‘No,’ Sergei said flatly. ‘No one.’
‘No one who works for you?’ She thought of Grigori, or even of the waiter Andrei. Both men had seemed to respect Sergei.
He lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. ‘I am their employer. It is a different kind of relationship.’
‘A friend, then?’ He didn’t answer. Hannah shook her head slowly. ‘I find that very sad.’
‘Do you?’ He sounded amused. ‘I find it convenient.’
‘Then that’s even sadder.’
Sergei leaned forward, his eyes glittering like shards of ice or diamonds. Both cold and hard. ‘At some point in your life, Hannah, you’ll find out that people disappoint you. Deceive you. I find it’s better to accept it and move on than let yourself continually be let down.’
‘And I,’ Hannah returned robustly, ‘find it better to believe in people and live in hope than become as jaded and cynical as you obviously are.’
He laughed, the sound rich and deep, and leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, there we are,’ he said. His gaze roved over her in obvious masculine appreciation. ‘Two very different people,’ he murmured.
‘Yes,’ Hannah agreed. Her knees suddenly felt watery, her whole body shaky. The tension over their disagreement had been replaced by something else, something just as tense. And tempting.
She didn’t think she was imagining the way Sergei was looking at her, his gaze roving over her so slowly, so … seductively. She certainly wasn’t imagining the answering, quivering need she felt in herself, every nerve leaping to life, every sense singing to awareness. He might be cynical, but he was also sexy. Incredibly so, and her body responded to him on the most basic—and thrilling—level.
She swallowed, tried to find another topic of conversation, anything to diffuse the sudden tension that had tautened the very air between them. ‘What about your parents?’ she said. ‘You must have depended on them, at least when you were a child.’
Sergei’s eyes narrowed as his gaze snapped back to her face, his expression colder than ever. Clearly she’d picked the wrong topic. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m an orphan, like you are. No family to run your little shop, and no family to run my business.’
And no family to depend on. ‘When did your parents die?’ she asked quietly.
‘A long time ago.’
He couldn’t be much more than thirty-five, she guessed. ‘When you were a child?’
His eyes narrowed, lips thinning into a hard line. ‘I don’t know, actually. No one bothered to tell me. I was raised by my grandmother.’ Hannah stared at him in surprise, and Sergei leaned forward. ‘All these questions,’ he mocked softly. ‘You’re so very curious, aren’t you? Don’t worry, Hannah. I survived.’
‘Life is about more than survival.’ Clearly he didn’t like personal questions. ‘In any case, I’m sorry about your parents. It must have been hard to lose them, whatever age you were.’ Sergei lifted one shoulder in something like an accepting shrug, his expression completely closed.
Andrei came and cleared their plates, replacing them with the next course of pelmeni, a kind of Russian ravioli with minced lamb filling encased in paper-thin dough. Hannah took a bite and her eyes widened in appreciation; this was no peasant food.
Sergei noted her reaction with a faint smile, the tension that had tautened between them thankfully dissipating. ‘You like it? Anatoli, the chef here, is world-famous. His signature is haute cuisine, Russian style.’
‘It’s delicious,’ Hannah said, and took another bite. She smiled, deciding to keep the mood light. ‘So you don’t want to talk about your business,’ she said, ‘or at least anything personal.’
Sergei arched his eyebrows. ‘I don’t remember saying that.’
‘Maybe not in so many words,’ Hannah allowed, ‘but I think it was pretty clear, don’t you?’
He stared at her, nonplussed, and Hannah gazed evenly back. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, not when she knew underneath all that arrogant bluster there was a kind heart. Or at least a somewhat kind heart. He’d looked out for her, hadn’t he, in his own brusque and bossy way? She’d seen compassion in his eyes. And she trusted him, instinctively, implicitly, no matter how coldly arrogant he could seem. Underneath the bluster there was something real and good, and she felt bone-deep she was right to trust that.
His mouth twitched in something that just hinted at a smile and he set his wine glass back down on the table. ‘You’re very candid, aren’t you?’
‘If you’re saying I’m honest, then yes. But not nosy,’ she added, daring to tease just a little. ‘If I were nosy, I’d ask you why you don’t want to talk about personal things.’
His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring slightly even as he smiled and picked up his wine glass once more. ‘Good thing you’re not nosy, then.’
Hannah watched him, curiosity sharpening inside her. Sergei Kholodov was, she decided, a man with secrets. Ones he had no intention of telling her. Yet she was intrigued and a little bit intimidated … and attracted. Definitely attracted. The desire she felt was heady and new, for men like Sergei Kholodov—or even men under the age of fifty—generally didn’t come to Hadley Springs all that often, much less ask her out on dates. And this was a date … wasn’t it?
‘Good thing,’ she finally agreed, and Sergei’s mouth curved into a smile that suddenly seemed to Hannah both predatory and possessive.
‘In any case,’ he said, his tone turning lazy and even sensual, his gaze heavy-lidded, ‘I’d much rather talk about you.’
‘ME?’ HANNAH stared at him, registering that lazy tone, that sensual smile. A thrill raced through her. ‘I don’t know why,’ she told him. ‘We’ve already talked about me. And I’m very boring.’
Sergei’s smile deepened, his gaze sweeping slowly—so slowly—over her. ‘That remains to be seen.’
She let out a little laugh. ‘Trust me.’
‘Let me be the judge of that.’
Hannah shrugged and gave up the argument. He’d learn soon enough how mundane her life seemed, especially to a millionaire like him. ‘Okay.’ She spread her hands, gave him a playfully challenging smile. ‘Shoot.’
‘Tell me more about this shop,’ Sergei said and Hannah blinked. What had she been expecting, that he would demand to know her most intimate secrets, or lack of them? Well, sort of.
‘I told you about it already,’ she said. ‘There’s not much more to tell.’ He said nothing, merely watched her, and so Hannah elaborated, ‘It’s a little shop. Just a little shop.’
‘Knitting, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘You like to knit?’
Hannah stared at him, swallowed. It was a logical question, an innocuous question, and yet it felt both loaded and knowing. Something about the way Sergei gazed at her with that shrewd assessment made Hannah feel as if he’d stripped away her secrets and seen right into her soul.
Which was absurd, because she didn’t have any secrets. ‘Not really,’ she said, smiling. ‘My mother taught me when I was little, but I never got past purling. She gave up on me eventually, much to my relief.’
‘I see.’ And in those two words