“That’s Sato,” I said. “I better go.”
“Invite them in for coffee.”
Hell no. I didn’t trust my mother not to embarrass me with more seduction talk.
I grabbed my bag that was on the foyer table and swung open the door.
I looked up and up to see Kirill’s chiseled, handsome, and unsmiling face.
My heart bounced to my throat, and I was temporarily robbed of words. His eyes took me in from the top of my head, lingered on my lips—damn Mamma and her seduction tips—before they quickly bypassed my chest to my feet before focusing on my face again. I squirmed under his blatant appraisal, and oh my God, my nipples responded.
I gave a shake of my head to dispel the fleeting insanity of Kirill’s effect on me. Men like him were a dime a dozen among my De Lucci and Moretti relatives. That was what I got for growing up in a family blessed with the “gorgeous” genes. I should be immune to them.
“I was expecting Sato.”
“Now, that would be disrespectful to my fiancée, wouldn’t it?”
His gaze shifted past my shoulder. “Good morning, Lottie.”
Oh, was he on a nickname basis with my mother now?
“Good morning! Come in for coffee?” my mother called.
“We’re going to be late.” I walked past Kirill, not giving him any choice but to follow. I paused at the top of the steps and noticed the Porsche sitting in our driveway. Behind it was an SUV with a driver I didn’t recognize. But Sato was standing beside the parked cars, keeping an eye out.
Kirill’s fingers laced into mine, his grip firm as we both descended the steps. A zing of awareness shot up my arm and my breathing grew labored. It reminded me of how easily he turned me on the night of our engagement. It was infuriating. With just one touch, all the mental walls I’d erected against my attraction to him crumbled. He wasn’t even doing anything different.
He did the gentlemanly thing of opening my door and helping me into the low-slung sports car. Then he rounded the back of the vehicle, giving Sato instructions, before sliding into the driver’s side.
“Weekend car?”
“You can say that.” He gunned the engine and off we went. It occurred to me that this was the first time Kirill and I were in a situation that resembled a date. The family dinner didn’t count and definitely not the funeral. Sato picked me up for that since Kirill went in a separate vehicle.
“Did you look over the prenup?” he asked.
Oh, this was why he wanted to see me this morning and suffer through a cake tasting. The document in question was two hundred pages. It had gone back and forth between our lawyers, but since I had a law degree, I combed over it too.
“Yes.”
“And?” There was a wealth of irritability in that one word.
“I’m still thinking over certain items.”
“Like what?”
“The part where my work does not interfere with events where you require my presence.”
“That sounds reasonable, don’t you think? I allow my wife to work?—”
“Allow?” I cut him off. “You'd better watch your words with me, Kirill. I get stabby around autocratic men.”
“Do you have a knife in your purse?”
I couldn’t place his tone, but it was one he frequently used with me—amusement, irritation, and admiration all rolled into one.
“It’s a metaphor.”
We retreated into our own silence for a while. The traffic wasn’t as bad on a Sunday morning, and I observed Manhattan wake up after a Saturday night on the town. The health enthusiast winding down from an early run. The couple with a toddler and a baby in a stroller walking leisurely, coffee in hand. The lady with a yorkie peeking out from her purse. I’d seen a woman carry a fluffy white dog in a hiking backpack to take on the subway ever since the public transit disallowed dogs unless they were in a bag.
