a prince. Assuming she could accomplish it. And she would. Because she didn’t fail. Not anymore.
She had the chance to atone for past sins. She’d spotted this open door, so she was walking through it.
Right at the moment she was thinking of metaphorical doors, she walked through a literal door and into the back of the gym. This was a private training room, so she had been told when she had inquired about Dmitri’s haunts. And just as she had been informed, by the curvaceous redhead she had met at a party earlier in the week, Dmitri was here, grappling with another man.
They were both shirtless, in black pants, fighting as if their lives depended on it. She sniffed. Silly. Their lives certainly did not depend on it.
Men.
She recognized Dmitri immediately. He was larger than his opponent, well muscled and sporting an armful of ink. She didn’t know what the symbols were, or what they represented; she only knew that, were the tabloids to be believed, they were the sort of thing that caused a lot of women to swoon.
Not her. She was not given to swooning.
To her, they were merely beneficial because they helped her to identify her target sooner.
She stopped walking, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and cocking her hip to the right. “Dmitri Markin?”
He wrapped his arms around his partner’s waist, bent and flipped the other man over his shoulder, letting him land flat on his back on the mats. Then Dmitri straightened and turned to face her, hands on his lean hips, his chest pitching with the effort of his breathing. Sweat rolled down his skin, skating over his ab muscles and drawing her eye toward the waistband of his shorts. Toward the line of hair that continued down farther beneath the fabric.
Heat assaulted her and she redirected her gaze quickly. And that didn’t help at all, because as distracting as his body was, well, his face wasn’t any better.
A ripple of unease went through her. Photographs hadn’t prepared her for the sheer magnetism he presented. An element she hadn’t accounted for.
The realization made her stomach squeeze tight, apprehension winding through her. She was momentarily shocked, turned to stone, by the man standing before her.
Considering what he’d done for a living it wouldn’t be outside the norm for his face to be a living record of every punch he’d taken. A time line of his years spent in the ring. But no. He didn’t have the decency to be deformed. His dark hair was rumpled in a near-stylish manner, dark eyes glimmering with humor. His nose had a bump in it, likely from being broken, and it only made him look...rakish, not disfigured. How annoying. Then there was the deep groove in his upper lip, likely a badly healed split, so that his mouth gave the impression he was always sneering slightly, even when he was smiling. That was rakish, too.
A shiver ran through her and she fought to keep from showing the evidence of it on her face. She needed to secure this deal. So that the rift between her and her father could be stitched back together. So that she could finally move on with her life.
She couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not when she was so close.
Damn the man. Was there nowhere she could look? She let her eyes drift back to his chest, and she felt her cheeks get warmer. She had no idea what was going on with her, why for an instant she had felt frozen. Why she was unable to tear her eyes away from his body.
Perhaps it was simple appreciation at the weapon he clearly was. His past was no secret; everyone was well aware of his work as a mixed martial arts fighter. And even though it had been nearly a decade since he’d set foot into a ring, he was obviously still keeping himself honed.
So yes, it had something to do with all of that. And she was moving on.
“I am he.” He took his hands from his hips and rolled his shoulders backward, thrusting his chest forward as he stretched his muscles, the shift and bunch of the lines on his body capturing her attention yet again. These were the very glistening muscles she had just been disavowing and dismissing, claiming they could not be aesthetically pleasing. At the moment she had to admit there was some aesthetic appeal.
Though, it wasn’t in the way women typically admired men. No. Not in the least. This was artistic admiration. She had an eye for clean lines, good design. Dmitri was like fine architecture.
She cleared her throat. “My name is Victoria. Victoria Calder.”
“I do not recall hearing your name before. I don’t think we have an appointment.” His every word was just slightly flat, still colored by a hint of Russian accent, though it was faded after long years of living in the UK. “Unless,” he said, a slow smile crossing his lips, “you are looking for a chance to challenge me on the mats.”
She gripped the strap of her purse tighter. “That’s quite funny. Do you often have women coming to challenge you on the mats?”
The smile broadened, turned wicked, and her stomach turned over, twisted. She gritted her teeth and fought to maintain her composure. “More often than you might think.”
She cleared her throat. “Excellent. Charming. That is, however, not why I’m here.”
“Well, if it is legitimate business, an appointment is typically made.” He looked her over, his gaze leaving a trail of heat behind. She tried to get her focus back. Tried to recite her plan in her head. Envision her goal. She could not be deterred. “There is a certain type of woman who shows up unannounced. If you have legitimate business I suggest you call my secretary and make an appointment. Otherwise, take off your dress.”
She ignored the rough command. She also ignored the rush of heat that came along with it. He was expecting her to get all flustered. She was certain. And she would not give him the satisfaction. At least, she wouldn’t show it, but the wild thumping of her heart made her think flustered was exactly what she was whether she wanted to be or not.
She swallowed hard and met his eyes. “I’ll keep the dress on, thanks. Shall we adjourn to a more comfortable setting?”
“I am perfectly comfortable. And I was not expecting to have a meeting. Therefore, I will stay here.”
The man he had been fighting had risen to his feet now and was standing there looking at the two of them. “Then perhaps you might ask him to leave,” Victoria said.
“Because you’re going to take the dress off?”
She cleared her throat, schooling her expression into one of disdain, ignoring the prickling feeling on the back of her neck. “Sadly for you, no. You can let go of that fantasy quickly. The dress isn’t coming off until I get home and step into a nice warm bath, which, after the harassment I’ve endured today, is well deserved. I’m staying dressed. And we need to have a discussion.”
“It sounds like I might be in trouble. But I have never slept with you, so I don’t see why I should be. I have not caused you any trouble. Yet.”
She gritted her teeth. He was really pulling out all the stops. Fortunately it was nothing she hadn’t dealt with before. Typically the man wasn’t shirtless. Typically he was not quite so good-looking. But neither of those things mattered, not to her. “Either he goes or I go,” she said, keeping her tone bored. “And I have a feeling you want to hear what I have to say.”
Dmitri
