Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 333(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 222(@300wpm)
But of course, making an already stressful day worse, his flight was delayed because of the bad weather, and Luke barely had time to check in to the hotel he had booked in Saint Petersburg before hopping into another cab and giving the driver the address to the restaurant “Palkin.” At least he’d had the foresight to wear a suit so he didn’t have to waste time changing clothes. It was a small comfort.
Luke sighed tiredly as he got out of the cab in front of the restaurant. At that moment, all he wanted was a hot shower and a date with the soft bed waiting for him back in the hotel.
Hoping he didn’t look as worn out as he felt, Luke straightened his shoulders and walked to the front entrance of the restaurant. This meeting was important. He couldn’t screw it up.
The restaurant was well-decorated and elegant in an old-fashioned way. The attentive staff spoke excellent English, which was a relief. Luke handed his coat over and informed the polite hostess that he was there to meet Roman Demidov. The woman smiled before leading him to a table in the secluded corner of the restaurant.
Roman Demidov was already seated at the table, his body language relaxed, almost bored.
The pictures didn’t do him justice, Luke thought. They failed to capture the intensity of his presence, and those eyes were actually more unsettling in person.
It took every bit of Luke’s self-control not to blush and fidget as the guy studied him coolly.
“Good evening. My father was unable to attend and sent me in his stead,” Luke said, extending his hand for a handshake. “Luke Whitford.”
Roman Demidov didn’t move an inch, his pale blue eyes boring into him.
“Is this a joke?” he said at last, his accent non-existent. His low, cultured tone was impeccable by any standards. Even James’s top-lofty, aristocratic father wouldn’t find fault with it.
“Not at all,” Luke said, taking the seat opposite him and trying not to let it show how nervous he was. “My father is currently in London. He’s in the middle of important negotiations. He can’t leave on such a short notice, so he sent me in his stead.”
The man remained as still and seemingly relaxed as he had been before. But Luke was pretty good at reading people. He didn’t miss the slight narrowing of those blue eyes.
Roman brought his drink to his lips and sipped it slowly, his eyes still trained on Luke. “I don’t do business with children. You can’t be older than sixteen, maybe seventeen.”
Luke felt a blush color his cheeks. He’d known it would be an issue. At times like this, he seriously considered plastic surgery to fix his ridiculous lips. “I’m not a child,” he ground out. Before he could say anything to try to save this disastrous meeting from getting any worse, Roman pinned him with a look that could probably freeze lava. Luke couldn’t breathe, caught in that gaze and unable to look away, his body tensing.
“If Whitford couldn’t be bothered to show up, the least he could do was warn me so that I didn’t waste my time.” Roman stood up. “Go home, malchik.”
And then he was gone, two silent bodyguards joining him on his way out.
At once, other sounds rushed in—soft piano music, hushed voices of other patrons—as if Luke had been in some sort of sound bubble, as if the sheer force of Roman Demidov’s personality had muted everything else in his presence.
And then Luke realized what Roman had called him condescendingly: malchik. A little boy.
He glared at the vacated seat, a fresh flush of humiliation washing over him. He had the strong urge to get up and leave, but he fought it. He hadn’t eaten anything since this morning. He might as well eat.
Luke signaled the closest waiter.
The food was delicious, but he could barely taste it with the disappointment and humiliation still churning in his stomach. There was also a great deal of apprehension. Instead of forwarding the email to his father, as he probably should have, he had acted on his own and failed. Demidov had been pissed off by his father’s no-show. The ramifications of that were…uncertain. Luke knew nothing about the man to predict his reactions. He had no idea what the Russian wanted from his father, after all. In hindsight, maybe he shouldn’t have poked his nose where it clearly didn’t belong, but he had been sick and tired of being kept in the dark and attending pointless events. He had just wanted to know what his father was up to. He had just wanted in. Maybe it had been stupid to go blind into this, but he had always been confident in his ability to fly by the seat of his pants—until that Russian tycoon with creepy eyes reduced him into a blushing, self-conscious kid.