Fixed 01 - Fantasy Fix (18 page)

Reggie took a second to adjust to his honesty and to digest what he was saying. “Well, it’s not as if I have men beating down my door…”

“If you don’t, it’s not because they don’t want to.” She shook her head like she planned to protest, and he held up a hand. “I hope you’re not going to play at being modest now. We both know you’re beautiful.”

He stated it so matter-of-factly that Reggie just blinked. “Thank you. But not every man out there shares your taste for women who look like me.”

“Sexy?”

“Round.”

“Wrong word.” He shook his head and ran his gaze over her. “You are definitely not round. Curvy? Uh-huh. Lush? Yes. Mouthwatering? Absolutely. But not round.”

“Certainly not round. And even more certainly not available.”

Reggie almost jumped out of her seat when the voice that had been haunting her dreams all week sounded from just above her head. Whipping around, she saw Dmitri standing beside her chair with one arm resting on the back and his gaze fixed on Marc. His posture and attitude had become so familiar she spoke before she thought about it.

“Misha, you have
got
to stop doing that.”

Dmitri flashed Reggie an amused glance.
I am pleased that you remember how to address me,
dushka,
but you should not contradict me in public
.

Reggie rolled her eyes and prepared to argue, feeling more energetic and alive than she had since Saturday night. So what if he was doing impossible things again, like talking to her in her head. She could deal with that, sort of.

She never got the chance to protest his interruption because Marc pushed back his chair and stood.

The two men eyed each other for a long, tense moment, one dark and mysterious and intense, the other fair and frank and just as intense. They took each other’s measure, each evaluating the situation and the other man while the maitre d’ hovered in the background, clearly unsure of what he ought to do and whether or not he could pull it off even if he decided.

Finally, Marc’s mouth quirked in amusement, and he held out his hand. “Marc Abrahms. I take it you’re a friend of Regina.”

“Yes, a…close friend. Dmitri Vidâme.” He shook Marc’s hand politely, but his other hand moved from the back of Reggie’s chair to the shoulder left bare by her strapless evening dress.

Marc acted as if he didn’t catch the movement, but Reggie felt sure he noticed. Damn men. They could always read each other’s shorthand.

“We were just about to have coffee,” Mark remarked. “Would you care to join us?”

That was going a little too far. Reggie shook her head. “That’s really not—”

“Thank you.” Dmitri squeezed Reggie’s shoulder to silence her. He only had to look back at a waiter, and a third chair appeared at the table. He sat.

Marc, too, resumed his seat, and the waiter poured three cups of coffee before beating a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the kitchen.

Reggie ignored the coffee, infinitely more interested in glaring at the two men. They ignored her
and
the coffee.

“So, where are you from, Dmitri?”

“I was born in Kiev, though I have lived in many places during my life. I have called New York home for many years now.”

Christ, they were treating this like a cocktail party! Reggie glared at them both, but neither one was paying her any attention.

“And what is it that you do?” Marc asked, tempting Reggie to kick him under the table. He didn’t even blink. He just shifted his legs out of her reach, making her wish she’d worn steel-tipped combat boots rather than sexy, strappy sandals.

“I have a variety of business interests,” Dmitri hedged, “but currently my most absorbing interest is of a more personal nature.”

Marc observed the look Dmitri gave Reggie, watched the silent exchange between them and sighed. “Yes, I imagine it is.” He signaled to the waiter and quickly paid the bill. “It was very interesting to meet you, Dmitri; and Reggie, I had a wonderful time.” He stood. “But I do have to run. You two enjoy your evening.”

He grabbed his jacket, shrugging into it while Reggie shot to her feet.

“But what about the opera?” she asked, feeling awful about Dmitri’s behavior.

Marc smiled, and when he spoke, his voice was wry. “I don’t think the opera would work for us, Reggie. But I wouldn’t want you to miss it. Why don’t you and Dmitri go and enjoy yourselves?”

Reggie was still trying to wade through all the double entendres when Marc extended two tickets to Dmitri, who refused with a shake of his head.

“Thank you, but it is not necessary,” Dmitri said. “I maintain a private box of my own. Regina and I will be using it tonight. You should keep your tickets.”

“It’s not like I’m going to use them,” Marc sighed, but he slipped the tickets back into his jacket pocket. “I guess the box will just have to sit empty for the night. Now, if you two will excuse me, I’m going to go home, pour myself a nice big glass of bourbon and see if I can catch the last few minutes of the game.”

He walked away before Reggie could protest again, so she turned to Dmitri, intending to take her embarrassment and frustration out on him.

“I like this Marc fellow,” he said, before she could speak. He rolled right over whatever she had planned to say, bundling her into her coat and pushing her gently toward the exit. “But I do not like that you would think to encourage the interest of another man,
milka
.”

“I wasn’t encouraging anything,” she groused, standing obediently at his side while the doorman hailed them a cab. “It was just dinner.”

“It was a date. And my woman will not date any man but me.” The slamming of the taxi door behind them punctuated his words, and chased whatever she had been planning to say right out of her head.

“Your woman?”

In the close confines of the back seat of the taxi, Dmitri reclined beside her, a huge dark presence that threatened to overwhelm her. He leaned close, and Reggie caught the achingly familiar scent of him. Her eyes drifted shut, something she couldn’t control, and his lips brushed the high curve of her cheekbone.

“Yes,” he murmured in his black velvet voice. “Mine.”

Chapter Thirteen

Reggie had attended the opera as a young child—her mother had been a fan—but she’d never before sat in one of the private boxes. She regretted the fact that their seats weren’t down in the orchestra where witnesses surrounded them.

She didn’t trust Dmitri’s pleasant demeanor, not after his demonstration of possessiveness. She kept waiting for the ax to fall.

Looking around while the usher led them to their seats, Reggie reflected on how much safer she would have felt ending this date here with Marc. Even though he had already known about the fantasy, and she would have felt obliged to act it out in this fairly public space, she thought an arrest for public indecency might be less messy than whatever Dmitri had planned.

She let Dmitri take her coat and seat her in one of the two luxurious armchairs that occupied the center of the box. When she looked around her, it almost seemed a shame they were there alone, considering the dimensions of the box could easily have sat four or even six people, oversized chairs not withstanding. And now that she thought about it, viewing the opera with a couple of clear-sighted bystanders might have been a lot safer than being here alone with Dmitri.

The thought echoed in her head while she watched him hand their coats to the usher, who proceeded to move to each side of the box where it bordered their neighbors and release the heavy drapes from their swags. The material formed a visual barrier with the other boxes and made Reggie swallow nervously. The public nature of the box had just been transformed into something else entirely. Something very private.

Centering her attention on the darkened stage, Reggie shifted in her seat and smoothed the silky material of her dress over her thighs. Then she straightened the clasp on her silver and onyx necklace. Then she checked the clasp on her tiny evening bag, gave a tug to her bodice, and smoothed down her hair. When she ran out of fidgets, she stared straight ahead and cursed herself for not wearing opera gloves. They would have provided one more step in her distraction techniques.

The usher left their box, and Dmitri took his seat beside her. She started to tell him he was crowding her, but before she could speak, he slid his arm over the back of her chair and wrapped it around her shoulders. He didn’t even pretend the move had been casual. He meant it as a statement of possession, and that’s exactly what she took it for. The man was about as subtle as a jackhammer, but she pretended to ignore him and kept her eyes on the stage.

Gratitude washed over her when she saw the house lights dim. Any second the orchestra would finish its warm up, and they would have a legitimate distraction to take their attention.

At least, she would.

The rest of the lights extinguished, and the first notes of the overture flooded through the auditorium. All around them, attention shifted from conversations with companions and strangers to the action revealed on stage when the footlights went up. Everyone watched while the city of Peking came to life before them, and the Mandarin began to sing of the Princess Turandot and the impossible test her suitors must pass in order to win her hand.

In their quiet box high above the stage, Dmitri didn’t bother to win Regina’s hand. He took it, by right of strength, twining his fingers with hers and resting their clasped hands together on her thigh, halfway between knee and hip.

Oh, Lord
.

In her mind, she heard him chuckle.

Titles are archaic,
dushka.
And unnecessary. You need not address me so formally. I have told you Misha will do.

Though she didn’t look away from the stage, Reggie felt a rush of relief. He still didn’t seem mad at her. Maybe he was going to let this date with Marc thing go after all.

As soon as she relaxed, she couldn’t help rolling her eyes. Despite his teasing, the autocratic tenor of his words suited him and rang with an underlying truth. He probably did see himself as some sort of feudal lord, demanding tribute from the peasants while he sat in his castle and counted the spoils of war.

I have always preferred the spoiling to the counting. Mathematics can be so tedious.

Would you be quiet? And get out of my head. I’m trying to watch the opera. Barbarian.

She felt his laughter along with her own sense of satisfaction when he finally deigned to actually look toward the stage.

Of course,
milaya.
Because watching the performance was your only intent in coming here tonight.

He just had to have the last word. She frowned, her attention straying from the touching reunion between the aged Timur and his son, Prince Calaf. Something in his tone made her a little uneasy, but he sat quietly enough beside her, and she soon found herself drawn into the world of the haughty Princess Turandot and her determined suitor, Calaf. The determined part sounded familiar; it was the suitor she was having trouble relating to.

The image of Dmitri petitioning for her hand popped into her brain, and she had to stifle her laugh. Despite Marc calling her a princess, she didn’t really think she had much in common with Turandot, but she guaranteed Dmitri was
nothing
like Calaf. He would never follow the dictates of a spoiled princess, never play along with her game. If he wanted her, he would take her, as he had taken Reggie.

The memory of it made her squirm in her seat, and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. In the dark, she saw the smile curve his gorgeous mouth. She held her breath, waiting for his reaction, but Misha simply raised their joined hands to his lips and brushed a whisper-soft kiss along her knuckles. He turned his attention back to the stage and watched while love battled with anger for the princess’s heart.

In Reggie’s heart, relief battled with pique to make her decidedly uncomfortable. For some insane reason, she felt disappointed he paid more attention to the stage than to her. What was she thinking? She ought to be relieved the man had decided to behave himself for a change, not brooding he’d been with her for a good hour and hadn’t ravished her yet. Clearly, he had driven her over the edge. She could no longer claim to be sane. She needed to get her mind back on the opera and off the hunk at her side.

An hour later, she was still brooding when the houselights came back up for intermission. In fact, she’d been so preoccupied with her thoughts—and memories of their last night together—she’d lost track of the story, and the intermission surprised her. She sat for a moment in the brightened light, blinking while her eyes struggled to adjust.

“Come,
milaya
,” Dmitri said when he rose and tugged her to her feet beside him. “Let us stretch our legs for a few moments.”

Reggie trailed obediently after him—how did he always manage to make her do that?—as he led her out of the box. They passed other attendees while they walked, women who eyed Dmitri’s lean, muscular form with avid appreciation and men who quickly averted their eyes from Reggie’s curvaceous figure as soon as they glimpsed Dmitri’s threatening scowl.

“Do you have to do that?” Reggie hissed when he dropped his hand to the small of her back to urge her into a reception room ahead of him.

“Do what?”

An opera employee greeted Dmitri by name when they passed. Misha acknowledged the young man with a nod and attempted to sculpt his features into an innocent mask.

“Your dog in the manger routine.”

“An inappropriate analogy,” he dismissed, accepting two glasses of red wine from the bartender and handing one to her. “While I may have warned a man or two to keep his distance, I assure you that I have no intention of doing the same.”

Reggie gazed up into his deep, black eyes, and her stomach flipped. She’d managed to convince herself during the first half of the performance that Dmitri’s failure to make her pay for accepting a date with another man meant he no longer felt as interested in her as she was in him. But if she were to judge by the heat of his gaze, she’d have to reassess her conclusion. Rapidly.