“But you might sort of be the tsar of Russia. So, you’re Russian.”
“No oneis the tsar of Russia, and that’s a very important fact we need to make sureeveryonearound us adheres to. Do you understand?”
Nico hadn’t raised his voice. He might have been talking about the fabric of his suit for all the emotion he’d expressed, but command shimmered in his voice again.
“Yes, of course, but you said?—”
“I amnotthe tsar of Russia.No oneis the tsar of Russia. No onewill bethe tsar of Russia. That is my family’s final position on the matter.”
“Okay.”
“As far as your question about being Russian by blood, royal houses are rarely biologically related to the people they rule. Everyone is ruled by conquerors who married other conquerors from other countries. The British royal family was ancestrally German until the last few generations. Then again, most royal houses are German by descent. It’s those damned Hannovers again, marrying their daughters to everyone in power until they had more Russian ancestry than I do. All four of his grandparents were descended from the House of Romanov.”
“I didn’t know Prince Phillip was Russian.”
Fabric rustled like he was shaking the suit to death. “He was a prince of Denmark and Greece, and the heir to the Greek throne before Greece overthrew their monarchy, yet another prince without a country.” His voice was wry but not sad. “Such a sad lot, we are.”
My fingers shifted a little, and my left eye could see the mirror.
Where I could see Nicolai, in the mirror.
He’d pulled up his boxer briefs, the cotton knit a bright teal blue the same color as his eyes. The waistband was snug around his midsection, but the elastic didn’t dent his hard muscle and lightly tanned skin.
And below that was—bulgy.
A whole lot of bulgy.
Oh, dear Lord, I was staring at Nicolai’s bulgy.
Creeper,I admonished myself and tightened up my fingers on my face so I could seeless.
But I could still see a little.
Nico juggled the fabric of his suit’s slacks and stuffed one long, muscular leg into his pants. “And your background?”
His perfunctory words suggested he was making conversation, asking what he’d been asked, and also distracting us both from the fact that he was still mostly naked and I had my back to him and my hands over my face.
Even though I was still watching every supple move he made, from the way his muscles rippled over his broad back as he reached for the hanger hooked on the shower rod to the way his weight left his back leg as he leaned, the heavy muscles on his back contracting and shifting upward under the deep blue-black tattoo that spread down his back, too.
Dang.
Oh, I was supposed to answer him. “My mom’s family is from the upper Midwest. We’re probably mixed-up American mutts for the most part.”
He stood, yanking his trousers to his waist and hooking the top before zipping his fly and glancing at the mirror.
His gaze caught mine in the glass where I was peeking between my fingers, and he smiled. “Lexi?”
I snapped my fingers closed. “Um, yeah?”
“You don’t have to pretend you weren’t looking, you know.”
“I wasn’t looking.”
“Lexi.”
“Okay a little, but not a lot, not really. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak, or to peep, or violate you.”
“You can look.”
