In Wilde Country

by Living Wilde (The Gift

  Castelianos had been an unknown quantity. This man, this Kazimir Stavitch, was not.

  Katie had lied when she’d said he could not be Sardovian. She was an experienced chess player. The fewer good moves you had, the more you avoided signaling them.

  She had lived virtually her entire life in the States, but she knew Savitch by reputation.

  He was a topic of conversation among the men in her father’s circle.

  He was smart. He was emotionless. He had inherited a fortune and he supplemented it with what he stole from the investment fund—a fund he had convinced the king to create for him after he’d used subterfuge to work himself into the king’s inner circle. Before that, he’d gotten his kicks serving as a mercenary in the tribal wars in Afghanistan.

  If Zacharias Castelianos was iron, Kazimir Savitch was steel. He was the person with whom she would spend her last days of freedom.

  It made her want to weep.

  “Well?”

  Savitch was watching her, arms folded over his chest, blue eyes narrowed to slits.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me how well you’ll behave if I’m kind to you?”

  She’d been on the verge of doing something very much like that. Appeal to the tiny shred of decency that might exist somewhere beneath that cold, incredibly masculine, deceptively beautiful exterior in hopes he would at least not treat her in a way that would remind her that she was a prisoner.

  Small fictions were all she could hope for now.

  As for Savitch being beautiful… She had never seen a man who rated such a description. She’d never thought it possible, but the proof was in front of her.

  Savitch was beautiful.

  Then again, so were tigers.

  Her heart was pounding with fear, but she could not let him know that. If she couldn’t expect him to treat her with kindness, she could at least hope for respect.

  Her pride demanded that.

  She had to maintain the guise she’d assumed first with Castelianos and again here, when Castelianos had led her into this office.

  She would be Ekaterina Rostov. The woman the world expected her to be. Cold. Arrogant. Unfeeling. That was the persona she had assumed for herself when she turned eighteen. It had kept her at a distance from those who lived on the crumbs her father dispensed to them and made her a figure of no interest to those who thrived on gossip. Her father’s implication that she enjoyed media attention had been an out-and-out lie.

  “Sit.”

  Katie looked up. Savitch was seated behind his desk, his chair tilted back, his hands locked behind his head, his feet on the desk and crossed at the ankles.

  He looked completely at home. Why wouldn’t he? This was his office. His space. It was big, like him. Good-looking, like him. Handsomely furnished with money stolen from the people of Sardovia, money that should have gone into improving their lives. She had not been back to her homeland in years, but she still remembered the lack of schools and roads and hospitals.

  “I said—”

  Katie lifted her chin.

  “I heard you. I prefer to stand.”

  He shrugged. “Your choice.”

  “Indeed it is. Everything I do is my choice, Mr. Savitch. Remember that, and we will get on satisfactorily.”

  His eyebrows rose. His mouth quirked.

  It infuriated her.

  “I’m happy you find this situation amusing, Mr. Savitch.”

  “What I find amusing, Ms. Rostov, is your attempt to change the game.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You would like me to think that you are in charge here.”

  “I am very much in charge. You are my employee.”

  “I am nobody’s employee.”

  “My father is paying you to—to protect me.”

  “Your father is paying Zach Castelianos.”

  “Oh, please! I just heard you tell him that it will cost him a thousand dollars a day to take me off his hands.”

  “You weren’t listening very well, Ekaterina. It’s a thousand dollars an hour, and the money will go to charity.”

  “How nice,” she said coldly, “that you’re so filthy rich that you can afford to give that kind of money away.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Silence. Was he trying to make her uncomfortable? Wasn’t it sufficient to make her feel powerless? Not that he must ever know that.

  Katie lifted her chin. She stood as tall as she could.

  “You are my employee, Mr. Savitch, no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise. As such, I advise you to remember who I am and who you are, and what our positions are in Sardovian society.”

  Good.

  That had changed things.

  Savitch took his hands from behind his head, his feet from the desk. He tilted his chair forward, folded his hands in front of him, and looked at her.

  “Are you finished?”

  “Far from it.” Katie narrowed her eyes. “You will address me as Ms. or ma’am. You will speak only when spoken to. You will keep your distance from me at all times.”

  Uh oh.

  His eyes had narrowed, too, but his were tiny slits.

  “Now, are you finished?”

  His voice was low. Soft. It was not a good sound. She thought of that old adage about stopping when you were ahead, but she’d gone too far for that.

  “Not quite. And if you so much as touch me, I will have you beaten.” She took a deep breath. “Now we are finished, Mr. Savitch,”

  He didn’t move.

  Didn’t speak.

  The silence, the stillness, was more frightening than if he’d yelled or shouted or picked up something and flung it at her, but she knew better than to let her fear show.

  What seemed like an eternity slid by.

  Then, very slowly, he stepped out from behind the desk and came toward her.

  “I know all about you,” he said, very, very quietly.

  “You know what you have been told.”

  “You are the daughter of Gregor Rostov. A man of great power.”

  “Yes. Exactly. And you’d better remember that.”

  He was inches from her now. She had backed away when he’d come this close before; she knew better than to do it again. Katie stood her ground despite the fact that she felt as if her legs were going to give out from under her.

  “Your father is devoted to success. His own success.”

  He was right, but this was hardly the time to admit it.

  “Who are you marrying?”

  Color striped Ekaterina Rostov’s lovely cheeks. For the very first time, Kaz thought he saw a crack in her composure.

  “I don’t see that as any of your business, Mr. Savitch.”

  “Everything about you is my business until Christmas Eve.”

  “I am to marry the heir to the throne.”

  He looked at her as if she’d said she was marrying Dracula.

  “Who?”

  “The prince of Sardovia.”

  Holy shit. This beautiful, fiery woman was marrying his uncle Dmitri? Dmitri, who seemed intent on making Kaz’s dead father look like a saint?

  “Do you know him?” she said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And, what?”

  “What is he like?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  She shook her head. “I have never—I have never met him.”

  An arranged marriage? Kaz knew they still existed, not only among the few royals left in the world, but also among the very rich. But surely, even in arranged marriages, the couple had contact with each other.

  “My father made the arrangements.”

  “Well,” he said coldly, “aren’t you lucky to have such a doting dad!”

  Everything about Ekaterina Rostov seemed to change. Was that the glitter of tears in her violet eyes? Was her mouth trembling? The bright color that had stained her cheeks drained from her face.

  Kaz frowned.

>   “Ms. Rostov?”

  He could see her fighting whatever was happening. Dammit! The woman was a sharp-tongued, self-centered piece of fluff. He didn’t like her at all and he would deliver her without any hesitation to the fool of a man who wanted her, but he had no interest in making her cry.

  “Ms. Rostov.” Kaz moved closer. Are you all right?”

  She shut her eyes. He had the sudden insane desire to close the remaining space between them and draw her into his arms.

  He stepped nearer. Nearer…

  She blinked. Looked at him. Whatever he’d thought he’d seen in her eyes was gone.

  “I see no reason to discuss my family with you, Mr. Savitch. You are an employee. Nothing more.”

  Her tone took cold to an entirely new level. Kaz responded in kind.

  “You are correct, Ms. Rostov. There’s no reason for us to discuss anything. Now, I have work to do.”

  He turned away from her, went to his desk, sat down and began leafing through a stack of papers. A moment passed.

  “Mr. Savitch.”

  Kaz looked up.

  “Surely, you cannot expect me to spend the day standing here.”

  “I offered you a chair.”

  “You told me to sit. One tells pet dogs to sit. I am not your pet.”

  X-rated images filled Kaz’s head.

  He imagined what it would be like to pet her, touch her, run his hand over that fall of platinum hair, stroke his finger lightly along her plump mouth until her lips parted in invitation. She wouldn’t be so damned haughty once he’d undressed her, caressed her, made her beg for him to take her…

  Hell.

  Kaz hit the call button on the intercom.

  “Sir?”

  “Susan. Go to the newsstand in the lobby. Buy some magazines. Newspapers.”

  “What kind, sir?”

  Kaz glared at Ekaterina Rostov. “What do you like to read?”

  The New York Times. The New York Review of Books…

  “Ms. Rostov. What do you want from the newsstand?”

  “Save your money. I don’t want anything.”

  “Use your judgment, Susan. Half a dozen gossip magazines. Stuff about fashion,” Kaz said, never taking his gaze from his assignment. Because that was what she was. An overly- indulged assignment with enough attitude to launch a rocket, and why in hell had he been stupid enough to let Castelianos dump her on him? “Glossy crap. Just don’t get anything that uses words of more than two syllables. Got that?”

  “Got it, sir. Uh, Mr. Savitch? The minister phoned again. He said—”

  “I’m not interested in what he said. Get those magazines, please.”

  Kaz disconnected. His PA did, too.

  And if looks could kill, the one Ekaterina Rostov shot him would surely have done the job.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ten minutes later, Susan knocked at the door. She had half a dozen magazines clutched to her chest.

  Kaz jerked his chin toward the low table in front of the black leather sofa that stood at the far end of his office

  “Put them there.”

  His PA nodded and did what he’d asked with only a quick look at the woman sitting stiffly in the corner of the sofa.

  “What’s that?” Kaz said, glowering at a copy of the day’s New York Times.

  “I know what you said, Mr. Savitch, but I thought, you know, a little variety…”

  Her voice trailed away. Ekaterina Rostov looked at her.

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you, Miss…?”

  “It’s Susan.”

  “Thank you, Susan. For the Times, especially. That was very thoughtful.”

  Kaz pretended he was reading a report, but he watched the little performance. A performance was surely what it was, and a good one. The pleasant voice. The polite words. The smile. It all seemed genuine enough that his PA flashed him a look that could only be called disapproving as she left his office.

  Kaz frowned, went back to reading the reports…

  No. Not really.

  Having someone in the room while he worked was a distraction. Having a female someone, a gorgeous someone, even if she was a pain-in-the-ass someone…

  He looked up.

  Ekaterina Rostov had taken off her coat and placed it neatly beside her. She wore a simple gray dress. Long sleeves, rounded neckline, the skirt just skimming her knees as she sat stiffly upright, feet planted side by side.

  She was reading.

  Wearing glasses, and reading.

  Glasses?

  What kind of party girl would be seen in glasses as she read the Times?

  Kaz put down the report he’d been pretending to read.

  “What are you doing?”

  His tone was harsh. She looked up and stared at him.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “I got you a bunch of magazines.”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t read the ones you requested.”

  “Give me a break, Ms. Rostov. The Times?”

  Her gaze was cool and steady. “The euro is down against the dollar. Perhaps it’s just as well that Sardovia didn’t give up the zlot for the euro.”

  Kaz blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said. And I don’t know what it is you’re trying to pull, but it won’t work.”

  “I agree.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that the individual who actually administers this fund might be interested in what’s happening to the euro, but we both know that person is not you.”

  “Are you crazy? Of course it’s me.”

  “Yes, so you would like the king and the people to think, but—”

  “Who filled you with such nonsense? Your father?”

  “I am aware of life’s realities.”

  “You are aware of the cushy life you lead. What could you possibly know about international currency?”

  Katie glared at her guard. Her captor. The man who would deliver her into a lifetime of servitude. Why play games? She had kept the media from knowing anything about her beyond the lies, the façade she had created as self-protection, but what did that matter now? What did it matter what anyone thought about her, especially this man?

  “I find economics interesting. I studied it in school.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m glad that amuses you.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to believe that you have a degree in eco?”

  “No. That’s incorrect.”

  Kaz snorted. “Yeah. I’ll bet it is.”

  “My degree is in sociology, but I took several courses in finance.”

  “You. The daughter of a thug named Gregor Rostov.”

  “Why would you, of all people, call my father a thug?”

  “I know of him, Ms. Rostov.”

  “Yes. I’m sure you do.”

  “And you want me to believe that you’re a scholar?”

  Katie longed to slap that smug look from Kazimir Savitch’s arrogant, too-handsome-for-his-own-good face.

  “I don’t claim to be a scholar. But I do have a degree. My father thought to humor me.” Her smile was swift and bitter. “He believed college might be the best place for me to find a wealthy husband.”

  “Until he figured out a way to sell you to Prince Dmitri.”

  “You said that you know him.” She hesitated. “Do you know him well?”

  Why tell her Dmitri was his uncle? The very thought was repugnant.

  Kaz shrugged. “Sardovia is a small country. And you want me to believe that the Ekaterina Rostov the media knows and the Ekaterina Rostov in my office are two different women.”

  God, how self-righteous he sounded. Katie’s temper soared.

  “That you don’t know better than to believe everything you read only proves what an abysmal ass you are!”

  Her heart flew into her throat as the full impact of what she’d just said hi
t her.

  Kazimir Stavitch was looking at her as if he wanted to murder her.

  Or maybe haul her over his knee and paddle her.

  Or maybe—or maybe silence her by putting his firm, sculpted mouth against hers and kissing her until she was senseless.

  The image was almost overpowering. That she would, even for a moment, be attracted to a man like this…

  “Don’t stop now,” he said softly. “Go ahead. Your observations of me are fascinating.”

  “Nothing about being here is fascinating,” Katie said, forcing the words to sound loaded with disdain. “And I’m hungry.” She tossed the Times aside and got to her feet. “Surely even prisoners get bread and water.”

  Nothing. No response. No reaction at all.

  “Mr. Savitch. My father will not reward you if I show up looking like a skeleton.”

  “You have far too many curves to look like a skeleton, Ms. Rostov.”

  His voice was low. Silken. Her breath caught. The way he was looking at her…

  “You will not speak to me in that manner,” she said, and hoped he didn’t catch the unsteadiness in her words.

  He didn’t answer. Then he smiled.

  The smile was almost her undoing.

  It was masculine. Sexy. It made her forget what he was, who he was…

  He stood up. Came slowly toward her. Before she could reach for her coat, it was in his hands.

  He held it open.

  She thought about refusing to accept the gesture, but she sensed that might be dangerous. The way he was looking at her was dangerous. It was safer to turn her back to him, let him help her into the coat…

  Let herself close her eyes, only for an instant, and think about what it would be like to lean back against him.

  His hands brushed her shoulders. She bit back a moan. What was wrong with her?

  The answer was simple. She was tired. Worn out. There was no other explanation.

  Besides, she knew what he was doing, that he was using charm or sex appeal, whatever you wanted to call it, to make her compliant.

  If that was his plan, he was in for a difficult time.

  * * * *

  They walked along Fifth Avenue, his hand clasping her elbow.

  She suspected they looked as if they were out on a date, perhaps as if they were lovers, but his grasp felt like iron. He wasn’t hurting her, but his strategy was clear.

  He was not going to give her the chance to escape him.