Chapter 30 - Mikhail
Mikhail was impatient as he waited for Mira to come down the stairs. He was supposed to take her to the doctor for her first appointment, and she was running late.
Even though she’d insisted she could make her own way to the doctor’s office, she’d had a very happy glow about her when he stood his ground about taking her himself. Women sure had a funny way about them; why didn’t they just come right out and say what they wanted, he wondered.
Maybe for the same reason you can’t put into words what you feel for Mira, his subconscious chided.
He ruthlessly ignored that annoying, pesky inner voice and yelled up the stairs, “Mira!”
“Coming,” she called.
He heard her on the stairs, her steps measured and careful. He looked up in time to see her wearing a short blue dress that ended just above her knees. It was the same shade as the ocean and contrasted beautifully with her red hair. She had on a pair of flat sandals, he was pleased to see, and she carried a small clutch purse.
Great choices, he commended mentally. He wasn’t a fan of the idea of his pregnant wife wearing heels or carrying heavy totes.
Even as the thought occurred to him, he could almost hear Madame Pruitt’s rebuke in his mind for entertaining what she liked to call “medieval and outlandish ideas.” Fine, modern ladies could wear heels when they were pregnant, but he just didn’t like the idea of Mira doing that. What if she sprained her ankle, or what if the weight of the bag placed a strain on her pregnancy?
“Why do you have that worried expression on your face?” Mira demanded as she reached the bottom stairs and came to a halt in front of him.
The elevation of the stairs kept her at almost eye level with him. He could see the tiny flecks of gold reflected in her green eyes and his heart somersaulted in his chest. She was so beautiful it seemed almost ethereal. Everything about her screamed class, sophistication, and elegance, and he could barely hold back the possessive feelings coursing through him as he looked at her.
“Mikhail?” she prodded, a small frown creeping onto her smooth features.
Belatedly, he realized he hadn’t answered her question and he gave her a small grin. “Pardon me, Mira. I was just worried about the stairs. I didn’t want you to rush down them.”
Her frown deepened. “I didn’t rush. I was careful.”
He sighed. He couldn’t very well explain the intricacies of how he was worried about her footwear or purses. She would be even more perplexed than she was right now.
Adroitly, he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss against her cheek, effectively distracting her. “And good thing you didn’t rush. You arrived safely at the bottom of the stairs,” he said warmly.
She chuckled and turned her face so that his kiss brushed past her cheek and landed on her lips. Their gazes met and held in fascinated silence as they stared into each other’s eyes. He could feel every beat of his heart, he could hear every whisper of her breath, he could see every flicker of emotion on her face.
She wanted him as powerfully as he wanted her, he knew. Every time they passed by each other or came within reach of each other it was almost like a spontaneous combustion. He had to remind himself sternly each time that she was pregnant and he needed to keep his hands to himself.
Not for any particular reason—so far, her doctors had been happy with her health and the baby’s. Still, Mikhail couldn’t shake this neurotic fear that if he made passionate love to her the way he wanted to, it might hurt her or the baby.
But it didn’t stop his dick from rising every time she was near. It didn’t stop his nostrils from flaring involuntarily to pull in her unique scent every time he got a whiff of it. It didn’t stop his heart from thumping so loudly in his ears that it was a wonder he didn’t go deaf when Mira was in the vicinity.
His feelings for her worried him. He had denied it for as long as he could, but now he had to admit that he did feel something for her. He wasn’t sure what, and he wasn’t ready to put a label on it.
But the one truth he knew was that he’d never felt this way with any woman in the past—not even Alena.
And knowing that scared the crap out of him.
Their trip to the doctor was brief and encouraging. The doctor was very pleased with all Mira’s reports and kept telling Mikhail to do more of whatever it was he was currently doing, because it was working.
Mira threw his pleased smirk an exasperated glance and told the doctor, “Please don’t encourage him. He never lets me get any exercise.”
The doctor shook his head. “Well, she does need exercise, but nothing strenuous. Just make sure she walks around the house a bit every day. She can also get in some very light dancing or water exercises. Nothing strenuous, just light exercises to keep her limber and in good health generally, okay?”
“Sure thing, doc,” Mikhail agreed.
The doctor wrote out some prescriptions for vitamins and sent them on their way. As they left, Mira was chewing on a banana.
Mikhail hid a grin. She’d been eating nonstop since morning, he had observed. Evidently, a heavy appetite was gradually making an appearance, but he wasn’t about to comment on it and make her panic and start counting calories while pregnant. Heaven forbid.
His kid needed all the nutrition it could get in there, he thought with a proud glance at her mid-section. As they reached their car, he turned around to open her door for her when a solid punch to his solar plexus lifted him clear off his feet and slammed him into the hard pavement. His mouth smashed against the ground and he tasted blood and sand.
Mira screamed and started toward him, but he shook his head. “Run back to the hospital, Mira. Go, go.”
But either she had gone deaf or she didn’t care for her life, because she became still as a statue as she stared at someone or something over his head.
Mikhail turned to follow her gaze and real anger ricocheted through him, propelling him to his feet in one fluid motion.
Oleg Dostoevsky was standing a few feet away with four of his men around him. He was dressed in an all-white suit with a sun hat slammed onto his head. His eyes were cold as they raked Mikhail from head to toe and he seemed to be enjoying himself at Mikhail’s expense.
Mikhail turned to look at Mira and saw that one of Dostoevsky’s goons was already marching toward her to grab her.
“I swear on my mother that if you lay one finger on Mira this afternoon, I will feed you with your entrails and make you enjoy it,” Mikhail warned in a low, furious snarl.
His threat made the man skid to a frightened halt a few inches from Mira. Good girl that she was, she took advantage of his confusion and whipped out her pepper spray. As she sprayed it directly into the man’s eyes, he screamed and jerked away from her.
Mikhail was so proud of her that when he turned to face Dostoevsky, he couldn’t hide his smile. “She’s a real firecracker, isn’t she?”
Dostoevsky’s face went dark with anger. “She is my daughter, you son-of-a-bitch. She is my only child! This fight was only between you and me. Why did you have to drag Mira into it?”
Mikhail positioned himself protectively in front of Mira, knowing even as he did so that she was in no real danger from her father. The man didn’t want to hurt her. He only wanted to extract her from Mikhail’s clutches. Well, he would die before he would let that happen, Mikhail vowed silently.
Mira sidestepped and stood in front of him before he could stop her. “Don’t hurt him, Father,” she pleaded. “Just stop.”
“Mira, you have been brainwashed by that tricky bastard, my dear. This is not your fault. I’ll set you right once I get you away from him.”
“Mira, get behind me,” Mikhail said as he gently reached for her.
She darted away from him and ran straight to her father, wringing a roar of protest from his throat.
“You’ve always been a hard, unfeeling jerk,” Mira accused her father. “And so I’m sure you feel nothing for me. But just once, I’m begging you for something—don’t harm him.”
Dostoevsky gave her such an evil look that Mikhail’s heart clutched in his chest. Then he grabbed his daughter by the arm and hauled her to his side so roughly that Mikhail almost passed out from fear for the baby.
“Kill that bastard,” Dostoevsky ordered his men.
Mikhail moved with such lightning speed that before the words had finished falling from Dostoevsky’s lips, he was already beside the man. He slammed his elbow into the nose of the first man on Dostoevsky’s left and then pirouetted to his other side.
The men were scared to shoot because of his proximity to their boss and his daughter. Thankfully, they were smart enough to know they could hit the wrong target at such impossibly close range.
Pressing home his advantage, Mikhail jabbed a finger roughly into the throat of the second man and kneed the third in the groin. All three men fell away, nursing their injuries in the dirt and groaning with pain. The fourth man was still nowhere to be seen after Mira had shot pepper spray into his eyes.
Mikhail crossed his arms over his chest as he glared at his archenemy, who was still holding Mira tightly with one hand. “Unhand her now,” he ordered.
Dostoevsky gave him a hard smack on the nose, drawing blood, and Mikhail had to concede that the man was truly his daughter’s father. He packed one hell of a punch given that he’d used his non-dominant hand to throw that swing, since the other was still gripped tightly around Mira’s wrist.
Mikhail spat the blood from his mouth into the dirt and faced Dostoevsky with a mocking grin. “Are we finally going to settle our scores man to man or are you gonna hide behind your daughter’s skirts?”
Dostoevsky looked around quickly and seeing that all his men had been disabled, he shoved Mira away from him and sent her sprawling. It was a calculated move to distract Mikhail, he knew. But no way was he going to let her hit the ground, not even if she wasn’t pregnant.
Mikhail grabbed her just before she hit the ground and gathered her against himself. Dostoevsky was already running, heading in the direction of his jeep. Mikhail released Mira and gave chase, managing to catch the older man just as he reached his jeep.
Mikhail spun him around and gave him a shake. “Your daughter’s pregnant you bastard and you dared to shove her?” he let fly with his fist, releasing a solid punch that connected with Dostoevsky’s jaw and snapped his head back.
Mikhail was so furious he began to punch the man again and again and again until blood spurted from his nose. Mikhail let fly with his fist with one last solid punch that landed on his chin and threw him off balance.
As Dostoevsky went sprawling, Mikhail allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He threw his wife a jaunty grin. “Well, come on. Let’s get me properly introduced to my father-in-law.”
A smile quivered on her lips and he half thought she was about to beg for mercy for her father. But instead, she flung herself into his arms with a small sob and said with feeling, “Thank you for not dying, Mikhail.”
He didn’t know how to respond to that, but in that moment he got the distinct feeling that his life was very important to Mira Nikolai.