Page 8 of The Pakhan’s Unwanted Bride

"I'm here to see Samuil." I keep my tone light, casual, like this is perfectly normal. "Is he available?"

The hostess hesitates, glancing toward the back of the restaurant where a private dining area is separated by frosted glass doors. "Mr. Galkin is in a meeting at the moment. Perhaps I could seat you at the bar while you wait?"

"That won't be necessary." I smile politely and confidently. "I'll wait for him here."

She nods, clearly uncomfortable but unwilling to argue. I can feel eyes on me as I stand near the entrance. Whispers ripple through the dining room. People recognize me, and they're wondering what the Rostova princess is doing here unannounced. Let them wonder. I'm not here for them.

It takes less than five minutes before the frosted glass doors open and Samuil appears. He's wearing dark slacks and a black button-down shirt that fits snugly across his broad shoulders. His jaw is tight, his dark eyes locked on me with an expression that's somewhere between irritation and disbelief.

He crosses the restaurant in long strides, and I can feel the shift in the room. Everyone watches him. He commands attention without trying, and I find myself watching how his long and confident stride brings him closer to me.

"Princess." His voice is low when he reaches me, barely controlled. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you." I meet his gaze without flinching. "You haven't returned my calls."

"I didn't return them because I have nothing to say to you." His jaw tightens further, and I can see the muscle ticking there. "You can't just show up at my restaurant unannounced."

"Why not?" I tilt my head slightly, letting a small smile play at my lips. "You own it. I'm a guest. Seems perfectly reasonable to me."

"This isn't a game." He steps closer, his voice dropping even lower so only I can hear. "You're making a scene."

"I'm standing here having a conversation." I keep my tone innocent, playful. "If anyone's making a scene, it's you."

His eyes narrow, and for a moment I think he might actually throw me out. But then he glances around the dining room, at all the eyes watching us, and I see the calculation happen. He won't create a spectacle in front of his guests and business associates.

A warm hand wraps around my upper arm, the grip tight but not painful. "We'll continue this conversation in my office," he growls in a low voice.

He doesn't wait for my response. He turns and walks toward a door at the back of the restaurant, and I follow him without hesitation. Not that I really had a choice with him practically pulling me along by my arm. My heels click against the hardwood floor as we move through the dining area, past the curious stares and whispered conversations. He opens the door and gestures sharply for me to go through first.

The staircase is narrow, dimly lit, leading up to what I assume is his private office. I can feel him behind me as I climb, his presence overwhelming in the confined space. When we reach the top, he moves past me to unlock another door, pushing it open and stepping aside.

"Inside."

I walk into his office, and it's exactly what I expected. Masculine, powerful, meticulously organized. A large desk dominates the center of the room, dark leather chairs positioned in front of it. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city, and bookshelves line one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes that look well-read. There's a bar cart in the corner with expensive bottles of whiskey and vodka.

The door closes behind me with a sharp click, and I turn to face him. He's standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, and I can see the tension in every line of his body. His shirt stretches across his shoulders, and I find my gaze dropping to the way the fabric pulls tight over his muscular frame. He's built like a man who's spent his life fighting, and there's something undeniably attractive about that raw power.

"Why are you here, Princess?" His voice is hard, impatient, and he makes my title sound insulting. "And don't give me some bullshit answer about wanting to see me."

"That's not bullshit." I move further into the office, letting my fingers trail along the edge of his desk.

"I've been thinking about you." I let my voice soften, turning to face him with a small smile. "I thought maybe we could have lunch sometime. There's this wonderful place downtown that just opened. Very private, very exclusive."

"No."

The flat refusal doesn't surprise me, but it does irritate me. I lean back against his desk, crossing my ankles in a way that makes my dress shift higher on my thighs. "You didn't even think about it."

"I don't need to think about it." He doesn't move from his position near the door, but his dark eyes follow the movement of my dress and stay on the exposed skin. "The answer is no."

"What about dinner, then?" I tilt my head, studying him. "I'm flexible. We could go wherever you'd like. Your choice entirely."

"Still no."

"Coffee?" I let a hint of playfulness creep into my tone. "Surely, you can spare thirty minutes for coffee. Everyone drinks coffee."

"Not with you."

I push off the desk and take a few steps closer, watching the way his jaw tightens. He's trying so hard to maintain that iron control, but I can see the cracks forming. "You're being very difficult, Samuil. Most men would be thrilled to spend time with me."