Christmas Love-Child

by Jennie Lucas

  Then she’d taunted him.

  Anger and lust had seized him. And he’d seized her.

  Now…

  His need to punish her blended with his need to possess her. Taking her by the hand, he dragged her from the crowds of Red Square to his waiting car. Closing the privacy screen to block the eyes of his bodyguard and driver, he threw her into the back seat and kissed her hard. Her hat had been long lost. Pulling off her coat and gloves, he pressed her body beneath his, kissing her with angry force. She returned his kiss with matching fervor, biting at his lips until they bled.

  “I hate you,” she breathed against his skin.

  For answer, he ripped her black sweater off her body. Yanking her bra to the floor of the car, he pressed his mouth on her breasts, biting and suckling until the mix of pain and pleasure made her gasp and arch beneath him.

  “Hate me if you want. You are mine to do with as I please,” he said, licking her nipples. “You will pleasure me.”

  “I won’t…ah,” she sucked in her breath as he moved his hand between her legs, over her tight jeans, rubbing her until she gripped his shoulders wordlessly seeking release.

  He wanted to rip off her jeans. He wanted to thrust inside her hard and deep, until she begged for mercy.

  Until she begged his forgiveness.

  By the time they made it home, her lips were bruised with his kisses, her blond hair tousled and tangled, her eyes dazed and bewildered with her unwilling longing. Giving his driver and bodyguard a terse order in Russian, he collected Grace in his arms and carried her roughly into the house.

  The palace was quiet. The bodyguards were outside celebrating in the guardhouse by the gate. The rest of the servants had been given the night off.

  Maksim intended to carry her to the master bedroom, but halfway up the stairs she reached up to stroke his neck and he could bear it no longer. He placed her down on the curving, sinuous staircase, beside the art deco railing that looked like swirls of melting wax in white limestone. Pulling off her jeans, he undid his fly. He was hard as a rock and aching for her.

  He didn’t tease her.

  He didn’t ask permission.

  Without warning, without tenderness, he pulled down his pants and thrust himself inside her, all the way to the hilt.

  She gasped, then moved beneath him, her full, heavy breasts swaying as she arched her back, pulling him deeper still.

  She wanted him as unwillingly as he wanted her. He knew it. But suddenly he wanted far more than just to take his pleasure. He wanted her to take her own. To force her to hold nothing back. To surrender herself completely.

  Rolling over, with his own back against the shallow, wide steps, he lifted her on top of him. She gasped as he lowered her over him, impaling her.

  “Move,” he ordered.

  As he commanded, she slowly moved against him, sliding her wet, hot body against his in circles that got progressively tighter and smaller. He felt her muscles clench around him, deep inside her, as she closed her eyes. She stopped, fighting her desperate desire.

  He stroked her breasts, then, taking one of her hands in his own, he sucked gently on a fingertip. Her blue eyes met his, innocent, shocked. Her pupils were dilated, her nipples painfully tight, her body so hot and wet around him. And as if she could not resist his will, she started to move again. Her heavy breasts bounced softly as she rode him, pushing her hips harder and faster until he was barely able to hold on to his self-control. He looked up at her beautiful face, at her soft, curvaceous, feminine body that was getting tighter and tighter around him as she started to shudder. And he heard a low scream rising from her throat.

  As she moved herself against him, rocking back and forth in rhythm, her core slick and impossibly soft around him, he felt her start to tense and shake, and finally he could take it no longer. With a Russian curse on his lips, he exploded into her with a shout that echoed against the high walls of the foyer, mingling with her own ecstatic cry.

  Exhausted, her limp body fell against his own. For a moment he held her, feeling her soft body against his chest, listening to the sound of her breath.

  But when his sense returned, he was furious.

  At her.

  At himself.

  He had no self-control whatsoever where Grace was concerned.

  He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t touch her. But this proved his desire was stronger than his pride. Proved she still had control over him.

  Proved that no matter what she thought of him, he still cared for her.

  Pushing away roughly, he rose to his feet on the stairs, furious at himself. Without saying a word, he rezipped his pants and coldly left her on the stairs.

  The palace suddenly felt too confining, and outside he would be watched by guards. With a deep breath, he climbed two floors to the roof garden. Where he went to find peace. Where he went to be alone.

  The rooftop terrace was covered with snow and dead branches of the dormant garden. He took several deep breaths, stretching his arms, trying to clear his head. He stared at his own breath, looking past the treetops and lights of the city toward the distant fireworks in the cold clear night.

  He heard her come out though the garden door. He couldn’t believe she’d followed him out here. He looked at her with narrowed eyes. She’d put her clothes back on, tying her tattered blouse together as best she could. She hesitated, then finally came up behind him, wrapping her arms around him.

  For a moment he was tempted to lean into her arms. His heart hungered for her.

  Then she spoke.

  “Just tell me the truth, Maksim,” she whispered. “Admit that you betrayed me. Admit that you lied and I’ll forgive you.”

  His jaw clenched as he turned to face her. “You’ll forgive me,” he said tersely.

  She swallowed, then lifted her chin. “I will try.”

  Anger rushed through him, pulling away all his remembered tenderness like an overflowing river ripping sediment from the banks.

  “I do not want your forgiveness,” he said in a low voice.

  “Maksim.” Her face was tear stained, her voice a whisper. “Just tell me if you love her. Tell me.”

  Love her? Her? Who?

  Then he knew. Of course. She was talking about Francesca. He’d never given Grace any reason to feel jealous, but she continued to grind away at him with her insecurity’s endless need for control.

  Did he need further proof she thought him a man without honor, a man she couldn’t trust?

  He’d tried to change her mind in California. He wouldn’t try again. He wouldn’t allow himself to be vulnerable with her. Never again.

  He looked at her coldly. “In two days I will introduce you to all of Moscow as my bride. You must be ready for the ballroom reception. You and the child need rest. Go sleep. In your peaceful, solitary bed.”

  “Maksim…” she whispered.

  For answer, he turned and left her without a backward glance, leaving her shivering and alone on the snowy rooftop garden, in the chill black night beneath icy white stars.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “LADY Francesca Danvers is here to see you, princess.”

  Grace whirled around in her chair. “What does she want?”

  “Nothing good, I wager,” Elena said sourly.

  Grace turned back to face herself in the mirror. She hardly recognized herself. Wearing a long, sparkling, champagne-colored gown that caressed her body, with her blond hair piled high on her head, she looked like a princess.

  For the past two hours, Elena had been helping her get ready for the ballroom reception that would introduce her to Moscow society. But she wasn’t sure she could face the woman her husband still loved. She licked her lips nervously. “Do you know her?”

  The Russian housekeeper shrugged as one of the maids brought in a small enamel-and-silver box. “She was here once before, long ago. But old lovers should disappear when a man gets married,” she said with a sniff. “Let me send her away. Your reception starts i
n ten minutes. You don’t have time to speak to each and every guest before…”

  “She’s a guest?” Grace gasped. “Who would have—”

  But she cut herself off. She didn’t have to ask who would have invited Francesca.

  She closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. It would ruin the carefully applied makeup, and she had to look lovely when she was introduced as Maksim’s bride.

  He must really hate her, to do this, she thought. How could he stab her in the heart, forcing her to publicly meet his mistress? It hurt so badly she thought her heart might crack in two.

  Maksim had made his feelings plain. After they’d made love on New Year’s Eve, she’d begged him to justify his actions. She’d been so desperate for a fresh start, she’d offered him almost more than she thought she could bear—her forgiveness. If only he would just admit what he’d done, and promise never to see Francesca again!

  But he had refused. And in the two days since, he’d avoided her more than ever.

  And yet she still couldn’t believe Francesca was in Moscow.

  When Maksim had said he’d installed her in some fancy hotel, Grace had assumed he was just trying to hurt her.

  But the woman was here. Had he been telling her the truth? Had he been spending all his nights with his mistress?

  Why shouldn’t he? She thought miserably. He’d only married Grace because she was pregnant. A forced marriage wouldn’t necessarily stop him from loving Francesca….

  “Ah, you look perfect. You just need one last thing. His Highness sent this.” Elena pulled an antique gold-and-emerald tiara from the enamel box and reverently placed it around Grace’s high chignon.

  “It’s beautiful,” Grace said in a low voice.

  “It used to belong to the prince’s great-aunt, the Grand Duchess Olga.” Elena pulled back to see the effect in the mirror then nodded her approval. “Now I’ll send that wretched woman away,” she added, “and I’ll be right back.”

  “No,” Grace blurted out, her mouth suddenly dry. “Send her up.”

  The Russian woman looked at her dubiously. “Are you sure, princess?”

  No. “Yes.”

  A moment later Lady Francesca was escorted into the drawing room beside Grace’s bedroom.

  The pale redhead was as beautiful as Grace remembered. Petite and very thin, she wore a pink tweed Chanel skirt suit and white peep-toe shoes with flashy red soles. In her perfectly manicured hands, she carried a white quilted bag with a gold chain handle.

  She glanced around the pretty, elegant, feminine room. “I see you’ve set yourself up nicely,” she said with a sniff.

  “Please sit down,” Grace said nervously, indicating the blue high-backed chair. “May I order some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Francesca’s cold, kohl-lined green eyes looked right through her scornfully. “This isn’t a friendly visit.” She set her handbag on the tea table, all business. “I’ve come to ask you how much money I have to pay you to divorce your husband.”

  Grace stared at her in shock, speechless.

  “Oh, come on,” she said impatiently. “You were clever enough to get pregnant. You are hoping to profit from your child. I don’t blame you. I’m sure I would do the same if I had no money, skills or beauty. So just tell me how much you expect.”

  Grace tried to speak, but still couldn’t.

  Francesca pulled her checkbook and an expensive-looking pen out of her wallet, then looked up at her. “Well?”

  “I’m not trying to profit from my child!”

  “Because you’re a decent mother?” Francesca’s red lips twisted. “Can we please skip your fervent protestations? We both know that Maksim should belong to me. Tell me how much it will cost to be rid of you.”

  Remembering all that she’d suffered because of this woman, Grace clenched her hands into fists.

  “I gave up one man to you without a fight,” she said in a low voice. “I won’t do it again.”

  “So you did have a desperate little crush on Alan,” Francesca drawled, glancing down at her flawless scarlet nails. “I wondered. My dear, don’t you realize that a woman like you cannot possibly compete against a woman like me?”

  Every word was like a stab to Grace’s heart. “I never loved Alan,” she said in a trembling voice. “You can have him. But I’ll die before I give Maksim up to you!”

  “You poor fool. I understand Maksim in a way you never will.” Francesca tilted her head. “He doesn’t love you. If you were any sort of decent woman, you would let him go. If you won’t, you’re not a decent woman. You’re a gold digger who deliberately got pregnant to trick Maksim into marriage.”

  Grace’s insides twisted. “I never tried to get pregnant. I never asked him to marry me,” she whispered. “He insisted.”

  Francesca nodded. “So you didn’t want to marry him in the first place. Perfect. Then take my check and leave him. Find some other man to marry.” She stared at Grace with false sympathy. “Someone more at your level.”

  “He’s my husband and father of my child. Now we’re married, I won’t give him up.” She narrowed her eyes, looking up at the other woman as her shoulders shook with emotion. “Not to you or anyone.”

  With a sigh, the beautiful redhead closed her checkbook. “Fine. Have it your way.” She leaned forward across the tea table. “You’re not a bad person. I can see that. So if you love him, let him go.”

  Grace looked up at her rival. “You love him?”

  Francesca’s green eyes were clear and direct. “And I can help him. In life. In business. I thought a fake engagement would prod him into setting a date to marry me. But he plays the game even better than I do. He actually married you.” She gave a thin red smile. “I told my father about the fake engagement to save Maksim’s merger. I can make him the richest man in the world. What can you ever do for him…except be a burden?”

  “Izvenitche, pojhowsta.” Elena suddenly appeared in the door, scowling. “It’s time for the princess to make her entrance at the reception.”

  Francesca rose gracefully to her feet. She paused at the door, her eyes narrowed and her red lips pulled back to reveal her sharp white teeth.

  “If you love him, Miss Cannon,” she said softly, “you’ll leave him.”

  After her parting shot the beautiful redhead swept away, leaving pain and regret racking through Grace in waves.

  Maksim had told her the truth. Francesca was the one who’d told her father about the fake engagement. Maksim had tried to tell her he didn’t betray her. He’d seduced her, yes, but he hadn’t been able to use her words against her. He’d protected her honor at the expense of his own. He’d given up what he wanted most—for her.

  But she hadn’t believed him.

  Instead she’d insulted him. She still winced to remember the horrible words she’d thrown at him when he’d followed her to California.

  She’d done everything she could to push him back into Francesca’s arms. Could he ever forgive her lack of faith?

  He has to, she thought. Even if I have to beg him for forgiveness.

  But what difference would begging make—if he was in love with another woman? She closed her eyes as a stabbing pain went through her heart. Why would he ever choose her over Francesca, after the way she’d treated him?

  “Are you ready, Grace?”

  She turned to see Maksim standing in the doorway. She sucked in her breath. He looked devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo, her dark Rostov prince, strong and powerful and very, very dangerous.

  “She’s ready,” Elena said approvingly. She adjusted the tiara over Grace’s high chignon, adding pins to hold it as she said softly, “And the most beautiful princess the house of Rostov has ever seen.”

  Maksim slowly looked her over and then nodded. “You are beautiful.”

  Grace’s heart fluttered in her chest. “You are, too. So handsome, I mean.”

  His dark eyes were inscrutable as he held out his arm. “Come.”

  He l
ed her out of the room to the top of the elaborate limestone staircase where they’d made love with such intensity two days before. At the bottom of the stairs, she heard the noise and voices of their guests, the clinking of crystal. She couldn’t face them as Maksim’s wife.

  Not without knowing their marriage had a chance.

  She stopped in her tracks, pulling on his hand with urgency to pull him back into the hallway.

  He looked down at her impatiently. “What is it?”

  “I should have believed you all along. I’m so sorry, Maksim.” Her eyes filled with tears as the words spilled out, rushing over each other. “You never betrayed me. Francesca said she told her father about the engagement. Oh, Maksim. Can you ever forgive me?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You have spoken with Francesca?”

  “She was here.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Here? What was she—”

  She placed her hand over his. “I don’t want to fight,” she pleaded. “I want to start fresh. To go back to how we were in London. I believe you now. I’m sorry I didn’t have faith—”

  “It’s easy to believe me now, isn’t it?” he interrupted coldly. “You believe Francesca’s words, when you wouldn’t believe mine.”

  This was all going wrong. She’d apologized, begged him to forgive her, pleaded for a fresh start. What else was left? What hadn’t she said?

  Only one thing, and it terrified her. She couldn’t possibly lay her soul bare before him, not when his face was so cold, his body so tense and unyielding.

  “Come.” He turned away, drawing her once more toward the wide sweeping stairs and the marble-floored foyer where she knew hundreds of society guests were waiting.

  She grabbed his tuxedo sleeve, pulling him to her, forcing him to listen.

  “Maksim, I…” Her heart pounded in her throat. She licked her lips. “I…I love you.”

  His steel-gray eyes widened, became deep pools of some emotion she couldn’t identify, but it caused yearning and fear to spread through her veins.

  “I love you,” she repeated, her mouth utterly dry. “And I have to know. Can you ever love me?”

  She waited for his answer, and as the seconds ticked by, they seemed to last for eons.