Page 69 of The Beast of Moscow

Vaslav didn’t like wanting things—never mind saying so. He had so little self control when it came to something he didn’t have but wanted to; how ironic that a woman twenty years his junior could suddenly turn him, a man who hadn’t even as much as dated a woman on a steady basis before he married, into a jealous mess without knowing she was doing it.

He’d learned over his lifetime that some people were magnetic without trying, and others, without realizing—whatever energy made up their being or soul was something that drew other people in. Whether or not the people they drew in were good or bad was dependent on too many factors to count, and honestly, Vaslav was only looking for an excuse to look away from a dancing Vera being watched by a crowd.

His constantly chaotic thoughts were simply the excuse he decided to use. Too bad it didn’t last for long.

Vaslav knew at his second look that he paid too much attention to Vera when he was able to notice from more than fifty feet away, while she spun and laughed under the lit-up tower with an equally joyful—and pretty—woman, that her bob was longer. The dark, sleek strands that had once been cut sharply just below her jawline had grown enough to nearly brush her shoulders. Which only drew his attention to the naked, delicate column of her throat, over her bare shoulders, and before long, he was devouring the woman across the way with his gaze again.

Maybe the fact that he believed Vera was one of those magnetic people was the excuse Vas could use to explain the urge he felt to seek her out, knowing she might be here because he’d heard her mention it during a phone call and nothing more. Maybe that was the reason he could lie when faced with his obsessive, almost compulsive, need to see her. And not just to see the woman—laying his eyes on her was only part of the equation. No, he wanted to watch her. Study her when others were around; take in how her mannerisms and expressions changed when she didn’t know he was nearby.

Who was she when Vera thought Vaslav wasn’t looking?

It wasn’t exactly something he could ask.

Really, he wasn’t the kind of man who asked for anything.

She was only supposed to be useful, but not also interesting. That made things terribly tricky.

Too late, his mind taunted.

The same mind—that at the same damn time—told him he should be doing a million other things. Better, more important things than stalking a dancing, young woman under the Eiffel Tower. In fact, the almost viciously sarcastic voice started making a list, and for a second, he wished the migraine he’d been provoked with that morning would return.

If for nothing else, to wipe out his thoughts.

Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

Even staring up at the bright lights spread throughout the tower did little to flare the pain he’d woken up with that slowly faded over the day. Lights were not his friend—natural, or otherwise. Yet, he felt nothing more than a dull, pulsing ache in his temples and a bit of uncomfortable pressure behind his slightly squinted eyes.

Vas should have headed back to the apartment only a short walk away, but it was rare that he was near a crowd of people who didn’t know his face while capable of coherent thoughts untarnished by his pain. He wasn’t about to waste it.

As he passed along the outside of the tower, something red caught his eye leaning against the back of a bench. The rose looked like someone had just placed it there with the intention of going back to it, but considering no one was around, he plucked it up as he moved on by and twirled the long stem between two fingers.

Considering the summer months usually brought more tourists to France, and specifically the tower, he wasn’t surprised that as the time neared ten o’clock, a rather large crowd gathered in the area. He was sure the live, free music and pretty, dancing women helped. Although, one could tell the difference between the tourists and the those who would consider themselves Parisians quite easily.

One group couldn’t put down their damn phones, after all.

He weaved in and out of a group of young twenty-somethings, one of which stood back from his group of friends to take pictures of their tongues stuck out and peace signs held high. How cute.

He could almost vomit.

Not that any one person got too close to Vas as he walked closer to the outside of the leg of the tower. No one met his gaze for too long, not once they saw the right side of his face and the scowl that rarely left his expression, and they stayed out of his way as he moved through. As people usually did.

The high whine of a violin followed the end of the makeshift band’s song, and the crowd’s applause echoed up the tower and into the air like a megaphone. For once, a suddenly amplified sound didn’t irritate Vaslav to the point of instant insanity.

Or rather, instant rage.

His oldest friend.

Instead, he was too busy staring at Vera again, and the redhead she was currently encouraging to say yes to a dance with a young man who’d approached the two. Was that the friend—was the redhead Hannah?

He really should have made Igor check up on those things, but the details of Vera’s side excursion with her friend in Paris hadn’t interested him enough to do so. Until now.

Funny how that worked.

The piano and a man working the cello started to strum out a slower tune as Vas came around the side of the tower leg. Vera must have been able to convince her friend to dance with the young man because she headed away from the two with a wave over her shoulder. Her lack of attention caused her to nearly run into an older lady who was asking a man to take a picture of her and her husband.

Vera’s soft apology was accepted with an easy laugh by the woman and man, and something he couldn’t hear them say made her laugh again. When she side-stepped the people and turned his way, her gaze finally landed on him.

Only twenty or so steps away, Vera’s laughter died on her lips, but her smile spread even wider. Sweeter, truly.