A Game with One Winner. Lynn Raye Harris

the woman at his side said, drawing his attention from the door through which Caroline had disappeared, “can you fetch me a drink?”

      Roman gazed down at her. She was pretty, spoiled, an actress with a face and body that usually drove men wild. She was used to commanding attention, to having her whims obeyed without question.

      But what she saw in his face must have given her pause. She took a step back, her fingers sliding over the sleek fabric of his bespoke tuxedo. She was already calculating, already trying to recover from her mistake.

      Too late.

      “I do not fetch,” he told her coolly. And then he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out his wallet. He took out five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and pressed them into her hand. “Enjoy yourself for as long as you wish. When you are finished, take a cab home.”

      She reached for him as he turned. “You’re leaving me?”

      Her eyes were wide, her confidence in her beauty shaken. He would have felt sorry for her, except that he was certain loads of interested men would swarm around her as soon as he walked away. Roman took her hand from his sleeve, lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “It is not meant to be, maya krasavitsa. You will find another who deserves you.”

      And then he left her standing alone as he went in search of another woman. A woman who would not escape him this time.

      Caroline took the elevator down to the first floor and hurried out to the sidewalk. Her heart hammered in her head, her throat, and she clutched her wrap to her body and tried to breathe evenly. Roman.

      She blinked back the sudden tears that hovered, and gave the doorman a shaky smile when he asked if she’d like a taxi.

      “Yes, please,” she said, her voice a touch breathless from her flight. Of all the people to be in that room tonight. And yet she should have expected him, shouldn’t she? She’d read that he was back in town. The newspapers couldn’t seem to leave the subject of Roman Kazarov alone. Or his mission.

      Caroline’s fingers tightened on the silk wrap. It would be hopelessly wrinkled when she was done, but she hardly cared. She’d known she would have to see him again, but she hadn’t expected it to happen quite yet. No, she’d expected to face him in a boardroom—and even that thought had been almost enough to make her lose her lunch at the time.

      How could she face him again? How? One moment, one look from across the room, and she was a jittery wreck of raw emotion. He had always had that effect on her, but she was nevertheless stunned that he still did. After all this time. After everything.

      “Caroline.”

      Her spine melted under the silken caress of her name on those lips she’d once loved so much. Once, but no more. She was a woman now, a woman who had made her choice. She’d do the same thing again, given the circumstances. She’d saved Sullivan’s then; she would save it now, too.

      No matter that Roman Kazarov and his multinational conglomerate had other ideas.

      She turned with a smile on her lips. A smile that shook at the corners. She only hoped it was too dark for him to notice.

      “Mr. Kazarov,” she said, her voice a little too shrill, a little too brittle.

      She needed to find her strength, her center—but she was off balance, her system still in shock from the surprise of seeing him in that room tonight.

      Her heart took a slow tumble over the edge of the shelf on which it sat, falling into her belly, her toes. She felt hollow inside, so hollow, as she gazed up into those bright, ice-blue eyes of his. He was still incredibly handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and the kind of chiseled features that made artists itch to pick up their palette knives and brushes.

      Or made photographers snap-happy. Yes, she’d seen the photos of him since he’d burst onto the scene a little over two years ago. She still remembered the first time, when Jon had handed her the paper over breakfast and told her she needed to see who was featured there.

      She’d nearly choked on her coffee. Her husband had reached for her hand and squeezed it. He was the only one who knew how devastating news of Roman would be to her. In the years that followed, she’d watched Roman’s rise with trepidation, knowing in her gut that he would return one day.

      Knowing that he would come for her.

      Roman tsked. “After all we were to each other, Caroline? Is this how you greet an old friend?”

      “I wasn’t aware we were friends,” she said, remembering with a pang the way he’d looked at her that night when she’d informed him they couldn’t see each other anymore. He’d just told her he loved her. She’d wanted to say the same words back to him, but it had been impossible. So she’d lied. And he’d looked … stunned. Wounded. And then he’d looked angry.

      Now, he looked as if he could care less. It disconcerted her. She was off balance, a mess inside. A churning, sick mess, and he looked cool, controlled. Calm.

      But why was she a mess? She’d done what she’d had to do. She would do it again. She tilted her chin up. Yes, she’d done the right thing, no matter the personal cost. Two people’s happiness had been nothing compared to the well-being of the countless people whose livelihoods had depended upon Sullivan’s.

      Roman shrugged. “Then we are certainly old acquaintances.” One eyebrow arched as his gaze slid down to where she clutched the wrap over her breasts. She’d worn a strapless black dress tonight, but she felt as if she were naked under the silk, the way his eyes took their time perusing her. Heat flared in her core. Unwelcome heat. “Old lovers,” Roman said, as his eyes met hers again.

      She turned and stared across Fifth Avenue toward the park, her insides trembling. Traffic was jammed up, barely moving due to some unseen obstruction, and she knew her cab would be a long time in arriving. How would she endure this?

      She’d hoped beyond hope that she would never see him again. It would be easier that way. Safer.

      “You do not wish to be reminded?” Roman asked. “Or have you decided to pretend it never happened?”

      “I know what happened.” She would never forget. How could she when she had a daily reminder of the passion she’d once shared with this man? Panic threatened to claw its way into her throat at the thought, but she refused to let it. “But it was a long time ago.”

      “I was sorry to hear about your husband,” he said then, and her stomach twisted into a painful knot.

      Poor Jon. Poor, poor Jon. If anyone had deserved happiness, it had been him. “Thank you,” she said, the lump in her throat making her words come out tight. Jon had been gone for over a year now, but it still had the power to slice into her when she thought of those last helpless months when the leukemia had ravaged his body. It was so unfair.

      She dipped her head a moment, surreptitiously dashing away the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Jon had been her best friend in the world, her partner, and she missed him still. Thinking of Jon reminded her that she had to be as strong as he’d been when facing his illness.

      Roman was a man, and men could be defeated. “It won’t work,” she said, her voice fiercer than she’d thought she could manage at that moment.

      Roman cocked an eyebrow. So smooth. “What won’t work, darling?”

      A shiver chased down her spine. Once, he’d meant the endearment, and she’d loved the way his Russian accent slid across the words as he spoke. It was a caress before the caress. Now, however, he did it to torment her. The words were not a caress so much as a threat.

      She turned and faced him head-on, tilting her head back to look him in the eye. He stood with his hands in his pockets, one corner of his beautiful mouth slanted up in a mocking grin.

      Evil, heartless bastard. That was what he was now. What she had to think of him as. He wasn’t here to do her any favors. He would not be