Studying my appearance as avidly as I studied his, he murmured, “Anticipation becomes you.” He drew back to rake his gaze over me from the ground up. “Ya potryasyon.” I’m undone.

“I could say the same.”

“Come.” When he put his hand on my hip to lead me downstairs, I could feel the heat of his palm even through the dress beading. Was he nervous? Or just that eager?

“Where are we going anyway?”

“Dinner first.”

So we were heading outside of the mansion, and I looked like Jessica Rabbit. Oh, well. See me, love me, motherfleckers. “And then?”

“Patience,” he murmured with a squeeze of my hip.

He helped me into a sleek new stole—fur again, Siberian?—then into our waiting limo. As we set out, tension rippled between Sevastyan and me. I had no idea what he was thinking, feeling. But when I shimmied in the dress and flashed my thigh-high through the gown’s slit, his lips parted on an exhalation.

Our destination was a posh restaurant called Plaisirs. Its patrons were dressed to the nines—yet even they stopped and stared at Sevastyan as we walked by, forkfuls of food hovering in midair. They even stared at me.

The Nebraska girl cleaned up good. Feeling more confident, I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin, which seemed to please Sevastyan.

Dinner—at what had to be the best table in the house—was a light, sensual affair. Lobster, succulent fruits, delectable truffles, petits fours. The wine was so sublime I couldn’t stop licking my lips.

Sevastyan ordered a vodka rocks, but didn’t touch it.

I was just tipsy enough to ask, “If you don’t drink, why order it?”

He released a pent-up breath, as if he’d known this question was coming eventually. “My father was an alcoholic. I do not wish to become one,” he said in utter understatement. “But in Russia . . .”

“So many things involve alcohol?”

“Exactly. Maybe I do it to test my resolve.”

He’d confided something to me! My heart gave a little flutter. We were moving in the right direction. And suddenly his comment about the irony of smuggling cheap booze made perfect sense. “Is your father still alive?”

“Nyet.” Hard no. “It’s a subject I’d rather not discuss.” Softening his tone, he said, “Not tonight of all nights.”

“Fair enough. So . . . any hint about where you’re taking me next?”

“You’re soon to see.”

“Okay, Siberian.” Reining in my curiosity, I took another sip of ambrosia/wine, grinning against the glass.

“You’re . . . happy with me.” He sounded surprised.

“Very.”

“Because you think you’ve won in this, that I capitulated to you.”

I set down my glass. “Not everything’s a game, Sevastyan. Maybe I want us both to win.”

“Then why were you pleased with me?”

“Because you listened to me. You acknowledged that I needed something from our relationship, and I believe you intend in some way to give it to me tonight. You’re trying, and it gives me hope about our future.”

“Whereas before you had nothing but doubts?” A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes.

“Sevastyan, you control whether I have doubts. It’s in your hands.”

“It sounds simple when you put it like that. But know that tonight is anything but simple for me.”

And still he was going through with it. “I understand.”

He frowned. “You expect much from me. In many areas of our lives. But perhaps I don’t . . . recognize everything a young woman needs.”

What to make of this perplexing statement? Then I remembered that, beyond sex, he didn’t have a lot of experience with women. He’d never been in a relationship, had no siblings—so no sisters—and hadn’t had a mother since he was thirteen, or younger.

Did he know a woman’s body? Judges’ scores of ten across the board. But her mind? Not so much.

In a wry tone, I said, “From now on, I’ll speak up about what I need—you know, try not to be such a shy and retiring flower with you.”

His expression turned to a look of fascination, again as if I were a creature he’d never seen in the wild before.

We stared at each other for long moments, while I attempted to imagine his thoughts. Was he trying to decipher mine as well?

He dragged his gaze away to check his watch, then signaled for the maître d’. He said something in French to the man, who promptly returned with my stole and a small box that I didn’t remember Sevastyan checking at the front.

I turned toward the entrance, but Sevastyan took my arm. “This way.” Box in hand, he led me toward the rear of the restaurant, right past the other tables . . . then out a back door into a cobblestone alley.

“Is something wrong?” I whispered. “Did you see a threat?” So help me, if some mafiya thug ruins my fantasy night . . .

“No. We go to our next destination,” he said with an enigmatic air.

“Oh.” Excitement rekindled inside me. “What’s in the box?”

He surveyed the area. “I suppose you can have it now,” he said, handing it to me.

With a grin, I tore it open, finding inside the most stunning mask imaginable. The material was a rich green that complemented my gown, the edges lined with what had to be real emeralds.

At the sides, silken flares jutted like a butterfly’s wings. Beneath each of the slanted eye cutouts, the material curved down into a curlicue, a tapering wing.