another second. She was too afraid of what she might do if it continued, and it had nothing to do with elegance or sophistication. “I was wrong. If you want me to take to the airwaves to say so, I will.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m happy to do it.” She curled her hands into fists, still watching him through the mirror. “If it’s what you or your brother need.”
Ivan pushed away from the doorjamb and prowled toward her, and she couldn’t help the flush of excitement that raced through her, over her. Her body was so attuned to his, it was readying itself for his possession no matter the state of her emotions. He stopped when he was behind her, his gaze still locked on hers, and for a moment he simply stood there, so big and so dangerous behind her, and it was so much like Paris all over again that it made Miranda’s chest tighten painfully. She thought she might explode, so she turned around to face him—anything to banish the memory of that dressing room—
But that was a mistake.
She was so used to touching him now. She was so used to closing small distances between them like this by simply leaning forward and into that powerful chest of his. It caused her actual, physical pain to reach behind her instead, and grip the lip of the bathroom counter.
“When did you turn passive and accommodating?” he asked quietly. “I find it terrifying.”
“This is not passive, Ivan,” she said, the sudden surge of temper like a shot of color through gray clouds. “This is polite. This is understanding. You said you didn’t want a scene. Have you changed your mind?”
“No,” he said. “But nothing else has changed, either.”
She didn’t understand him, until he simply reached over and slid that large hand of his over her hip, yanking her into him and taking her mouth that easily.
It was hot. It was perfect. It was Ivan.
And it hurt Miranda in ways she expected would leave scars.
She shoved him back, and he let her go, but she couldn’t control the tears that welled up in her eyes then, the great storm inside of her that she’d been fighting so hard to keep hidden away.
“Is this your final little bit of revenge?” she demanded when the tears began to fall, exposing her despite everything. “You want to see me fall apart in front of you? Just let me leave, Ivan. Let me keep my promise and go.”
“What if I don’t want you to go?” His voice was rough, his black gaze intense.
And she realized that this, right here, was her opportunity to be strong, finally. To protect herself, at last. She wanted to believe him more than she’d ever wanted anything. She wanted it so much she thought she could feel that wanting on a cellular level. She wanted him, any way she could get him. She loved him. And she knew that it would be far too easy to simply allow this. To take whatever time she could with him, and bask in it and simply postpone this harsh ending for another time.
She also knew it might kill her. So she shook her head at him, and wiped at her face. And tried, for once, to be as strong as she should have been all along.
“You can have sex exactly like this with anyone in the world,” she told him. “I’m sure you already have. You don’t need me.”
He laughed, though it was not a happy sound, and Miranda took the opportunity to duck around him and head for the dressing room and her bag. Forget her hair. She needed to get away from him while she still had some remnant of a spine.
“But you need me,” he said from behind her.
She stopped walking, as surely as if he’d had her on a leash and had just yanked on it. Hard. She turned back around slowly. Incredulously.
He looked more fierce than she’d ever seen him, in that sleek tuxedo that somehow hinted at all of his ferocity while managing to make him something like elegant, too. Yet all of him devastatingly, finely honed male. That heat of his seemed to burn brighter, making her belly tighten, and her core soften, even as she stared at him as if she could not possibly have heard him correctly.
“And more than that, Miranda,” he said in that way of his, a formidable punch wrapped with that Russian flavor, “you are in love with me.”
The whole world collapsed, sucked into a giant black hole of her shame and horror and a sheer terror that felt a lot like some kind of exultation—but she still stood there, her bare feet against the polished floor, her face wet from her own tears, her entire life a sad, sick joke that had led straight here. To this tragic little farce.
She wanted to deny it. She wanted to scream. She wished she could simply die where she stood, saving her the trouble of attempting to survive this. She’d known for a while now that he would break her heart. She hadn’t expected him to simply reach out and rip it still beating from her chest.
She should have remembered this was Ivan Korovin. He was capable of anything. That was why she loved him in the first place.
“You told me in your sleep,” he said, watching her as he moved closer, a dark menace in beautiful clothes. “And you screamed it yesterday as you fell into pieces all around me.”
Her heart seemed to beat with spikes attached, sending painful shock waves through her each time. She sucked in a breath, then another. And then she simply stopped fighting. What was the point? She’d already lost everything that mattered to her. The career she’d thought made her who she was, but was no more than a house of cards built on trashing this man. And now him, too, but she’d expected that. She’d signed up for it in advance. It didn’t make it easier. But it was still happening.
“Yes, well.” She laughed then, aware that it sounded ever so slightly hysterical against all of his white walls and moody, abstract paintings. “I’ve never been particularly smart, have I? Not where you’re concerned.”
“I don’t want you to go,” he said again, his voice harder this time, nearly ferocious.
And it hurt. It all just hurt.
“Because you don’t know how to lose,” she managed to say. “But this is how it’s going to happen, whether you like it or not. Whether it breaks your undefeated record or not. This is what we agreed.”
And Ivan lost his cool.
“I don’t care about the agreement,” he said. Though the first time he said it, he used far uglier words. “I don’t care about winning.”
But she only shook her head, unmoved despite the emotion he could see staining her face, making her stand so tautly. “Ivan—”
“You can’t tell me you love me and then walk away!” he threw at her, dimly aware that he was louder than usual. Much louder than was safe. “You can’t cry in my arms and tell me things you’ve never told another living soul and then just … go back to New York as if none of this ever happened!”
“Why not?” she demanded, her eyes too bright again, her voice rough. “It’s what you want!”
“You should know by now, Miranda, that I never get what I want,” he snapped at her, totally unhinged now, completely lost to himself, as if he’d never had any training. As if he was nothing but this wild storm she’d made inside
