A Game With One Winner

by Lynn Raye Harris

  His eyes narrowed as he continued to study her. “Da, you should go.” He strode past her and back inside, where he picked up her purse and handed it to her. Caroline gripped the clutch tightly, embarrassment and fury warring within her for dominance.

  Once, he couldn’t keep his hands off her. Once, she’d gloried in the knowledge that she could make this man burn for her. Now, he was throwing her out. Which was what she wanted, of course—and yet it pricked her pride, too. No longer was she irresistible to him.

  As if to prove the point, Roman’s gaze traveled insultingly slowly down her body before finding its way to her face again. “I find that, while you still have the ability to excite me, I’m not precisely moved to take you to my bed.”

  “What a relief,” she snapped, though inside his words smarted. “Though I’m not stupid enough to presume you’ll be changing your plans for Sullivan’s, I am relieved to know they no longer include me in the bargain.”

  His laugh was low, deep, sexy, and it sent tiny waves of rebellious delight crashing through her.

  “Oh, I still have plans for you, solnyshko. Just none for tonight.”

  * * *

  Roman stood on the terrace once she’d gone, glass of Scotch in hand, and gazed out at the lights of Manhattan. Though he was on the top floor, he could still hear the sounds of traffic below—the screech of brakes, the sharp clarion of a siren. Somewhere in that traffic, Caroline rode toward her home in Greenwich Village, her perfect blond hair smooth, her lipstick refreshed, her composure intact.

  Nothing touched Caroline for long. He’d learned that five years ago. When she’d been in his arms, in his bed, their bodies entwined and straining together, she’d been completely and utterly his.

  When they’d dressed again and he’d put her in a cab home—because she’d insisted she could not stay overnight and rouse her parents’ curiosity—she’d left him completely behind, forgotten until the next time.

  He, however, had lain awake thinking of her. Thinking of how he could make her his permanently. Such a fool he’d been.

  Their affair had been brief, a matter of weeks only, but he’d fallen hard. And she had not fallen at all. He’d had a long time to think about why he’d done something so uncharacteristic. And what he’d decided, what he’d realized for the pitiful truth, was that she’d represented something golden and unattainable. He, Roman Kazarov, son of a violent, evil monster and a gentle woman who’d married down, before she’d realized she’d made a terrible mistake, had possessed the ultimate prize in his all-American golden girl.

  He’d fallen for Caroline because she’d made him believe his circumstances didn’t matter, that his worth had nothing to do with where he’d come from. And then, once he’d believed her, she’d yanked the rug out from under him.

  Roman took a sip of the Scotch, let the liquid scour his throat on the way down. She’d made him forget what was most important in his life. He’d lost sight of his reason for being in America in the first place, and it had cost him dearly. His mother’s last months were spent not in the lush nursing home he’d been paying for while he worked at Sullivan’s, but in a run-down two-bedroom apartment where he and his brothers did their best to care for her as she slipped further and further into sickness.

  He didn’t blame Caroline for it; he blamed himself. Acquiring Sullivan’s wouldn’t bring his mother back from the grave, or change her last months of suffering, but he planned to do it anyway. To remind himself of the folly of allowing anything or anyone to come between him and his goals.

  He thought of the kiss he and Caroline had shared tonight, and a tendril of heat slid through his groin. He had wanted her. But he’d be the one to decide where and when, not her. And it wouldn’t be in his home, the way it had always been before. There’d been something about the way she would come to him, and then leave him replete in his own bed, that had made him feel the difference between their circumstances more acutely.

  He’d been the hired help, the poor supplicant in the one-bedroom apartment, while she’d been the heiress breezing in and out of his life. Taking her pleasure and going back to her gilded existence. And to her proper fiancé, as he’d learned too late.

  He’d known Jon Wells, though barely. He’d been a quiet man, perhaps even a bit shy. Not the kind to handle fiery Caroline. Roman remembered thinking that she’d been joking at first. Except she’d never laughed, never strayed from what she was saying.

  I’m marrying Jon Wells.

  But you love me, he’d said, his heart crumpling in ways he’d never thought possible.

  It’s been fun, Roman, but I don’t love you. I never did.

  He could still see her face, so wooden and haughty; still hear the words falling from her poisonous lips. Roman drained the Scotch and went back inside. There, he took out the dossier he’d had compiled on the Sullivan Group, and flipped to the section about Caroline.

  There was a photo, and a brief information sheet with her statistics and address. There was also a photo of her son, Ryan Wells. Roman forced himself to study the picture, though it always made him feel edgy inside to look at the face of her child with another man.

  The boy was blond, like Caroline, and his eyes were blue. Roman looked at the information sheet again. Four years old.

  It jabbed him in the gut every time.

  With a curse, he put the photos away and began to read about the Sullivan Group’s latest problems with their loans. They’d taken on too much debt in an effort to staunch the flow of their losses. It wasn’t working. Without an influx of cash—major cash—Sullivan’s would be pushed to liquidate their assets in order to meet their obligations.

  He should let it happen. He should walk away and let the place crumble into oblivion. But he couldn’t. He wanted Sullivan’s. He wanted every store in their possession—every cashmere sweater, every diamond, every pricey jar of caviar, every last bottle of exclusive champagne. Quite simply, he wanted it all.

  But, mostly, he wanted to see the look on their aristocratic faces when he owned everything they’d once thought him not good enough for. He would be the one to destroy Sullivan’s. And there would be nothing they could do to stop him.

  * * *

  They only needed a little more time. Just a little, and she could pull this off. Caroline sat in the conference room with her chief financial officer and waited for the financiers from Crawford International Bank to arrive. She’d come in early this morning to work on the projections, and she bit back a yawn as she refilled her coffee.

  She hadn’t slept well last night. No, she’d tossed and turned, thinking of that kiss with Roman. Thinking of every moment in the car with Roman, and then every moment in his apartment. It hurt to look at him. Physically hurt. He reminded her of everything she stood to lose. And everything she’d gained because of their affair five years ago.

  Jon always used to tell her that everything would look better in the morning, once she’d slept on it. At first he’d believed it, and she had, too, when they kept hoping the chemo would make a difference and save his life. Finally, she’d had to admit that the clarity of morning did nothing to erase the doubt and pain of the day before.

  Oh, she never told Jon she’d stopped believing, but she suspected he had, too. Toward the end, he’d said it less and less. Caroline bent her head and swiped at a stray tear. She didn’t have time to cry right now. She had to face the bank’s financiers and convince them Sullivan’s was on the right track to return to profitability and pay their loans. And then she had to deliver on that promise.

  Easy peasy.

  She waited anxiously while the clock ticked past the appointed hour. The doors didn’t open and no one came to announce the arrival of anyone from the bank.

  At half past the hour, the phone rang. Caroline snatched it up on the second ring.

  “There’s a call for you, Ms. Sullivan,” her secretary said. “A Mr. Kazarov. Shall I put him through?”

  Caroline’s fingers flexed on the receiver. No
, she wanted to shout. Never! But she knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that she had to take the call. Roman wasn’t calling to discuss last night, nor was he calling to ask about her health. He was calling at precisely this moment for a reason.

  A reason she dreaded.

  “Rob, can you excuse me?” she said to her CFO. He nodded and rose to leave. Caroline instructed Maryanne to put the call through as she sat back in her chair and prepared for battle. She didn’t know what Roman had done, or tried to do, but she wasn’t accepting it lying down.

  “Dobroye Utro, Caroline.” Roman’s smooth voice came over the line, and a shiver skated across her skin at the sound of the Russian vowels and consonants. Such a sexy voice, damn him. “I trust you slept well?”

  “Perfectly well, thank you,” she said coolly, though nothing could be further from the truth. “And you?”

  “Like a baby,” he said cheerfully, and she wanted to reach through the line and strangle him.

  “I assume you’re calling for a reason,” she said irritably. “Or did you wish to ask me out on a date?”

  Roman laughed, and she chided herself for the flood of warmth that dripped down her spine like hot honey. There was a time when his voice over the phone had filled her with illicit urges. She could spend hours on the phone with him then, and had. God knew what they’d found to talk about for so long.

  “So impatient. This was always your problem, solnyshko. Haven’t you ever heard that good things come to those who wait?”

  “Really, Roman,” she scoffed. “Have you taken to speaking in clichés now? Has your English deteriorated? Or perhaps you’re just so busy gobbling up companies that you’ve become too lazy to be more creative.”

  “I have quite a creative mind, I assure you,” he purred into the phone. A lightning bolt of desire shot through her. Her skin grew warm, her body tensing with a sexual ache that made her angry. It was just a voice, for God’s sake!

  “As fun as this is,” Caroline said briskly, “you need to get to the point. I have an important meeting in five minutes.”

  “Actually, you don’t,” he said. “If you are waiting for the bankers, that is.”

  Fear fell over her like a heavy blanket, dousing the electricity stirring in her blood. She didn’t need to ask how Roman knew about her meeting. It was clear he did know, so asking would be a waste of breath.

  “I suppose you wish to tell me something,” she said, cutting straight to it. “Shall I shave my head in preparation for the executioner’s ax? Or did you have a slower, more painful death in mind?”

  “So dramatic, Caroline,” he chided her. “But that is part of your charm.”

  Caroline ground her teeth in frustration. “And your ruthlessness is yours,” she said, so sweetly it made her teeth ache.

  “Ah, you speak to me of ruthlessness? Interesting.”

  Caroline clicked her pen open and closed. Open and closed. “Why is that interesting? You’ve been traveling the globe for the past two years, collecting companies, and still you aren’t satisfied. I’d call that ruthless.”

  “Perhaps not as ruthless as stomping on a man’s heart,” he said evenly. There was no hint of emotion in that voice, no warmth or coolness, and she shuddered involuntarily.

  “As if you haven’t made a second career of breaking women’s hearts,” she said, her pulse thrumming in her throat, her wrists.

  “I learned from the best.”

  Caroline closed her eyes, willing herself to stay focused. He was trying to rattle her—and he was doing a good job. Since the moment she’d seen him last night at that party, she’d been on edge. Fear, stress, anger, regret—they all coiled together in a giant lead ball in her belly.

  “Tell me what you want, Roman,” she said. “Why are you calling me now, and how do you know my meeting is canceled?”

  “I know because I canceled it.”

  Her stomach dropped into her toes. “You canceled it. And how did you manage that?” she asked, though she feared she had a good idea what he was about to say.

  “There is no longer a need to discuss your loans with the bank, solnyshko.”

  “You bought the loans,” she said, a lump forming in her throat. She’d known it was a possibility that someone could buy their debt, but her family had been dealing with Crawford International Bank for years. Her father and Leland Crawford had been golf buddies, and she’d had no reason to think he would ever consider selling the loans without first coming to them.

  The last time she’d seen Leland, he’d assured her he was in their corner. He hadn’t been happy with her father’s sudden “retirement,” though he did not know the reason behind it. No one did, other than her, her mother and Sullivan’s board of directors.

  And she intended to keep it that way. Her family didn’t need the public scrutiny while their loved one suffered from a cruel disease that robbed him of his memory and his life. The board—some of whom had been sitting when she’d still been a little girl in a school uniform—supported her leadership. Leland knew that much, even if he didn’t know the reason. That he would sell the loans without giving her a chance stunned her.

  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. What was done was done.

  This was a setback, but it wasn’t the end by any stretch.

  “You bought the loans, but you haven’t bought Sullivan’s,” she said fiercely. “We are not in default and you can’t foreclose.”

  Roman laughed again, a soft chuckle that made the hairs on her arms prickle in response. “You are not in default yet.”

  Caroline gripped the phone. Hard. “We won’t default. I promise you that.”

  “Very good, Caroline,” he said. “Fight me. I like a challenge.”

  “Really? I would have thought you preferred your quarry to lie down and roll over before your overwhelming might.”

  “Oh, I like that too. But only when it’s appropriate.”

  Caroline sucked in a breath. How did he manage to infuse such an innocuous statement with blistering sex appeal?

  “I have to go now,” she said tightly. “I have work to do.”

  “Da, you have much to do. And when you are finished for the day, you will join me for dinner.”

  “I think not,” Caroline said, hot anger rising in her throat, flushing her skin with heat. “You bought the loans. You did not buy me.”

  “Think carefully, Caroline,” he growled. “It wouldn’t take much for your suppliers to cut off your line of credit. If that happens, you will surely default. And then I will own it all. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “You would go that far?” she said bitterly. “You would interfere with our supply chain in order to win?”

  “I think you already know the answer to your questions.”

  A moment later, the line went dead.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Secret Tryst? Sullivan Heiress Spotted Entering Hotel

  BLAKE MILLER THREW her a worried glance as she moved around her dressing room, searching for the right earrings to go with the pink Valentino sheath she’d chosen for the evening.

  “Are you planning to tell him?” Blake asked.

  Caroline yanked open a drawer and seized the pearl drop earrings she’d been looking for. She was absolutely furious. After her conversation with Roman, she’d had to change into her running gear and hit the company gym for an hour just so she would calm down.

  It hadn’t worked as well as she would have liked. She was worn-out, but still angry.

  She’d had no intention of jumping to Roman’s tune, but she’d finally realized that he had her right where he wanted her. She couldn’t let him interfere with Sullivan’s supply chain, not when she needed every trick at her disposal to make the loan payment on time.

  She would go to dinner. But that did not mean she had to like it.

  “Tell him what?” Caroline asked as she shoved one of the posts into her ear.

  Blake frowned. “About Ryan.”

  Caroline jerked,
her gaze shooting toward the door. But Ryan wasn’t there, and she let out a sharp sigh.

  “He’s watching a cartoon with a sponge character,” Blake said.

  Caroline tried to smile, though she wanted to chew nails. But not because of Blake. She softened her tone. “You know very well what the name of the cartoon is. We’ve only had to watch it a gazillion times.”

  He shrugged. “I know. But I’m refusing to acknowledge I do in hopes I’ll be able to forget those horrible songs.”

  “Good luck with that,” she said. “I think they’re imprinted in my memory forever.”

  She finished putting on her earrings and studied herself in the mirror. There were purple smudges beneath her eyes, and her cheekbones were looking a little sharp. She needed to work less and eat a little more often, but she’d been so stressed lately that sleep and eating were not her top priorities.

  “Caroline.” She turned toward Blake to find him watching her worriedly. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She closed her eyes. “I know.” Then she came over and took his hands in hers. “I love you, Blake. You’re the best thing that ever happened to Jon, and I love that you’re a part of our lives. Without you, taking care of my little boy these days would be a lot harder.”

  Blake shrugged. His green eyes seemed to overflow with sadness for a moment, but then he sucked it in and gave her a smile. “I love you and Ryan, too. You’ve kept me sane these last months since Jon died.” Blake squeezed her hands. “He wanted you to be happy, Caroline. He worried about you.”

  “I know.”

  “He regretted that he wasn’t stronger when your parents insisted you marry.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” Caroline said. “He was as trapped as I was.”

  She’d always suspected Jon was gay, but she hadn’t really known until he’d told her, after she’d confessed she was pregnant with another man’s child. That was the moment they’d become coconspirators and partners in truth.

  “But he cost you the man you loved, and he regretted that very much.”