Chapter 9
Laszlo
After spending the night with a dick that wouldn’t quit, in the guest room, which added insult to injury, I walk back into my bedroom to see it empty and neat.
I hit the bathroom, and ten minutes later, I’m staring at my clothes hanging up next to Galina’s.
I scrub my hand over my face and shake my head.
Last night got away from me, somehow. Her vulnerability hit me hard, but I didn’t have the words to reassure her.
Pulling out a black shirt and a Tom Ford suit, I throw them on and reach for my watch and phone. Checking the time, I see it’s still too early to call the boutique to arrange a private visit for Galina to try on wedding dresses.
Pocketing my phone, I head downstairs to find it a bustling hive of activity.
“What is going on?” I ask Leonid, who is hovering at the foot of the stairs like his arse is about to be kicked.
“Miss Rusanova is causing a bit of a stir amongst the men,” he says, clearly not enjoying the words in his mouth.
I frown. “Meaning?”
He gestures to the sliding doors on the other side of the open-plan living area, which are wide open to let the early-morning sunlight in.
I cross over the floor, loafers silent on the marble, and pause in the doorway as I stare at my fiancée, dressed in tight black yoga pants and a sports bra, bent over on the paving near the fountain in a pose that probably has some weird name I’ll never remember.
My men are caught halfway between trying not to stare but also hovering to stay close because that is the order of their boss.
The looks don’t last long. They know better. If they don’t, they will. Some lessons in my house only need teaching once.
One of them spots me, and he ducks his head, moving away quickly. I step out onto the terrace, and every pair of male eyes drops to the ground so fast it would be funny if I weren’t considering murder before breakfast.
Galina straightens slowly. No rush. No embarrassment. She lifts her arms above her head, stretches, then turns to face me with her hair tied up and her expression cool enough to freeze blood.
“Morning,” she says.
She’s barefoot on the stone, dark hair tied up, skin flushed from exertion, moving through stretches with slow precision while six armed men pretend they have suddenly developed a deep interest in garden architecture. Her ring catches in the sun when she shifts her hand to her hip.
Mine.
That thought arrives hard and immediate, and I don’t bother pretending otherwise.
My men vanish with impressive speed. One heads for the side gate.
Another suddenly remembers he needs to check the perimeter.
A third all but sprints around the fountain.
Leonid remains inside, watching this disaster from behind the glass with the tired expression of a man who has seen too much and still isn’t paid enough.
“Still think you can’t satisfy me?” I murmur, darkly, moving into her space, close enough she can feel my hard cock against her.
She swallows but doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then she asks, “What time am I leaving?”
“Leaving where?” I ask, distracted by the swell of her tits under the sports bra.
“To go look for wedding dresses,” she says, slightly exasperated.
I drag my gaze back up to hers. “It’s not open yet. I haven’t been able to call them to arrange a private fitting.”
“I don’t want a private fitting,” she says. “I just want to go today and pick one.”
I’m not sure whether to be insulted by her efficiency or not. “You aren’t going alone.”
“I can handle it, Laszlo.”
“You aren’t going alone because I said I would protect you, but more than that, I get to decide what you wear to marry me.”
Her eyes flash. “Like hell,” she spits out.
The left side of my mouth curves up. “That’s how this works.”
“This is being very controlling. You can’t tell me what I can and cannot wear.”
“Want to bet?”
She looks like she wants to argue but then remembers who she is talking to and presses her lips tightly together.
My fingers trail up her arm before stopping at her throat. “Good girl,” I murmur. “You’re learning.”
“I’m learning what a dominant arsehole you are,” she mutters.
I step back and accept the cup of coffee Leonid has chosen to hold out to me in this moment. He is a wise man. “Go and get dressed, printsessa. We will be leaving in half an hour.”
She gives me a look that promises future violence and turns on her heel.
I watch her go because I enjoy my life being difficult, apparently.
“You seem cheerful,” Leonid dares to say.
“I’m thinking about firing everyone in this house.”
“Because they looked at your fiancée while she exercised in the garden, you told her she could go in?”
I take a sip. “Yes.”
“That feels proportionate.”
“Glad you agree.”
He does not dignify that with a response. “Will you require extra security for the outing?”
“Yes. Two cars. Two men. I’m driving Galina. They follow. And if any of them so much as glance at her tits, in the shop, I’ll have them reassigned to Siberia.”
“We are in London, sir.”
“They can still go.”
Leonid nods once with that expression he gets when he wants to roll his eyes but probably doesn’t know how. “Understood.”
I drink the coffee and look out across the garden where she was standing a second ago. My house feels different with her in it. Less orderly. More alive. More dangerous.
I’m not used to enjoying either.
Half an hour later, I’m in the front hall buttoning my jacket while trying not to think about the fact that my entire morning has been hijacked by a woman doing stretches in my garden.
The click of heels makes every thought in my head stop.
I turn.
Galina comes down the stairs in a black fitted dress that stops just above the knee, dark sunglasses already on, a small, structured handbag in the other, and enough attitude in her expression to qualify as a weapon.
Her hair falls loose today, glossy and dark against the sharp line of the dress.
The emerald ring flashes when she adjusts the glasses.
Fuck.
Galina reaches the last step and looks me over. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Are we going, or are you going to stand there being decorative?”
I smile despite myself. “You really are determined to make this difficult.”
“You keep saying that like I care.”
I move to her before she can pass me. “I care,” I say. “Take the knife off.”
Her eyes narrow at once. “No.”
“Yes. You cannot walk into a boutique and strip down to your underwear with a knife strapped to your thigh.”
She purses her lips, knowing I have a point. “I’ll take it off in the car before we get out.”
“You will take it off now,” I say and drop into a crouch in front of her, sliding my hands under her dress as the two lingering guards who are accompanying us make a horrified noise and rush out of the front door.
I hear car doors slamming, and I smile up at her.
“They’re learning too.” I unstrap the knife and rise, dropping it onto the hall table near the door.
“You will get it back when we are home again.” I offer her my hand.
She looks at it as if it has personally offended her, then steps past me without taking it.
Outside, the morning air is warm already.
The Lamborghini that she finds so amusing but refuses to comment on, waits at the front, engine running, with the Range Rover idling behind it.
My men are in place, all suddenly very interested in the road, the hedges, the fucking sky.
Good. Survival instinct is attractive in staff.
I open the passenger door.
Galina stops in front of it and lifts her chin. “I can open my own door.”
“I know. I’m still doing it.”
She gives me a look that suggests murder remains on the table, then gets in elegantly, not even a teeter on her heel as she lowers herself to the bucket seat.
I shut the door and circle the bonnet, aware of every pair of eyes pretending not to watch me handle her like spun glass and dynamite at the same time.
By the time I slide into the driver’s seat, the scent of her perfume reaches me before I even close the door. Something dark and expensive, with enough bite to suit her.
I put the car in gear, glance in the rear-view mirror to make sure the second car is in place and pull out onto the street.
For once, she is quiet.
I give it thirty seconds.
“You didn’t have to put your hands up my dress in the hallway,” she says, staring straight ahead through the windscreen.
“I did, actually. You refused.” I flick her a look. “I wasn’t groping you for fun, Galina. I was taking a blade off you before you went into a bridal shop.”
“Bit disappointing for you, I’m sure.”
I smile. “Not remotely. I enjoyed myself.”
“I hate that you say things like that so casually.”
“I hate that you wear skin-tight yoga clothes in my garden with six men trying not to lose their jobs.”
Her head turns sharply. Even behind the sunglasses, I feel the heat of it. “That was exercise.”
“That was attempted murder.” I laugh under my breath and take a right turn.
She folds her arms. “You are aware women wear sports bras in public every day without men falling into a ditch.”
“My men aren’t allowed to think about your tits in any context.”
“That sounds like a them problem, not a me problem.”
“It becomes a you problem when I start firing people, and I don’t mean by handing them their P45.”
She makes a disgusted sound. “You are impossible.”
“And yet here you are. In my car. On your way to buy a dress to marry me.”
Her jaw tightens. I enjoy that more than I should.
The boutique sits in Knightsbridge behind discreet glass and polished brass, the sort of place that survives on referrals and women who treat couture like religion. I pull up at the kerb, and the second car rolls in behind us. Two men get out first and scan the pavement.
I kill the engine and climb out, moving around to her side before she can make a point of opening her own door again.
She is already out by the time I reach it.
“Persistent,” I mutter.
“Capable,” she replies, adjusting her sunglasses and looking up at the boutique.
One of the men opens the glass door. Cool air hits us at once, carrying perfume, fresh flowers, and money. The interior is all cream walls, soft lighting, polished wood, and too many mirrors. Three women in black stand near a curved reception desk.
“Good morning,” one of them says with a bright smile that gets slightly less bright when she takes in the men outside. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Galina says before I can answer. “But I’m buying a wedding dress today, so unless you’re planning to refuse a sale, we can all save time.”
I look at her. She doesn’t even glance at me.
The receptionist blinks once. “Of course, madam. We can absolutely accommodate you.”
“Good,” I say. “We don’t want champagne. We don’t want a consultant. We want to see clean lines, silk, white. Go.”
She scampers off at my order as Galina’s gaze lingers on me for a second before she moves to the back of the store, where the changing rooms are. I follow while one of the assistants hurries ahead to open a fitting suite with a velvet curtain and a raised platform in front of a bank of mirrors.
Galina stops in the middle of it and turns to me. “You can wait outside.”
“No.”
Her mouth flattens. “I am not trying on wedding dresses in front of you.”
“You are trying on wedding dresses for me.”
“For the wedding. Not for your private entertainment.”
“That too.”
One of the assistants makes a tiny sound and immediately regrets being alive.
Galina lifts her sunglasses onto her head and pins me with a look sharp enough to draw blood. “Out.”
I smile at her. “No.”
Her nostrils flare, and she removes her sunglasses briskly, dropping them and her handbag onto one of the plush chairs before turning her back to me.
She starts taking her dress off, which fires up my lust enough to make me sit and cross my legs to cover up the effect she has on me, unwrapping herself.
The assistant rushes in with a clothes rail filled with dresses and whisks one off, holding it up for me to examine.
Galina hisses, but she doesn’t comment as I give it a once-over and shake my head.
The assistant nearly trips over her feet to put it back and pull another out for viewing.
“No,” I say again.
Galina turns her head just enough to look at me over her bare shoulder, and for one second, I forget how words work.
White lace bra. Matching knickers. Green eyes full of murder.
The assistant holding the dress looks ready to faint. She shoves it back on the rail and produces one I find acceptable. Delicate lace flowers make up the straps to a white fitted silk dress with an open back that will make her look like a queen.
“Yes. Try it on.”
I sit back as the assistant rushes forward. Galina grimaces at it, but once she is draped in the expensive fabric, I can see the shift in her eyes.
“We’ll take it,” I say, standing up and holding out my black AMEX card.
Galina turns and looks like she wants to say something but then thinks better of it.
Whatever it is will be out of spite to me, because she loves the dress.
The assistant snatches the card out of my hand before Galina, or I can change our minds, making me think this dress is the most expensive of the lot.
Tracks.
Galina knows what she likes and has expensive tastes.
But I don’t care if it costs a million pounds, my future wife is getting the dress I want to rip off her before I bury my cock inside her at our reception, and the fact that she likes it is just a bonus.