolai’s smile widens. “Okay?”

“One dance,” I tell him, letting him lead me to the floor.

“One often leads to two,” he says in the happy voice of a man for whom that’s usually true.

I don’t look at Mikhail as I go. That’s how I know I’m doing it for him.

The music is fast and unfamiliar, all bright percussion and a bass line that seems to move through the floorboards. Nikolai is a good dancer. Not showy, thank God, just competent enough to guide me without making me feel stupid for not knowing the song.

For the first minute, I’m stiff. Then the drink helps. The music helps. The fact that Mikhail isn’t touching me helps and doesn’t help at all.

Nikolai spins me once, and I laugh because I almost stumble. He catches me easily at the waist, not too low, not too tight. Respectable. I should appreciate that more. “You’re thinking too much,” he says near my ear in English. It feels like cheating too, like forced intimacy. Like pretending to be a slice of home.

“I’ve heard that before.”

“From your coworkers?” he asks, emphasizing the last word, his gaze flicking past me toward the table. I don’t look back. I refuse to look back. His brows rise slightly. “One very serious coworker, maybe.”

My stomach tightens. “He’s my boss.”

“Unfortunate,” Nikolai says and spins me. A laugh spills out of me, real and easy, even as I can feel Mikhail’s attention like a hand on the back of my neck.