AWAKENING THE SHY MISS (6 page)

Dimitri handed his brush to an assistant, issuing instructions to finish the corner. It was getting late. It was time to call it a day and take stock of what they’d found. He strode towards Evie’s table, eager for their conference, to see her exquisite drawings, to see
her
. In the distance, the dinner bell rang and workers put away their tools. Within minutes, the site was empty.

She glanced up as he approached, rising from her seat, already reaching for the day’s pictures, anticipating his questions. ‘There isn’t much to show you today,’ she said apologetically.

‘Of course not.’ He smiled easily. He hadn’t expected much. Today had been focused on the dining-room floor, hardly something that could be carted over to Evie’s station. ‘Tomorrow, when the floor is uncovered, I will need you to come out to draw it.’ He paused, noting how she kept herself busy, her eyes focused on the task of cleaning up her workspace. ‘May I ask you something, Evie?’

That got direct eye contact. He’d used her name for precisely that reason. Dimitri enjoyed the rise of colour that came to her cheeks. Whenever he looked over here during the day, she was a paragon of efficiency, always busy, her head bent just so as she drew. Then, he’d approach and she would not meet his eyes. He wanted her to, though, not just because he wanted to see her desire clear, but for her sake too. He wanted her to own her feelings, to declare them without hesitation. Desire was nothing to be ashamed of. It took courage to own one’s feelings and it took confidence to stand by those convictions. Evie had those things even if she didn’t know it. Yet. ‘I would like you to show me your cataloguing system. Stefon has been bragging about it.’

‘What? Now?’ She looked about, maybe taking in for the first time how empty the site had become, the long purple shadows on the site making it difficult to see much. They would need a place with light and she was probably hungry. He could satisfy on both accounts.

Be careful you don’t do this for selfish reasons
,
his conscience warned. It would be too easy to convince himself he did this for purely objective reasons—this would be a working dinner, nothing more. That wasn’t quite true. He did want to learn about her cataloguing system. But he also wasn’t ready to let her go for the day. Perhaps he was merely lonely. In that case, anyone’s company would do. He could ride into town and drink a pint at the tavern or drop in on Andrew. No, to be honest, it was Evie’s company he wanted and he was willing to use the cataloguing system as an excuse to help himself to her company. She wouldn’t come otherwise.

‘We could go over the system in my tent. I’ll send for dinner. This way we won’t be interrupted. During the day there are a hundred things demanding my attention all at once. I’d never be able to digest a cataloguing system with all the distractions.’ He had to stop talking. He was rationalising too much. She’d think he had other motives and maybe he did if he was honest with himself. He wanted to spend some time with her. He saw her hesitate. At least she hadn’t refused him out of hand. In this case, hesitation was good. She was considering it.

He offered her a persuasive smile. ‘You’re not worried for your reputation, are you?’ he teased. ‘We’re discussing how to catalogue artefacts with a veritable herd of assistants around, hardly the best circumstances for ravishing.’

She smiled, revealing a hidden dimple along with the inner daredevil; the woman who would risk dinner alone with a man in his exotic tent. ‘Well, when you put it like that, how can a girl refuse?’

Chapter Seven

S
he should have refused. One step into the pavilion and she knew this had been a mistake. Now, here she was about to eat dinner with a prince, in his pavilion, alone, no matter how he tried to argue to the contrary. His team was across the site, eating at long wooden trestle tables. They would come back and retire to their own tents within shouting distance of an alarm, but no one would actually be inside the Prince’s pavilion with them. Not that one person would be all that noticeable.

The pavilion was enormous, as luxurious, as decadent as any eastern sultan’s. Her original idea that the Prince was camping on site was definitely erroneous. No one ‘camped’ like this. There were no deprivations here. The long dining table, with elegantly curved legs complete with matching chairs for twelve, running through the centre of the pavilion, dispelled any notion of deprivation. Just in case it didn’t, the chandelier of Venetian glass hanging overhead did. Every inch of the pavilion was furnished expensively. One corner housed an active workspace with a polished walnut desk and a matching glass-fronted bookcase that rivalled any gentleman’s study in England. Those things might draw the eye, but it was the heavy damask curtain, partially drawn back with thick gold rope partitioning off the pavilion and the curved Venetian divan set in front of it, draped in silk throws and rich-hued pillows, that held Evie’s attention.

‘The fabrics are magnificent...’ Evie breathed, unaware she’d moved towards them until her fingers brushed the silken surfaces.
Lovely
. They felt like rose petals beneath her touch. She fingered the damask of the curtain, noting the quality of the weft. ‘Italian?’

‘Yes, I had the curtain done in Florence several years ago. The silks are from China.’ Her mind was interested in the answer, but her gaze was already drifting beyond the damask, catching a peek of a sleigh bed heaped with silk and pillows.

She could hardly drag her eyes away from that tantalising glimpse of bed. Worse, he caught her staring. ‘My private quarters,’ he answered her wandering gaze and Evie flushed.

The Prince came up behind her. She could feel the heat of his body at her back, making her entirely aware of him.
His private quarters.
Yet another reminder of how foolish she’d been to accept his invitation. What had she been thinking? They were entirely alone except for his silk pillows and decadently dressed divan.

‘Please, come.’ His hand skimmed her back, ushering her forward through the curtain, and she nearly jumped from the contact. Surely he didn’t mean for her to go
into
those private quarters? And do what? ‘There’s water for washing if you’d like to refresh before dinner.’

It took a moment for her to drag her mind back from a more prurient train of thought. Washing up. Of course. ‘Water would be lovely,’ she managed. The colder the better. The silk had really got to her. Dear Lord, her cheeks were going to start a fire if she blushed any more.

The water did help. She splashed some on her face, but its cooling effects were offset by the dominating presence of the bed, which was more magnificent up close and fully revealed. It begged the question: what sort of a man slept in such a bed? Her rather fertile imagination knew the answer: A tactile man, a sensual man who would want the slide of silk, the caress of fine cotton, against his bare skin. A man who would do more than sleep in that magnificent bed.

Evie reached for a cloth, the fine quality of the linen a matter of fact. Dimitri Petrovich was surrounded by the best of everything. She ran the damp cloth down her neck, heat flaring low and sudden in her belly with intimate insight. The Prince did not come to that bed clothed. Neither would he come to that bed alone.

She swallowed hard, her imagination running riot about what might happen in such a bed, with such a man. To be that woman! It made her previous fantasies of sipping lemonade and talking over the day with Andrew appear positively lukewarm, insipid even, when there was such passion to be had in the dark, to lay naked, entangled in silk and man—that was decadence at its finest. Such images begged the question: were they inspired by silk or by the man himself?

Evie laid aside the towel and smoothed her skirts, checking her face for smudges in the small mirror. Ink had a rather regular talent for showing up in the most inopportune places like cheeks and chins. She pulled the pins out of her hair and shook it down, running her hands through its tangles. It had become messy over the course of the day. She twisted long auburn lengths into a simple bun at the back of her neck and re-pinned it. There. She looked as neat as she could after a day of sketching in the August heat. Did it really matter how she looked? She needed to keep a practical head on her shoulders even if her imagination wanted to run away with her. This was only dinner for the express purpose of discussing her catalogue system, not a grand ball, and the Prince had already made it abundantly clear the dinner was strictly business. She hoped thinking of him as the Prince would help take the edge off the butterflies. Thinking of him as
Dimitri
only encouraged them and a host of other hot emotions.

Evie stepped into the main room, butterflies fluttering just a bit anyway in her stomach. May would say, ‘Business or not, a girl didn’t have dinner with a prince any night of the week’, and Evie’s stomach agreed. The main room was empty, no sign of the Prince. But the flap at the entrance was drawn back and there were sounds of someone outside.

Evie moved towards the noise, but she’d barely stepped out of doors before she wished her curiosity hadn’t been so insistent—or not. Dimitri stood with his back to her—his
bare
back, that was. Washing. She was entirely unprepared for the sight of a half-naked prince, especially this one, although perhaps she shouldn’t have been. Common sense should have been her first warning. She should have guessed he’d want to get clean as well. The sounds should have been her second. Water usually meant washing.

Evie knew what she ought to do. She ought to step back before he noticed her. But her feet, her eyes, the rest of her, had other ideas. They were determined to stay. Even performing this simple act, he was beautiful to watch. Water streamed down the lengths of dark hair; back muscles flexed, rivulets slipping over muscled planes as he raised his arms and ran a cloth over his body, wiping away the dirt of the day. Oh, those arms! How she wanted to be that cloth, how she wanted to run her hands over that body, feel the ripple of muscle beneath her fingers, trace the breadth of those shoulders.

Such thoughts were definitely proof she really should step back. To stumble upon him by accident was forgivable. Accidents happened. But to stand here and
knowingly
watch him bathe was a flagrant breach of his privacy. To see him half-naked and not retreat was an even more grievous sin—or so she had been taught. At the moment, though, Evie couldn’t think why. This was not sinful, it was beautiful. Her eyes were glued to his back, memorising every inch of him; how those broad shoulders gave way to a back tanned from countless hours spent shovelling, hauling, lifting. Prince he might be, but he was no stranger to hard work. Labour had honed every muscle hewn plane of him.

Her eyes gave in to the final temptation, dropping lower, to where his back tapered to a lean waist before disappearing into trousers. He was gorgeously made even out of his clothes. His tailor might be a genius, but the man had quite the body to work with. Genius would be easy.

Such thoughts prodded her conscience. She really ought to go back inside now. At the very least, she ought to look away, but there were a lot of things she
ought
to have done today—she ought to have gone home, ought to have refused the invitation to dine alone even if it was just to discuss cataloguing techniques. What she ought to do had already lost several battles today and it was about to lose one more. Ought was no match for that back. She’d look just a few seconds longer.

He reached for the clean shirt and Evie knew a moment’s panic. The gesture was too casual. She’d pushed her luck and retreat was no longer an option. She’d been caught. His next words confirmed it. ‘Have you seen enough?’

‘I didn’t mean to intrude,’ she began to apologise. He was going to make her take responsibility for her actions and she probably deserved it. She
had
been staring. But he was not entirely blameless. He’d
known
and he’d done nothing to stop her, to interrupt her. ‘You knew I was there?’ It came out as part-question, part-accusation.

Heat prickled low in her stomach as she realised what his knowledge meant. He’d encouraged her voyeurism, the act taking on a higher element of intimacy because it had been shared. He’d been her accomplice, abetting her curiosity the whole while. The best defence she could manage was modest chagrin. ‘What sort of man lets a woman look at him like that?’

She knew. The man who slept in that decadent bed. The man who was striding towards her, hands smoothing back his hair into a sleek, damp tail as he came, a friendly smile on his lips even while his eyes burned like hot coals. She was not ready for his response as he stopped before her. ‘I could ask you the same.’ His voice was low, sensual, the sort of voice a man used when he wanted to seduce a woman. He was...aroused? By
her
? Had she read that right? His next words had her entirely at sea. ‘What sort of woman looks, Evie?’

A woman who thinks you’re a pagan god come to life, a woman who wants to touch you, who wants to be touched by you in return, a woman who would willingly go to that silk bed of yours and learn all that she doesn’t know if only you would show her
. She hadn’t the skill to dissemble, to flirt, to call upon womanly subterfuge. She only had the truth at her disposal and that would not do at all, but she needed an answer. His eyes held hers and this time she could not look away. He was prepared to wait her out, to wait for that answer. What would happen if she uttered those words out loud? Would he grant her fantasy? Would he laugh? Would he remind her that she had reached so far above herself she tried for Olympus itself?

Dinner saved her. Dimitri shot the arriving dishes a disapproving glance before flashing her a wry smile. ‘Apparently, supper is served. Shall we?’

To call dinner a ‘reprieve’ would have been erroneous. Evie had only to step inside the pavilion to know it was more a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire. She’d traded the hot flirtation of words for the spicy sensuality of exotic foods eaten in an equally exotic setting. The Queen Anne dining table went unused as Dimitri ushered her towards a low round table set before the curved divan. ‘I much prefer this to a formal table,’ he explained, pulling out piles of silken cushions to sit upon. ‘We get the custom from our Turkish ancestors.’ He helped her to sit, the press of his hand sending a hot rush of awareness to her stomach. ‘In Kuban, we were not always Russian.’

He sat down beside her, not opposite her. ‘I hope you won’t think I am completely barbaric.’ He wasn’t entirely joking.

‘Hardly...’ Evie breathed, her eyes riveted on the array of food set before them. ‘This is...’ she paused, casting about for the right word ‘...exciting.’ A proper lady would regret the use of that word and its naughty implications, but as proper as Evie was, she couldn’t regret this—the chance to partake of exotic dishes, to eat with this intriguing man. ‘What is it all called?’ A proper lady would eat in moderation too, but there was no way she was going to be able to manage that, not with all this possibility set in front of her.

Dimitri smiled. ‘We’ll start with
shchi
. It’s cabbage soup. Everyone eats it, rich and poor alike.’ She felt herself beginning to relax, falling into the ease she’d felt when they’d looked at the tapestry. This time, it was his turn to be the teacher as he led her through the dishes. There was
okoshkra,
a salad done with boiled beef and vegetables, which he told her had to be very specific. ‘Not any vegetable will do.’ He gave her another of his endearing winks. ‘One must be a spicy herb, the other a neutral taste like turnips.’

‘And the fish?’ Evie rolled the flavor around on her tongue, familiar and unfamiliar. ‘Carp?’ she guessed.

‘Similar.’ He smiled his approval. ‘Tench.’ He reached for another dish. ‘If you like fish, try this.’

‘Oh! Cold smoked salmon!’ Evie gasped. ‘My favourite. We hardly ever have it.’ A luxury indeed and these slices were cut so thinly as to be nearly transparent, a sure sign of its excellent quality.

Dimitri used a tiny spoon to scoop up a portion of small black balls and spread them on a piece of flatbread. ‘Caviar? We like to think ours is the best in the world.’ Evie thought she would have eaten snakes if he’d offered them to her from his own hand, his dark eyes soft chocolate with amber lights. He was having a good time, with
her
. The thought was extraordinary to comprehend. Simple Evie Milham, who hadn’t had a beau in her life, was eating dinner, not with a prince necessarily, that wasn’t the important part, but that she was eating with a man who enjoyed her company.

‘It’s good.’ Evie swallowed. Liking it pleased him. She could see it in those eyes. He was proud of his country and he wanted her to like it too. She looked away, their gazes lingering too long over the caviar. ‘You must miss your home. I imagine it’s hard being away.’

Dimitri made one of his customary gestures towards the food and the room beyond. She was getting used to those movements. His body was so much more expressive than an Englishman’s. ‘Kuban is with me wherever I go. It keeps me from missing it too much.’

She cocked her head and studied him, seeing him, seeing his pavilion, in a new light. The silks, the low table, the divan, the dinner were so much more than furniture and food. They were an extension of who
he
was. The dining table was merely a concession to the world outside of Kuban. ‘Your country must be lovely.’

He reached to the centre of the table and lit a candle, his long fingers flicking out the match flame. The candlelight was a subtle reminder of how late it had become, but Evie could not bring herself to go.
Just a
few more minutes
, she promised herself.