The Russian Billionaire: A Romantic Suspense Novel Georgia Carre (ink ebook reader .txt) 📖

“I’m not a socialist,” she says tightly, “but yes, I detest billionaires who lie, cheat and steal on their way to the top, then think they can make it alright by making a tax deductible million to a children’s hospital.”

Finally, she is not pretending, but if she hates cheating, lying, stealing billionaires who make donations for all the wrong reasons, why is she here dressed to kill? I take a sip of my vodka as I weigh my options. I’d very much like to fuck the living daylights out of her, but I’m also aware there is something else going on under the surface. I decide to call her bluff.

“You know, you don’t have to stay. I’m quite happy to dine on my own.”

With that the marvelous wildfire is instantly extinguished, and to my surprise, a mixture of fear and some other emotion takes its place.

Raine

Panic floods my body. Jesus, what the hell am I doing? This is not a date where I am free to sprout my nonsense about how unfair the world is! I’m here to save Madison. I drop my gaze quickly to the shiny surface of the table so I can regroup. I let my dislike of his status cloud my judgment, but I won’t make the same mistake again. When I look up, my face is schooled into apologetic lines.

“I’m sorry. That is not fair. I don’t know anything about you, or how you made your money. No matter what your reasons are for dropping a million on this dinner, it is for a good cause and the least I can do is fulfil my end of the bargain and be an interesting dinner companion.” I lean back and give him my best smile. “Can we start again?”

His expression remains unreadable, his voice indifferent. “Sure.”

The sheer relief almost makes me lean forward and thank him, but I stop myself in time. That would be suspicious. Fearful that there could be an awkward silence, I throw out the first question that comes into my head. “Do you ever go back to Russia?”

“Yes, I have many business interests there.”

Not much to go on, but at least it isn’t a one-word answer. “I’ve seen pictures of Russia, but I’ve never been.”

“Of course you haven’t. You’re American.”

I feel my back start to straighten and force my voice to be kinder. “What do you mean?”

“Aren’t Americans taught to fear the big Russian bear behind the iron curtain?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. There are even a couple of Russian kids in my school.”

Suddenly, he looks bored. “If you are finished with your aperitif, perhaps we can head over to our table.”

“Yes, I’m finished,” I mumble, hoping I haven’t blown it. It’s all gone so wrong.

He lifts a finger and a waiter rushes over. “My usual table?”

“Yes, Mr. Tsarnov,” the man says obsequiously, as he bows and leads the way. Clearly, Mr. Tsarnov is a heavy tipper.

Konstantin stands as I do, and I see that he is very much taller than me. At least a foot and I’m wearing high heels. We walk towards the restaurant. I can smell his aftershave. Woody and expensive. And I can feel the raw power coming from his body.

We are seated at a table screened off from everyone else. I can see now what Catherine meant when she said he guarded his privacy jealously.

The next few minutes are filled with ordering our food. I am too nervous to eat, but I order a starter and a main course. Then the waiters leave and we are alone once more and my mind goes blank. All the subjects that Catherine had told me would be of interest to him are gone from my mind.

“Tell me about you,” he invites suddenly.

The relief is palpable. “What would you like to know?”

He shrugs. “Anything you want to tell a date that is going nowhere.”

I smile. “Well, since this relationship is going nowhere, I guess I don’t have to pretend or impress and I can tell you the things I’d never dream of telling a real date.”

“Yes, the lure of the one-night stand,” he drawls.

“Do you think we’ll end up in bed?”

His eyes glitter with interest. “Do you want to?”

“Maybe. Depends on how our… date goes.”

An unfathomable expression crosses his face. “What needs to happen for you to end up in my bed?”

The words I never intended to utter tumble out of me. “Make me laugh. Make me understand I’m not going to feel like a slut in the morning.”

He frowns. “Why would you feel like a slut in the morning?”

“I don’t know. The only time I ever had a one-night stand I felt terrible. I left before he woke up because I couldn’t bear it if he was indifferent.”

He leans forward, his expression intense and curious, as if I am a species that is completely alien to him, and he’s really trying hard to understand me. “Why would you care what he thinks?”

His question makes me forget to be a seductive nymph and I answer honestly. “I don’t know and can’t explain why, but it could be my conservative background. I can never just let my hair down, my brain is always thinking in the background. One of my friends once slept with a celebrity. She told me it was great, really fun. In the morning, they had breakfast in bed, she took selfies with him, and then she left. She has no regrets at all. In fact, she even considers it one of those events she will remember with pleasure and fondness when she is an old grandmother. Me, I can never do that. I don’t like the idea of being a notch on someone’s bedpost. I guess, you have hundreds of women lining up to have sex with you, huh? You have fun with them, then never give them a second thought.”

“That’s right. I tend to go for women