A Game with One Winner. Lynn Raye Harris

be changing your plans for Sullivan’s, I am relieved to know they no longer include me in the bargain.”

      His laugh was low, deep, sexy, and it sent tiny waves of rebellious delight crashing through her.

      “Oh, I still have plans for you, solnyshko. Just none for tonight.”

      Roman stood on the terrace once she’d gone, glass of Scotch in hand, and gazed out at the lights of Manhattan. Though he was on the top floor, he could still hear the sounds of traffic below—the screech of brakes, the sharp clarion of a siren. Somewhere in that traffic, Caroline rode toward her home in Greenwich Village, her perfect blond hair smooth, her lipstick refreshed, her composure intact.

      Nothing touched Caroline for long. He’d learned that five years ago. When she’d been in his arms, in his bed, their bodies entwined and straining together, she’d been completely and utterly his.

      When they’d dressed again and he’d put her in a cab home—because she’d insisted she could not stay overnight and rouse her parents’ curiosity—she’d left him completely behind, forgotten until the next time.

      He, however, had lain awake thinking of her. Thinking of how he could make her his permanently. Such a fool he’d been.

      Their affair had been brief, a matter of weeks only, but he’d fallen hard. And she had not fallen at all. He’d had a long time to think about why he’d done something so uncharacteristic. And what he’d decided, what he’d realized for the pitiful truth, was that she’d represented something golden and unattainable. He, Roman Kazarov, son of a violent, evil monster and a gentle woman who’d married down, before she’d realized she’d made a terrible mistake, had possessed the ultimate prize in his all-American golden girl.

      He’d fallen for Caroline because she’d made him believe his circumstances didn’t matter, that his worth had nothing to do with where he’d come from. And then, once he’d believed her, she’d yanked the rug out from under him.

      Roman took a sip of the Scotch, let the liquid scour his throat on the way down. She’d made him forget what was most important in his life. He’d lost sight of his reason for being in America in the first place, and it had cost him dearly. His mother’s last months were spent not in the lush nursing home he’d been paying for while he worked at Sullivan’s, but in a run-down two-bedroom apartment where he and his brothers did their best to care for her as she slipped further and further into sickness.

      He didn’t blame Caroline for it; he blamed himself. Acquiring Sullivan’s wouldn’t bring his mother back from the grave, or change her last months of suffering, but he planned to do it anyway. To remind himself of the folly of allowing anything or anyone to come between him and his goals.

      He thought of the kiss he and Caroline had shared tonight, and a tendril of heat slid through his groin. He had wanted her. But he’d be the one to decide where and when, not her. And it wouldn’t be in his home, the way it had always been before. There’d been something about the way she would come to him, and then leave him replete in his own bed, that had made him feel the difference between their circumstances more acutely.

      He’d been the hired help, the poor supplicant in the one-bedroom apartment, while she’d been the heiress breezing in and out of his life. Taking her pleasure and going back to her gilded existence. And to her proper fiancé, as he’d learned too late.

      He’d known Jon Wells, though barely. He’d been a quiet man, perhaps even a bit shy. Not the kind to handle fiery Caroline. Roman remembered thinking that she’d been joking at first. Except she’d never laughed, never strayed from what she was saying.

      I’m marrying Jon Wells.

      But you love me, he’d said, his heart crumpling in ways he’d never thought possible.

      It’s been fun, Roman, but I don’t love you. I never did.

      He could still see her face, so wooden and haughty; still hear the words falling from her poisonous lips. Roman drained the Scotch and went back inside. There, he took out the dossier he’d had compiled on the Sullivan Group, and flipped to the section about Caroline.

      There was a photo, and a brief information sheet with her statistics and address. There was also a photo of her son, Ryan Wells. Roman forced himself to study the picture, though it always made him feel edgy inside to look at the face of her child with another man.

      The boy was blond, like Caroline, and his eyes were blue. Roman looked at the information sheet again. Four years old.

      It jabbed him in the gut every time.

      With a curse, he put the photos away and began to read about the Sullivan Group’s latest problems with their loans. They’d taken on too much debt in an effort to staunch the flow of their losses. It wasn’t working. Without an influx of cash—major cash—Sullivan’s would be pushed to liquidate their assets in order to meet their obligations.

      He should let it happen. He should walk away and let the place crumble into oblivion. But he couldn’t. He wanted Sullivan’s. He wanted every store in their possession—every cashmere sweater, every diamond, every pricey jar of caviar, every last bottle of exclusive champagne. Quite simply, he wanted it all.

      But, mostly, he wanted to see the look on their aristocratic faces when he owned everything they’d once thought him not good enough for. He would be the one to destroy Sullivan’s. And there would be nothing they could do to stop him.

      They only needed a little more time. Just a little, and she could pull this off. Caroline sat in the conference room with her chief financial officer and waited for the financiers from Crawford International Bank to arrive. She’d come in early this morning to work on the projections, and she bit back a yawn as she refilled her coffee.

      She hadn’t slept well last night. No, she’d tossed and turned, thinking of that kiss with Roman. Thinking of every moment in the car with Roman, and then every moment in his apartment. It hurt to look at him. Physically hurt. He reminded her of everything she stood to lose. And everything she’d gained because of their affair five years ago.

      Jon always used to tell her that everything would look better in the morning, once she’d slept on it. At first he’d believed it, and she had, too, when they kept hoping the chemo would make a difference and save his life. Finally, she’d had to admit that the clarity of morning did nothing to erase the doubt and pain of the day before.

      Oh, she never told Jon she’d stopped believing, but she suspected he had, too. Toward the end, he’d said it less and less. Caroline bent her head and swiped at a stray tear. She didn’t have time to cry right now. She had to face the bank’s financiers and convince them Sullivan’s was on the right track to return to profitability and pay their loans. And then she had to deliver on that promise.

      Easy peasy.

      She waited anxiously while the clock ticked past the appointed hour. The doors didn’t open and no one came to announce the arrival of anyone from the bank.

      At half past the hour, the phone rang. Caroline snatched it up on the second ring.

      “There’s a call for you, Ms. Sullivan,” her secretary said. “A Mr. Kazarov. Shall I put him through?”

      Caroline’s fingers flexed on the receiver. No, she wanted to shout. Never! But she knew, as surely as she knew her own name, that she had to take the call. Roman wasn’t calling to discuss last night, nor was he calling to ask about her health. He was calling at precisely this moment for a reason.

      A reason she dreaded.

      “Rob, can you excuse me?” she said to her CFO. He nodded and rose to leave. Caroline instructed Maryanne to put the call through as she sat back in her chair and prepared for battle. She didn’t know what Roman had done, or tried to do, but she wasn’t accepting it lying down.

      “Dobroye Utro, Caroline.” Roman’s smooth voice came over the line, and a shiver skated across her skin at the sound of the Russian vowels