A Rich Man's Whim(49)
A knock sounded on the door. It was Lara, studying her with languid cool to say, ‘Dinner is ready … I see you’re packed and ready to go.’
Kat nodded. Lara had abandoned her friendly approaches once it became obvious that Kat and her boss had become lovers. ‘Yes …’
‘Are you upset?’ Lara asked, disconcerting Kat once again.
Kat shrugged a bare shoulder as she concentrated on climbing the colourful glass staircase without tripping over her long skirt. ‘Not really. Staying on The Hawk has been an experience but it’s hardly been what I’m accustomed to. I’m looking forward to getting home, pulling on my jeans and gossiping with my sisters,’ she fielded, pride lifting her head high, for she would have sooner thrown herself down the stairs than reveal just how cut up she truly was at the prospect of leaving Mikhail.
‘The boss will be a hard act to follow. I hope you don’t find that he’s spoiled you for other men,’ Lara commented.
‘Who knows?’ Kat quipped. Not for the first time it occurred to her that Mikhail’s PA was a little too impressed by her boss and the unattainability factor he was famed for. The girl was gorgeous, Kat acknowledged, and perhaps it annoyed the beautiful blonde that Mikhail could remain impervious to her appeal while choosing to spend time with a woman who had neither Lara’s glossy perfection nor her youth.
‘The chef has really pushed the boat out tonight with the meal. Everyone knows you’re leaving tomorrow,’ Lara remarked laconically before she left her.
Lara had not been joking, Kat registered as her attention fell on the impressive dining table festooned in crisp pastel linen, sparkling candles and a light scattering of artistic pearls and rosebuds. Her brows rose as Mikhail strode out of the salon chatting on his cell phone in Russian. He put away the phone while studying her with shrewd assessing eyes. Was he looking for evidence of tears or sadness? Her chin tilted and a resolute smile softened Kat’s tense lips as she took a seat.
‘You look stunning this evening,’ Mikhail said, startling her, for he rarely handed out compliments. ‘The emerald brings out the remarkable green of your eyes, milaya moya.’
Bellini cocktails were brought to the table and then the meal was served and Kat’s mortification began to climb, for the starter arrived cooked in a heart shape and every edible aphrodisiac known to man featured on the menu, accompanied by a good deal of chocolate. It was like an over-the-top Valentine’s Day meal, wholly inappropriate for a couple on the brink of parting for ever. Mikhail, furthermore, preferred plain Russian food and a good deal of it, not the dainty elaborate portions he was being served.
‘I suppose all this is in your honour,’ he said drily, watching Kat bite into a chocolate truffle. ‘Clearly my chef is your devoted slave.’
‘Hardly that. François understands that I appreciate his efforts,’ Kat countered lightly, for while Mikhail paid his staff well and rewarded them for excellence, he generally only spoke to them about their work when they did something to displease him, an attitude that Kat had combatted with praise and encouragement.
Sadly, on this particular occasion François’ wonderful food was wasted on her because she was sitting there thinking that she would never dine with Mikhail again. He had treated her as he always did, with engrained good manners and light entertaining conversation. If he was ill at ease with the situation, it didn’t show.
Kat, on the other hand, felt increasingly gutted by his steady self-control. She watched him, hungry for every last imprint of him, her troubled gaze winging constantly back to the remarkably beautiful eyes that illuminated his handsome face, the strength that dominated his features, and there was not a sign that he was experiencing an ounce of the regret that was torturing her. The remnants of the glorious truffle turned to ashes in her mouth. For a dangerous moment she wanted to cry and rail at the heavens for what Mikhail did not feel for her.
‘I’m pretty tired tonight,’ she admitted, although she already knew she would not enjoy a single wink of sleep.
‘Go to bed. I’ll join you later,’ Mikhail breathed, his husky dark drawl smooth as a caress.
Halfway out of her chair, Kat froze, for it had not occurred to her that he might expect her to share his bed as usual. Had he no sensitivity, no comprehension of how she felt? Stifling her anger, she lifted her russet head. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I’d prefer to be on my own tonight.’
Mikhail frowned, for he had cherished a fantasy of seeing her reclining on his bed, those pale soft curves embellished only by the emerald he had bought her.