Russian's Ruthless Demand. Michelle Conder

a few more images and despite her determination to be bored by the whole thing she wasn’t.

      ‘It’s very clever,’ she conceded reluctantly.

      ‘A compliment, Eleanore?’

      ‘Don’t take it to heart, Mr Kuznetskov.’ She didn’t like the way he said her name. It sounded too familiar on his lips. Too sexy coming from that deeply accented voice.

      He smiled as if he could read her like an open book. ‘It is clever, but I need someone to turn it from a concept into a reality. Can you do it?’

      Could she do it? Yes, she had no doubt she could—or at least she hoped she could. Would she give him the upper hand by revealing that? Never.

      ‘You might want to think about moving the restaurant so that it’s more central to the design,’ she said before she could stop herself.

      His brows drew together. ‘I already thought of that but I was told it wasn’t possible due to the positioning of the kitchen.’

      Eleanore stifled a yawn as her creative side warred with her need to get up and leave. ‘It is. You just have to know how to do it.’

      ‘And you know how.’

      ‘Yes, actually, I do. I was fascinated by the concept of living in an igloo as a child and incorporated ice buildings as one of my electives during my final year of study.’ She frowned at the screen. ‘The guest bedrooms are also a little …’

      ‘Dull?’

      His straightforwardness was refreshing, she thought. Too often people tried to cover up inadequacies or mistakes with excuses. ‘Yes, that word works. These rooms are basically designed all the same. If you want to be truly innovative you need to have them themed.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘I mean, give your guests a reason to visit other than for a night sleeping in a fridge. Which is essentially what they’re getting.’

      ‘This hotel will be pure luxury. Whatever guests want they’ll have.’

      ‘To make it pure luxury on ice you’ll need designer rooms and a warm bathroom to be attached to each one.’

      ‘I was told that couldn’t be done either.’

      She shook her head when she realised how far she had been drawn in by him. ‘Why do I feel like I’m being manipulated?’

      He smiled and it belonged to a movie star. ‘What about the atrium in the reception area? I know there’s something wrong with it but I can’t pick it.’

      Eleanore knew she shouldn’t look. ‘It needs to be larger. The way it is now the spacing is all wrong and the reception desk is too close to the entrance.’

      ‘That’s it.’ He shot her an admiring glance. ‘I do believe you might be the genius.’

      About to tell him that compliments didn’t work on her, his phone rang and he pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the screen. ‘Excuse me, I have to take this.’

      Releasing a pent-up breath, Eleanore’s eyes followed the long line of his body as he strode to the windows and looked out as he talked; legs planted wide apart, his gaze high as if he was a general surveying a battlefield he was about to conquer.

      A wave of tiredness hit her like a brick wall and she yawned and rested her head back against the soft cushion behind her. She would tell him she was leaving as soon as he finished up on his call and talk to him after she’d spoken to Isabelle.

      And she’d also find out the name of the company that supplied the hotel’s soft furnishings because this was possibly the most comfortable sofa she had ever sat on.

      When Lukas ended his phone call he turned back to find Eleanore Harrington had fallen asleep. He stood over her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply. His eyes travelled lower to where her dress had risen to just above mid-thigh. She had fabulous legs. Shorter than he was used to because he didn’t date petite women, but no less shapely. And she still had on her brightly coloured ankle boots that somehow didn’t make her ankles look fat at all.

      He almost felt like a voyeur watching her in her unconscious state. Or maybe it was that in sleep her face looked strangely innocent. Strangely…pure.

      An odd sensation constricted his chest. Pure? He was surprised he even remembered the term, let alone recognised the quality. Pure and innocent hadn’t been part of his life since conception probably and he wondered how he could attribute the term to a woman who had gone toe to toe with him earlier over the slight he had caused to her family’s company.

      He briefly considered waking her but she looked so peaceful he didn’t have the heart.

      Instead he let his eyes drift back over her slender torso to her breasts that were well hidden by her plain dress and up to the quirky chopsticks she had in her caramel-brown hair. They couldn’t be comfortable and he had an impulsive urge to pull them out to see how long her hair was. To see it tumble down her back and spread out over the cream-coloured sofa.

      Then he shook off the thought and frowned when he realised that his hands had moved closer to her to do exactly that. Diverting them to her feet he unzipped her boots and gently placed her feet up on the sofa. Immediately her body pitched more horizontal and her lovely legs curled up toward her chest in a child’s pose.

      Lukas felt his body stir again and clamped down on it. He couldn’t deny that on some level she intrigued him and he’d certainly enjoyed himself tonight more than he’d enjoyed himself in a long time, but success was everything, and no slip of a woman would ever interfere with that.

      He thought again about how she had taken him on over his criticism of her hotel. Probably she had been right to call him on it but the shock of having someone question his actions after being revered for so long had kept him from agreeing with her. Really though, she was right and he should have tabled his complaints appropriately instead of mouthing off on his phone to his PA.

      Frowning, he wondered when he’d become such a self-important popka.

      Not enjoying the unexpected attack of his conscience he fetched a blanket from the bedroom and draped it over her sleeping form. The chopsticks he left well enough alone.

      When she woke up Eleanore blinked and wondered if someone had stuck her eyes together last night with glue. She lifted her hands to rub at them and felt the stiffness of her eyelashes and realised she’d gone to bed without taking her make-up off. Something she never did.

      Still tired, she yawned and rolled over and felt the pull of her dress. Blinking herself awake she frowned as she realised she hadn’t taken her dress off either. Or her stockings.

      And she was on a sofa with a light blanket thrown over her. ‘What the …?’

      ‘Morning, spyashchaya krasavitsa.’

      Startled, Eleanore’s hand flew to her chest as her eyes flew to the man leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb. He was dressed in suit pants again and another pristine white shirt, open at the neck. She’d seen many men wear similar outfits at work over and over without noticing the width of their shoulders or the narrowness of their hips but there was something in the way Lukas carried himself that drew the eye like a moth to a flame.

      Suddenly the events of last night came back in a rush and she realised she’d dreamt about his ice hotel. And him …

      He strolled further into the room and she noticed he had a tall glass of water in his hand and that her mouth was as dry as dust. She also had the makings of a dull headache but it wasn’t enough to waylay her.

      When he handed her the glass she drank from it greedily.

      ‘Thanks.’ She glanced around the room. Anywhere but at him. Then she frowned. ‘You should have woken me last night.’

      ‘I didn’t need the sofa.’

      Eleanore